[center][b][h2] White Flower Revolution [/h2] Conclusion: Heralds [/b] [/center] Manon. Seung. Jun. Kamali. Kyle. Eta-Theta. This is what he thinks to himself, to stay focused. It's a simple list of names; not important to anybody but him. Yun says them to himself, constantly. He says them when they breached the compound, him and a wildly, unstably mixed gang of rouge Flowers and ex-protectors. He said them when he helped batter down the real protectors who were still trying to do their jobs- poor men. He says them now, especially now, that he knows he has the monster cornered. All through it: Manon. Seung. Jun. Kamali. Kyle. Eta-Theta. "Come ooooonnnn, Heralds, where are you?" "We know you're hiding here somewhere..." "Hey, hey, little rat, the cats are coming!" Those voices aren't Yun's. He doesn't talk as much as he used to, he's been so weighed down with unfamiliar thoughts. Thoughts that make him feel guilty, old and cruel. They've reminded him of every murder he did for the Oligarchs. They make him say the names. Something changed in him that day, the very day this all started, when he was standing out in the rain. Something in his heart shifted. It won't let him sleep at night. But that's why he's here. That's why he [i]has [/i]to do this. "I'll take the left passage," Yun forces himself to talk, finally, 'cause they're standing at a crossroads. Two steel passages stretch on before them, both windowless and red-lit, somewhere deep in Herald's hiding place. He can only be down one of them. "I'll take the left," Yun says again, to the man standing beside him, "with the other ex-protectors. You take the right with your Flowers. One of us'll catch him." "And then?" the Flower asks, always doubting Yun's loyalty. "And then we'll kill him." The Flower nods, happy and serious. If he even is a Flower, technically? Yun's not sure. He used to be, but went all rouge and off-the-grid so he could hunt down Heralds all on his own. Grabbed a whole bunch of used-to-be-protectors to take with him, Yun included. Maybe because he figures they're too hated to steal the glory from him. He leads his favored soldiers down the right passage, and Yun splits the other way. "Where you think we headed, boss?" one of the ex-protectors asks him. "Prolly into a trap," answers another, who is neither Yun nor the boss. But it stands uncorrected. The cold, steel passage continues onwards no matter what they say, for what feels like a comically long time. (But is, in reality, only a few minutes.) At its end is a door, and in front of the door is... "Who the hell are you, kid?" "...and why are you wearing a cowboy hat?" The kid, a thin Japanese man with sunken eyes- and, indeed, a cowboy hat on his head- doesn't answer either question. He says something else instead: "The Savant James Heralds, genius leader of the ECU, has evacuated the building." His voice is so grim, you can't help but think of it as more of a threat than a statement. "Yeah," grins one of the other two ex-protectors, Jameson, circling closer, "then what's that door behind you?" "You don't need to worry about that, protector. If you go in there, you die. That's what that door is. Walk away from it. Today doesn't have to end this way. It can stop here; you have the power to end it here. The Savant is gone. Death is inside that door." He adjusts his hat. Now the other ex-protector- Cho- is circling too, like two sharks in the water, and the cowboy-kid is obviously getting nervous. But he speaks calmly, a soft voice that shows no fear: "Listen, my friends, to my words. Sold cold bold. Do you understand? Sold cold bo-" And that's when a protector's club splits his skull. The metal those things are made of, so hard, it makes a person's bones snap. There's an audible sound before Tanaka hits the floor, a [i]crack![/i] like a baseball bat. He drops down. The sentence isn't finished. Cho, who killed him, takes a long deep breath. "That's what we do, you both hear me?" He looks at Yun and Jameson in turn. "If they start that hypnosis, brainwashing crap they like to use on us. You crack their skulls before they finish the sentence. Nobody uses magic words on us. Got it?" The other two both nod. Looks like Cho is the boss tonight, after all. The doors open with a key-card found in the cowboy kid's pocket. Behind the door is not death, but a garden. It's green, white and brown, filled with rocks and grass, arranged like a painting in three dimensions. Little god rays come streaming down from the glass dome overhead, just to add to the effect. It's beautiful. Except for the snake sitting in it. He's leaned against a tree, sitting down like he doesn't have a care in the world, all alone in this massive terrarium. Fiddling with a trinket: some little metal box that he keeps tightening or loosening screws on. Is this how far Heralds has fallen? They said he was a madman. Almost enough to make you feel bad for killing him. [i]Almost[/i], Yun decides. They approach slow, and this is their mistake. Because of course, Heralds would try the exact same thing as Tanaka, but he would do it just a little more cleverly. Just as they're approaching the tree, that box he's fiddling with suddenly jumps and whirs in his hands, and out of it comes a voice, louder than a human voice should be, echoing off the rocks. It says the words. Every