The March of the Suicide King (Sixth Movement Composed)

A soft hand quickly danced across the board of an oak cello, the other smoothly drawing the bow back and forth over the strings. Low, languid tones drifted through the air, trembling when they strayed too far. With slower movements, the bow dragged out even longer notes, and deep timbres shook the ribcage of its player.

Jericho Inarei inhaled deeply as he drew the bow across the strings one last time, a high note crying out into the sky before all returned to silence. He exhaled and set the bow to his side with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. To his left there was a slow clap, and Jericho looked to the source. Next to him a man sat with a smile on his face. His short black hair and lightly bronzed skin offset by the pink button-up shirt he wore.

“Hey, Ben.” Jericho said in a distant tone. Ben nodded toward Jericho in reply and stopped clapping, his smile still plastered on his face.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, indicating the verdant park, “All work and no play, Jerry. You know what they say.”

“I’m not much interested in your kind of play, Ben.” Jericho replied with a derisive glare as he began to pack up his cello. Next to him, Ben’s smile only grew wider.

“My kind of play is any healthy man’s kind of play. You’d know that if you didn’t invest so much time into that.” He said, indicating the cello case. Jericho followed his finger to the case and simply shrugged.

“Wouldn’t it be wrong of me to shun a natural talent?”

“It’s wrong of you to only see daylight when you’re practicing, and to only experience the night lights of the city after a performance. There are three million people living their lives here and you have found a way to be financially set and still miss it all. It’d be impressive if it weren’t so fucked up.”

“You have a weird way of trying to convince people.”

“I’m in the military, I’m not some fuckin’ PR goon. I’ll deal with a situation with bullets, not use words to twist it. That’s more Mike’s job. He’s the writer, right?” Ben asked with a joking tone. Jericho finally let a smile slip, which Ben pointed at, “At last!”

“Mind telling me why you’re here, Ben? Another night on the town? Another offer for a stripper? Stop me when I get it.” Jericho said dryly. Ben just shrugged and chewed his lip.

“You are really good at making me look like the asshole, you know that? I’m just a guy trying to help his friend meet people. Maybe procreate, carry on the human race! You can’t say that’s a bad thing,” Ben raised his voice and puffed out his chest slightly. He caught the gaze of some people walking by, but ignored them, “Look, Jerry. I’ve known you since before you picked up a cello for the first time. I’ve known you since we both still regularly shat in our pants. You haven’t changed since then at all. You’re my best friend, but you’re the most depressingly stagnant son of a bitch I know. In the seconds that followed, Jericho didn’t move at all. He still carried the slight smile on his face and he slowly stood up.

“Thanks for the concern, Ben. It’s appreciated.”

“But not needed, I know.”

“You do know me.” He said with a chuckle, then turned and started to walk. Ben watched the slow walk through the park with pity in his eyes as the loose grey hoodie and worn jeans carrying the cello case disappeared from view.

“Dresses like a bum and plays for a damned orchestra. Some things are just beyond comprehension.”

The amphitheater of the Elysium Philharmonic Orchestra was an art-deco wonder of brilliant acoustics and rough edges. Within, all was bathed in darkness, and the theater looked depressingly empty. Only the sporadic chattering within the darkness betrayed the façade.

All at once, the lights suspended above the center blazed to life, washing the entire orchestra below in a gentle green glow. Jericho squinted as the lights came on, then remembered his composure, assumed the posture expected of him, and waited.

First an applause, then the amphitheater went quiet once more. The entire audience waited in anticipation until the conductor emerged. As he did a renewed wave of applause resounded throughout, which the conductor received with a slight bow upon reaching the podium. Once the claps subsided, the conductor turned his attention to the orchestra behind him. He turned on his heel and looked over everyone, his gaze lingering for a second on each lead chair. When he looked at Jericho, he inclined his head upward slightly, a gesture he had always made like a noble looking down at him, the peasant. Jericho didn’t care.