ex-protector goes spear-straight. Cho especially tries to fight it, closing his eyes and plugging his ears. Heralds only gleefully twists a few more screws; the sound doubles in volume. At that moment, they are tin soldiers, waiting on orders. Even half-aware of what's happening, it's unavoidable: the conditioning feels not like a desire to obey, but like a fundamental need, like breathing or eating. Like you'll die if you don't listen. Heralds has three attack dogs back on leashes. He presses a button on its bottom, turning off the little box- it's not needed anymore. He straightens his gray coat as he stands up onto his feet. "Protectors," he says, calmly, as the men stand still, "I need you to listen to me. I need you to go outside and guard the door. I am the Savant. The Savant is in danger. I need you to go outside and guard the door, and tell anyone who comes close that I have left the planet. But I'll stay here; because this is my home, and no rebels are going to drive me from it." The last bit sounded more for him, but two of the protectors nodded along anyway, automatically. Only one doesn't: that peaks Heralds interest. Heralds draws close to Yun, leaning in towards him. Is he saying something? Muttering something, under his breath? It sounds like... "Manon. Seung. Jun. Kamali. Kyle. Eta-Theta." Yun's eyes are closed tight, focusing so intensely that it should drive him insane. It's like pulling yourself out of quicksand. But the names ground him: they remind him both who he is and what he's done. This is where the Savant makes a true mistake, because he leans in close, always curious, to hear more clearly what the ex-protector is trying to say. Yun's eyes open: "Heralds." It is faster than lightning and easier than breathing, then, the way Yun sweeps Herald's feet out from under him, and the way he shoves his bodyweight against the tree, and the way- with a thousand memories behind it- he lifts his old metal club high into the air, high enough to hide the sun- And brings it down. The reports tomorrow will say that Heralds died "instantly." But when is that ever true? No, his mind takes a moment to go out. And in those lingering few seconds, his eyes flit up to the tree, really noticing all the details for the very first time. It is a [i]Cornus Florida[/i], a dogwood tree, in mid-bloom: it has white flowers on it. The Savant James Heralds, genius leader of the ECU, is staining the roots red. [center][b]~~~~~~~~ Conclusion: Tanaka and Abadi [/b][/center] Viewable from the window of an apartment is a graveyard. It's a great, stately one, as clean and as posh as a gravesite can be, reserved for the rich and their family: "In Memory of Good Friends Lost," reads the sign outside. The lettering is gold, of course, and almost every corpse in that cemetery used to be an Oligarch. Of course. Compared to the graves below, the apartments are poor and dirty and small. Made for families to sleep on top of each other. They have three rooms to share between twelve people, so that the sound of their arguing and protesting pierces through the walls and is heard by every other family in the building. Ms. Janson likes to sit by one little window and watch the visitors to the graves. So clean, with fancy clothes. Unlike anything up in these trapped apartments. It's so strange that the city planners would put them so close together. The grave visitors don't come as much as they used to. Since the revolution, that is. But there's one: a Middle-Eastern girl- because she still looks too young to be called a woman- who always wears one of those funny robe things that Ms. Janson once heard the name for, but can never quite remember. Adaya? Abay? Whatever it is. The girl walks to the same grave every day, carrying flowers that are red or blue or yellow, but never white. She leaves them there without preamble, which is another funny thing. She just lays the flowers gently down, no words and no tears, and walks away. Something looks so sad in her walk, but the watcher doesn't think it's about whoever it is that died: she walks like she's carrying a heavy weight. Beneath the inscribed name, and above the dates of birth and death, the grave has a funny shape carved into it. The first time Ms. Janson leaned out of her window to catch a glimpse of it, she was confused: it looks like a hat. One day, the girl stops coming. Nobody leaves flowers at that grave anymore. [center][b]~~~~~~~~ Conclusion: Yun [/b][/center] Life is ironic. It's taken all of this to teach Yun that. All the beatings and murders, the ones that he committed. All the training and programming, that they forced onto him. All the internal war, and then at last the real, external one, against the Zetans, and then back home, against his own people. It's taken all of that to teach Yun that the universe has a sense of humor. He sure knows that it does now, because he's sitting in the same kind of prison cell that he once locked people up into. He never realized how damp it was in here. It was just his job to bring people in: he threw them into a cell, closed the bars behind them, and never thought about them again. Protectors rarely bothered with interviews and confessions; the perp was guilty from the moment the cuffs came on. Somewhere in the very back of his mind, back then, buried beneath a sea of