Finally, the sharp tap of the baton on the podium demanded complete silence and immersion. Jericho watched the ivory baton with a trained intensity, waiting for its first movement. As the conductor’s arms moved through the air, he and the rest of the low strings let out low arpeggios, the start of Pachelbel’s “Canon”.

After a full arpeggio, the violins came in, and the melody began to echo throughout. He soon found himself lost in the music, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His fingers knew the board and his right hand knew the angles to draw the bow. He had practiced enough that he could manage even while in this state. All that existed was the brilliance of the music and the feel of joy this particular piece brought to mind. The feeling was only temporary, though, and faded with the melody as time passed. In a matter of minutes, the indescribable culmination of pitch and timbre had dissipated into the air and the entire orchestra had stopped.

All was still for a few seconds before yet another applause coursed through the building. He could barely make out a couple people giving a standing ovation, and smiled slightly to himself. This was the only kind of music in the world that can still merit a standing ovation and, if done perfectly, demand it. Jericho’s reverie was interrupted by another sharp rap of the baton, which dragged him back to his body, if only until the next piece began.

By the next time he had realized it, he had lowered his bow after finishing the final piece of the night, and the amphitheater was in an uproar. As far as he could see, the audience stood and showed their appreciation for the orchestra’s performance, and he felt a small warmth in his chest at being able to both share in the creation and experience of what had happened that night. The feeling continued until the green lights flickered into oblivion, and the last few patrons’ claps disappeared, following the music into nothingness.

“Great job tonight, everyone, tremendous! Our dedication came through in tonight’s performance, and I know the audience saw that as well. Next week is the Fher-Sha festival, so I should expect to see the section leaders in Bantesi Square for the independence celebrations. Congratulations once again on a job well done.” The conductor said to the orchestra, who nodded before dispersing into small groups back stage. Jericho, meanwhile, had packed up his cello and was already heading out the back door. The red steel door swung open with ease and he stepped out into the streets of the city of Elysium. By now, it was late enough that few people cared when they saw a man with a tuxedo and a cello case, and of them even less turned an eye once the he climbed into a cab.

“Can always count on you for a fair, can’t I, Mr. Inarei?” The driver asked with a smile on his face. Jericho forced a smile and nodded.

“I trust you know the way by now?”

“If I didn’t I wouldn’t be much of a cabbie, eh? You’ll be home faster than the mag-levs can carry you.”

“I’m sure.”

“Fher-Sha’s next week. Any plans?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah. I plan to stay home and practice. I was born in Tanseele. I†˜m not of Tanseele.” Jericho said, intentionally killing the conversation. The driver’s smile flickered for a second.

“Sounds like a plan to me.” He said as the cab pulled away from the curb.

The city rolled past Jericho at a dizzying rate. Neon lights and night clubs passed by in a blur, like the entire city showed itself at night. He couldn’t claim to care, though, as he knew what would happen if he took the time to stop and try to mingle. Better to just ignore it all. The scene quickly passed, however, and gave way to a new view.

To not draw excess attention, Jericho lived in a district referred to as “The Valley”, a section of the city where a grass-roots cultural movement began and thus made it a haven for the artists of the entire city. With a cursory glance out the window, he saw the marker of the Valley’s entrance: a brick wall with thousands of names scrawled in graffiti across its entirety. The paint squirmed and twisted into what eventually began to take the shape of the roots of a large tree, which dominated the entirety of the wall’s center. The cab passed it by with the same speed, showing no attention in the mural.

“Know anyone that added a name?” The driver asked, cocking his head toward the tree. Jericho shrugged shook his head.

“No, my family wasn’t part of the movement. I know plenty that attended the protests though”

“Then why live here?”

“No one would look for me here. My family thinks I was against the movement and no one else would sift through all the other aspiring artists to find me. I can hide in plain sight. No surprises, no distractions. No unwanted guests."

The cabbie glanced at Jericho's expression in the mirror as he voice his reason with a level head, his hands spinning the steering wheel and guiding the cab up to the curb. The door opened with a click and Jericho emerged into the pale light of the streetlamps above his head. He nodded to the driver with harsh shadows cast over his face.

“Right then. Good night, Mr. Inarei.”

Jericho swept the door shut with a flick of his wrist and the cab’s tires squealed as it pulled away, its tail lights blending into the rest of the innumerable lights of the night. Jericho watched the lights until they disappeared, melted into the darkness. Even though his attention was focused on the once-orbs in the night, his hand fished in his pocket and grasped a metal key, then seamlessly placed the key in the lock and turned it.

The lock opened with a loud crack and Jericho stepped into the building, his eyes still gazing into the night, listless.

11:30 burned on the display of the digital clock that hung on the wall opposite the entrance, the first thing greeting him as he stepped inside. Right on time, the house began to shake as the train from the Cerulean Line passed by, just like always. Once the shaking ceased, he reached for a bottle of scotch that he kept next to his front door. His hand closed around the bottle just as the liquor inside settled and brought it to his lips. He took a single mouthful and gulped it down. The liquor cut a swath through his system and warmed his body in the way it always did. He shoved the stopper back into the bottle and placed it back onto the same spot: a small circle of clean wood on the un-dusted shelf.

Within three minutes, the cello was put away and the tuxedo was spread all over the living room. Jericho settled onto the couch and turned on the TV, which blazed to life, showing the end of a commercial. He watched the screen fade to black for a fraction of a second before the news returned from its commercial break, right on time. The entire night was just as predictable as Jericho liked it, save for the headline of the news. He watched it with a placid glare, wary of the sharp-dressed man that stared into the camera.

“Our top story tonight is, of course, the turmoil that has broken out at the Allied Nations summit council. The sanctions brought down on the Galcian Union for its recent border violations have been ignored by the Union for some time now, and they have threatened secession from the AN if it is further dogged for its actions. Our own representative, Nathan Krissom, has pressed for the AN to keep strong, drawing immense support from both Kadarr and Nivenmar. Prime Minister McAllister, on the other hand, has begun mobilization of the military in preparation for what he calls an †˜Active defensive action’. We will be keeping a close eye on the proceedings henceforth and of course keep you updated. On to lighter news—“

The TV’s screen faded back into darkness as Jericho found a warped reflection of himself staring at the glossy screen with his hand firmly gripping the remote. His own passive stare annoyed him, and he distracted himself with a sideways glance to the cello case to his right. Unlike the lacquered oak of the instrument, the case was roughed up and barely holding together. The stark contrast was also the novelty of the instrument, and Jericho smiled at how he procured it, not noticing the clock in the corner of his eye as it ticked ceaselessly.
Bloodshot eyes opened, the brows above furrowed in rage. Jericho’s alarm hadn’t gone off this morning, and none of the lights in his bedroom were on. The only thing that roused him was a series of strikes on his door.

“Leave it at the door!” He yelled to the disgruntled mailman. Just because they were up in the morning didn't mean everyone had to be. In response, he heard a groan, and then a pop and explosion of splinters. He immediately shot upright and fell from his bed. Pain exploded in his mind and bones, which felt coated in lead. Heavy footsteps echoed through the house and Jericho struggled to get up again.

“On the ground!” A gruff voice ordered, its pitch warbling in Jericho’s ears. He ignored the voice and continued pushing against the ground to get up.
His arms straightened out just before a boot smashed into his back, pushing him back to the carpeted floor. He felt the cold plastic of a zip-tie around his wrists tighten and was pulled up by his shoulders, his feet trying to find purchase. Through this whole whirlwind he finally scraped back a spot in reality, the focus of his eyes sharpening on the rest of the Valley outside. The crimson tinged morning sky was accompanied by a swarm of planes overhead, parachutes blossoming from them as they passed. On the streets, tanks and squads of infantry swept through with trained precision, Galcian flags proudly patched onto their right shoulders. Jericho stumbled as he tried to keep pace with the soldiers, but couldn’t stop thinking about the cup of coffee he was missing, or the annoyingly prophetic news report.