base thoughts and rage, he always knew that they would face a trial. He also knew that ECU trials are supposed to be brutal. Will the Flowers be different? You know, he's not betting on it. When they dragged him in here, the provisional security guys said "This needs to be a society of order." Whatever that means. And they said "You must still face trial for what amounts to a murder," because he did it without official permission. He thinks what they meant to say is "You're a protector. We can't let [i]you[/i] get the credit for killing Heralds!" He wanted to correct them, saying "You mean [i]ex[/i]-protector." But since they never actually said it outloud-like, that wasn't possible. He couldn't even defend himself, because his accusers didn't have to speak the words at all- they just thought it. He knows they did. 'Cause he could feel it. He'll always be the monster. Manon. Seung. Jun. Kamali. Kyle. Eta-Theta. Heralds. Yun slumps into the wall of his cell, letting the cold, wet bricks soak his back. Will it be execution, his sentencing, or will it be exile? Life in prison sounds like too much to hope for. And he's not sure he'd want it. [center][b]~~~~~~~~ Conclusion: Tiffany [/b][/center] The apes are doing their rounds again. Since Heralds fell- it can't be more than a few days ago- this song has been beat into the skull of everyone who has ears to hear. A victory lap, she guesses. Tiffany hears the chorus start up again now, throaty, vibrating and ape-like, blending in with the roar of their engine. Round the corner they come, three apes clinging to a [url=https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/846488243398246411/910670458179969044/alex-tsekot-suppressor-front.jpg]vehicle that used to be a protector's[/url], if you could even recognize it today. The gun from the back ripped clean from its place; the exterior a mess of wires like spilled guts. This automobile has been the victim of violence. It drifts quick around the curve, skidding the pavement like it's still being chased, and the song shouts as it flies: [color=goldenrod]"Do you hear the people sing? Singing a song of angry men? It is the music of a people Who will not be slaves again!"[/color] Tiffany flags the apes down, one hand in the sky- they recognize her. Naturally. Her face has been spread all around the news, so that it seems like every man, woman and child has a well-thought-out opinion on Tiffany Holstead. The chimpanzee driver, a Freemen who deserted his Khan for his ideals, looks at her like he halfway expects orders. But she just climbs up into the proc-auto with them. "Come on," she says, "let's keep driving. I want to sing too." She ignores the surprised faces of the apes- and the internal question, [i]'When did I learn to read monkey face expressions?'[/i] So they ride on, the song picking up and filling these streets. These blood-stained, war-cracked streets of New Hollywood. [color=goldenrod]"When the beating of your heart Echoes the beating of the drums There is a life about to start When tomorrow comes!"[/color] Vehicles are quite rare in Neo London. Public transport has always been heavily encouraged. This mutilated proc-auto being the only car in sight, she has an easy time spotting the faces of the crowd, looking up at what their oppressors used to ride. [color=goldenrod]"Will you join in our crusade? Who will be strong and stand with me? Beyond the barricade Is there a world you long to see?"[/color] They pass by a bombed-out shell that used to be a business. Was it the Matuvistans that bombed this one, or the Oligarchs? No telling. Funny, Tiffany thinks, how when the sign hangs sideways, half-burnt, the only word you can still read is "[b]Quality[/b]." It's not the only tragedy around here; this city looks like a disaster film. Gray and crumbling. War vehicles scattered about, flipped over, nobody has bothered to clean them out. Burnt clothes on the sidewalk. [color=goldenrod]"Then join in the fight That will give you the right to be free!"[/color] The proc-auto sputters and coughs as they slow down, passing by a man being taken into custody right in the middle of the street. The ones cuffing him wear bright, clean uniforms with white flowers printed on their chests. And judging by the golden fist tattooed on his arm, that man they're cuffing could only be a protector. The aimless, ever-present crowd of civilians spits on him. The proc-auto's engine whines in sympathy. It doesn't have many miles left itself. But Tiffany and the apes drive it onwards, singing: [color=goldenrod]"Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men? It is the music of the people Who will not be slaves again!"[/color] The next scene is nothing but the last two, repeated again. Dirty streets filled with dirty people, lost and aimless, scarred by war. How many foreign soldiers fired bullets here? And where are they today? Even the New Havenists, who came in the name of compassionate aide, are beginning to pack up and leave. But these people, these huddled masses yearning to breathe free, are left behind. [i]This is my world[/i], Tiffany thinks. [i]These are my people.[/i] [color=goldenrod]"When the beating of your heart Echoes the beating of the drums There is a life about to start When tomorrow comes!"[/color] In the falling raindrops, her tears are invisible.