“Public Bunker 0158” was emblazoned on the walls in front of and behind Jericho. He and hundreds of others were pressed together with their hands zip-tied behind their backs, and the fear in the room spread like an infection as whispers of a “cleansing” bounded through the halogen-lit room. At the only exit, four Galcian soldiers stood ready with shotguns and light-machine guns, a silent demonstration of crowd control and obvious deterrent to a revolt. The only place any of them could worm their way into was the bathroom, but it did little good when they couldn’t use their hands anyway.

At irregular intervals the lights flickered and sputtered, giving rise to new waves of fear, but the feeling subsided once the light returned. It was archaic.
Only the crackles of voices on the soldiers’ personal radios indicated anything of the outside world. Concise reports of the destruction of one structure or the capture of another streamed through with regularity, their tone akin to someone performing a chore. Jericho found himself focusing on the voices, relying on them to finally gain his footing on the situation.

“Kadesh Square and the Nabaal Art Pavilion secured. Third platoon is moving into the amphitheater now.”

“City hall’s rubble, but secured. Time frame’s running smooth.”

“Bantesi Square’s secured. We’ve got the city center. Guess Fher-Sha’s cancelled.”
The reports were spaced, but Jericho only focused on the men that indicated themselves as field officers, and he learned enough from those.

A tone shook the inner bones of his ear, producing a slight buzz. His ear twitched as the phone within continued ringing, and answered with a practiced tilt of his head. With a pop, the call went through.

“Jerry!” Ben’s voice fought with the wash of static that he figured came with a phone call through jamming in a war zone. “Where are you?”

“Public Shelter Zero-One-Five-Eight.” He replied aloud. Some of those next to him gave him wary glances, but he dismissed them, his eyes focused on the wall in front of him.

“Alright, listen to me, man: stay there. If you go out on the streets they’ll shoot on sight. Leave when they let you.”

“I think I’ll somehow find a way to stay put,” Jericho remarked, his gaze drifting back to the Galcian soldiers at the door, “and if they don’t let us leave?”

“They have to. It’s an occupational force. I’m laying low, but from what I can see, they’re rolling in everything. They’re trying to take Elysium completely with as little destruction as possible. They’re adding to the Union.” Ben summed up the situation between breaths, his voice never growing louder than a whisper.

“You aren’t fighting?”

“They hit the base first thing. Three-quarters of us were on leave for Fher-Sha. There’s nothing the six of us could’ve done.”

“Six?”

“I was able to meet up with a couple other guys from the base. We’re going to see what we can do about coordinating a cohesive resistance or something. Just remember: don’t draw attention to yourself and get out of this. I’ll--” The call was squelched and a loud hiss crackled over the line before all returned to silence.

Jericho breathed deeply while the lights popped and shuttered, plunging the room into darkness. Now, however, the lights did not blaze back to life in their original fashion. The absolute darkness of the bunker quickly seeped into every sense. Wails of terror permeated the void with the occasional assurances made by the Galcian soldiers that everything would be fine. No one bought into the statements, though, and the fear became tangible through the vague darkness.

Jericho’s eyes slowly adjusted, but the only thing he could make out were the white letters that constantly proclaimed his location, and even that faded and re-appeared behind the rough shadows of the people that clambered around him.
Shoulders and elbows and knees assaulted Jericho, but he focused on maintaining a complete equilibrium in the shelter. Nothing good could come from anything else. He maintained that thought until he heard a mechanical ratchet echo over the noise. The sound was familiar from a cloistered youth of music and video games, and his eyes widened.

With a grunt, he tilted forward and fell onto his stomach. Pain exploded into his nose and he smelled iron, but the single loud report in the bunker instantly removed any regret from his mind. Buck shot punched through cloth and flesh before the machine guns roared to life as well. Undirected weights layered on Jericho as the gunfire continued for nearly five seconds. He ground his teeth together as the incessant reports persisted until they stopped as abruptly as they began. The odor of blood and ignited gunpowder wafted in, and he noted the heavy breathing of the men. In his mind, he imagined the scared and wild looks in their eyes. Somehow unarmed and bound prisoners scared them. An equal summary would be to simply call them inexperienced. That or conscripts.

Wails and other mournful cries wavered into existence a few seconds after the gunfire permanently subsided. Names were yelled, and those that received no response let loose a loud cry. Sorrow filled the bunker while Jericho fought to calm his breathing. The normal parts in him screamed in terror, but the precision drilled majority of his consciousness insisted upon keeping cool and listening to Ben. When Ben was serious, Jericho listened. Such was the way it went, will go, would always go.

He bared his teeth in determination and shifted his body, sliding the bodies off of himself. The weight was gone, but the warm feeling of their blood remained on his clothes, seeping onto his skin. Once he pulled himself free of the carnage on the ground, he saw translucent beams of light criss-crossing over the bunker, surveying the destruction. One of the beams flitted over to him and then stopped, its owner studying him.

Jericho looked at the beam with squinted eyes, unable to see it source. A voice echoed into the bunker and the light flew from his body. All the beams then converged on a single point, a patch amidst the bodies on the floor. Jericho looked at the single illuminated section and saw a bloodied hand with a lax grip on a Bowie knife. The certainty of his evaluation of the men disappeared, and the unpredictability made his stomach churn as it spun in zero-g.

“Weapons discharged in 0158, sir. Yes, there was intent. No, sir, no RoE violations. Estimate about twenty, maybe thirty dead. Another five injured…Yes, sir, I accept full responsibility…Roger, offloading the survivors.” A man with an empty box magazine attached to his machine gun said into a small headset. A collection of three chevrons and three rockers wavered into view as the man spoke, and Jericho assumed the soldier was up there, on an infantry level, at least. A voice in the back of his mind thanked fate, chance, and all the other forces at work in the universe that culminated into his survival, but the voice stayed where it was, as he did.

“You.” A shotgun-toting soldier pointed to Jericho. The few people near him backed away, cowering toward the shreds of darkness that clung to the walls. His index finger curled back in and his thumb now jutted out as his hand moved to the door. “Out. The rest of you, after him. Single file. No weapons, for your own good.”

Jericho looked at the man with a flicker of rebellion in his eyes, but the no-nonsense glare he received snuffed it out. Instead, he averted his eyes and began walking, his feet picking out the few spots that blood and bodies did not occupy. With his systematically placed footsteps he approached the entrance and a gloved hand grabbed his collar.

“Quickly, please, before too much blood is spread. Could be contaminated.” Jericho smirked, bemused by the grandiose excuses they conjured to create a reason to act like savages. Who knew civilization could so readily breed barbarism.

“Human nature?” He wondered aloud. The soldier gave him an annoyed look before throwing him through the now opened steel double-doors. Jericho struggled with the sudden shift in weight, but he was saved from falling to the concrete--he smashed his face into a truck, first. Pain an vertigo rampaged through him, and he was almost certain his nose was now broken. He tried to exhale through the bleeding passageway, but the only result was a mix of blood and mucus dribbling onto his upper lip.

“Here, lemme fix that.” A smiling soldier next to the truck offered. Jericho looked to him with dazed eyes, and then to the back of the truck, which he just realized was a transport truck with a tarp over it. The dark inside of the truck seemed preferable to Galcian “help”.

“I’m fine.” He insisted, but the soldier’s grin widened and he indicated a red cross on a white backdrop, a Velcro patch stuck onto his rig. Jericho tried to run, to block the man. Two usable arms would have made it easier, and the “medic” used his own free limbs to grab his head, then pull the cartilage of his nose from his face. Jericho watched the flesh stretch as his mind exploded in blinding pain and forced his eyes closed, then felt the appendage slide back, this time without the feeling of a 30 degree angle in his nasal passages. The pain from the injury was still fresh and fiery in his head, burning his senses, but he couldn’t deny that in the end, the man had helped.

“Thanks,” Jericho said, spitting the blood that had dripped to his lips on the man’s face. His eyes narrowed into a venom-filled glare, and Jericho feigned regret.

“We really don’t need a revolutionary, especially not from you artsy types.”

“Sir, I just want to go home.” Jericho replied soberly, not sure he’d ever speak such a plain truth in so few words. The soldier took the words a face value, however, and scoffed.

“Less trouble you give us, the faster that’ll happen.”

Jericho was hauled into the truck and slid on the bench on its left side all the way to the innermost seat and watched the other refugees pile in behind him, their stares a mix of capitulation, complacency, and fear. The ones that liked to challenge society didn’t have much of a back-bone when the chips were down, though. Some fought with words, some with weapons.

“Now where are you taking us?” A woman asked near the mouth of the truck, her arms protectively wrapped around a boy at her side.

“Somewhere safe, so long as no one else tries anything like that “hero” back there. We’re trying to make this easy.” The soldier replied with a rare reassuring look. His face soon disappeared behind a canvas tarp and the engine roared to life. Everyone’s body shifted at an odd angle in time with the lurching of the truck’s movement. Through the fluttering canvas flap, Jericho spotted the wall, or rather a fragment of it. The once green leaves of the tree washed through shades of amber, orange, and red, and it wasn†˜t quite clear whether it was another trick of the paint or a reflection of the sky above. A look of awe crawled over his face as he left the district. “The Valley” was no more. Another change marked up for the day, and another sinking sensation assaulted what yesterday was a perfectly rigid life.

Benjamin McAllister rubbed an unsightly beard on the underside of his chin, the coarse hair heightening his distaste for the natural accessory. With a glance to the mirror in front of him, he was met with a warped and smudged vision of himself. Four days without a razor and he was already at this state, though he’d rather have a beard and live “free” in the sewers than be above ground.

A radio buzzed in the room adjacent to their makeshift restroom, catching his attention. He emerged into the main cavern that served as the current homestead for the five men that now comprised his team, two of whom were gathering around the device. The other three were scouting out the numerous tunnels that snaked through the sewers.

“Hostilities have ceased and by heavy AN pressure Tanseele has once again entered talks with Galcia, who have claimed that their recent seizure and capture of the border city Elysium is a matter of original ownership, citing documents including landmarks around the trade city as Union territory. The Union has also pledged to not take any more military action, which prompted the AN to host negotiations. That concludes this breaking report for TBC news. We will now return to your regularly scheduled programming.”

The radio buzzed and crackled again as the broadcast source changed and a burly man next to it turned down the volume with a meaty finger, his face contorted in a scowl.

“Original ownership?”

“It’s how we expanded our eastern border fifteen years ago. It only stings †˜cause this time we're on the receiving end of it.” Another remarked, his eyes locked on streams of text floating by on a datapad in his hand. Ben rubbed the back of his head and sighed, compiling the information in his head. It was ninety-six hours after first contact. Elysium was fully occupied and fortified. A grand show, even by modern military standards. All Tanseele communications, however, were disrupted, including civilian wireless. He wanted to give Jericho a call to check in on him, but the risk wasn’t worth it, especially since he probably ended up getting killed over something trivial. That seemed just his style.

“Well, when do we get this in gear, do some damage, go guerilla?” The burly soldier asked again, his hand curled into a fist. Ben stifled a smile and instead shot the man a glare. As little as he wanted to, he had to keep in the leadership mindset. This was his team, and he decided at the wrong time to pull rank when the shit hit the fan four days ago.

“When we move, if we move, we’ll have to give it some time. These guys are still on their toes, and they’ll be on the lookout for any kind of unrest. For now we have to bide our time and just let everything go as it should, or rather as Galcia thinks it should. For the time being, we should plan: choose a target, ingress, egress, method, time-table, etcetera.”

“I’ve got a couple in mind, sir.” The man with the data pad mused, his fingers now dancing on its holographic screen. The running text slowed and shifted, different information delegating itself to various sections of the screen. Vaguely familiar structures made up the majority of the screen, and Ben looked at them each with raised eyebrows. The man holding the pad took another breath before continuing, “We need to hit tactically useless targets that represent larger ideas, draw more to our cause. The Valley is a good example, restore the tree as much as we can.”

“So we’re vandals, not even freedom fighters?” The large man said with a disgusted look on his face.

“All movements begin with vandalism, and any revolution starts with an idea.” Ben admitted. Big things started small, and jumping the gun would secure each of them a spot in front of a firing squad. He gazed at Marshall, the man with the data pad, and sighed as his head lolled back. “Bantesi?”

“Bantesi Square could work, yeah. It’s a lot higher or a risk though.” Marshall cautioned Ben with a stern look, but the burly man smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. “Your opinion doesn’t count, Aaron.”

Aaron wagged a finger at Marshall, his smile lengthening. “We’re a team, right? I say Bantesi.”

“Bantesi.” Ben confirmed.

“Bantesi” Marshall conceded, concern clear on his face. “But I won’t tell the others.”

Ben shrugged, resigned to his duties as the leader. He had to tell the others that their new plan was for six men to infiltrate and vandalize the heart of a freshly-occupied city. He found himself wondering how long this little insurrection would last, but didn’t have the confidence to re-assure himself. He had entered the final weeks of his life, and he was sure of it.

The cries and jeers buried in two decades of memories jaunted through Jericho’s head as he sat in a hastily constructed refugee camp, the absolute silence of the refugees around him giving rise to the relic-like recollections.
The television was on. It was always on, and on it men and women in suits relayed with practiced smiles all of the amazing discoveries in science, space travel, and whatever else. Across the room from the television a nine-year-old boy looked at the images with a grin, awed by phones that fit inside an ear, a group of scientists making an entire city vanish, then reappear, and a big station up in space that symbolized the peace of the world.

As the boy watched, the rest of the house remained silent, its occupants gone, probably to another protest of another rally, but he couldn’t yet appreciate the violence that always broke out during this time of “unprecedented peace”, or comment on how humanity seemed to be unable to go anywhere without someone hating or killing someone. Instead the ill-informed grin remained plastered to his face until a sharp rap resounded from his door.

“Jerry!” A voice yelled from the other side before continuing to pound on the door. Jericho slid off the sofa with a push and jogged to the door, which he carelessly unlocked and opened with a flourish. On the opposite side of the threshold, Ben waited with his hands in his pockets, his knuckles probably raw from knocking so much.

“You done, Ben?”

“If being slow was deadly, we wouldn’t have known each other very long.”

“Hey, your parents send you over here because I have slightly more in my house to keep us occupied. This happens every protest.”

“But our parents don’t bring firebombs with napalm jelly in them to every protest.” Ben replied with a widening grin. Jericho, on the other hand, shrugged.

“They won’t use them, nothing ever happens.”

“One day you’ll be wrong.”

“Never have been, and I’ve got nearly a decade going.”
Ben bit his cheek, a gesture that eventually became a scowl. “You’ll be wrong today. Come on. We’re going to The Valley.”

Jericho looked warily at Ben, though he couldn’t think of a reason to deny him. Much as he loved staying at home, he loathed Ben being in his house, or anyone being in his house, for that matter.

“Fine, but we’re not going in too deep. You decide where we go. I decide when to call it off.” He hastily tried to establish a degree of control on the situation. Ben, wanting to just go, agreed with a thumbs-up and ushered Jericho from the house. The heavy wooden door swung closed behind them, and the deadbolt automatically threw itself in place. Down the street, the two boys kept in step with each other. Ben looked around with his shoulders squared and a confident look on his face while next to him Jericho’s gaze was plastered on the evenly spaced lines on the sidewalk. Next to them, the traffic backed up from having to circumvent the riots laid on their horns, the droning noise layered so many times over that it almost seemed like ambience. Ben turned a glare to one of the drivers they passed, who replied with a raised middle finger. Ben smiled and grasped the crotch of his pants, a sneer on his face. The driver’s face twisted in a snarl, but he didn’t do anything else except continue to honk in vain at the immobile traffic.

“How long is this gonna take?”

“Not too long, The Valley isn’t really that far away. I think they started there just to piss off everyone here.”

“Well how long?”

“About fifteen minutes maybe. Like I said, not long.”

“Pity.”

“Shut up, you’re nine. Act like it.”

“If this is how I act, then this is how a nine-year-old acts.”

“Do you watch anything except for the news? No, don’t answer. It’d just be either depressing or infuriating.”

“You’re learning.”

“Screw you.”

The two shared a laugh and their pace increased. Ben smiled at Jericho’s subtle reaction to the light-hearted exchange. The “jaded” kid wasn’t as enigmatic as he liked to believe.

Ben expertly kept Jericho engaged in conversation the entire way to The Valley. They only stopped talking upon seeing the giant mob jeering and throwing bottles at thousands of people that sprayed their names on a brick wall with precise, neat graffiti. They studied the image for a moment next to each other, like two art museum patrons.

“Who do you think is a bigger group of idiots?” Ben asked, turning to Jericho, who had one hand on his chin and the other in his pocket.
“One thinks they can change the world. The other thinks the world doesn’t need to be changed. They’re both idiots.”

“Don’t you hate change?”

“The world needs to change, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to.”

“That makes you stupid too, man,” Ben said, casting Jericho a sideways glance.
“The world’s got to change a hell of a lot for me to get swept with it.” Jericho replied confidently.

“Well our parents did bring molotovs. This is gonna change a lot more than you think, and probably for the worse.”

“So long as they aren’t stupid about it.”
The two paused and looked at each other. The conversation was in their usual comical tone, but the crushingly serious reality of the situation dawned between the two of them.

“We better hurry.” Ben broke the silence. Jericho nodded and they immediately began shouldering their way through the crowd. They didn't even know where to begin, they just knew that with enough gusto they could at least say they tried.
Just after they assaulted the crowd, a single green glass bottle arced overhead, tumbling over itself as the liquid inside sloshed violently. Many of the rioters around Jericho turned their attention skyward with a look of horror. It wasn't the bottle itself or its contents that struck so much fear, but the heading it had. The bottle sailed into the rioting protestors, from the Valley.
The barely audible pop of the bottle was a harbinger for the firestorm that radiated from its point of impact, swallowing a group of the crowd around it in searing flames. Jericho instantly felt the warmth from the flames on his face, and saw the tips of the fire licking at the air through the spaces in the crowd. His face cringed at the sight and he began to back off before another fireball ascended over the crowd, the shockwave that coincided with it throwing Jericho to the ground.

“The hell?” Ben yelled as the shockwave assaulted him as well. He bent his knees and absorbed the impact as he turned toward the source. Easily a third of the crowd was enveloped in a fiery tempest. Ben shielded himself from the light and heat of the flames with his arms as he tried to draw a ragged breath, the air burning his lungs while the skin on his exposed hands blistered. “Napalm?”He asked himself, while his feet rooted themselves in the ground. The rapidly dispersing crowd around him seemed to weaken as his mind put together everything that had just happened.
Jericho scrambled on the floor and pushed himself onto his hands and knees with a grunt, the people around him ruthlessly pushing his weak form to and fro as they rushed by. His vision swam with stars and his mind was numbed by heat. He focused his entire being on simply following the crowd, and getting away from the newly created patch of hell on the street. A sickening smell wafted into his nose, and he tried to ignore what the odor obviously was. He plugged his nose with his free hand as he finally pushed himself upright. The once blue sky was wavering above the orange tempest, swallowing all of the ugly black tongues of smoke that rose from the street. Common sense abandoned him. Reason abandoned him. The world itself abandoned him with this apocalyptic change blazing before him. After two wheezing breaths he finally did what a nine-year-old should have: he ran. Melting into the crowd mentality and movement, he made his escape.

“Shit.”Ben hissed through his teeth. He had waited and gawked too long, and those caught in the storm were running from the fire's epicenter, waving their arms desperately trying to shake off flaming globules of napalm jelly. His interest in what had happened no longer kept him in place, and he quickly backed away from the running victims as flesh sloughed off their bones and the merciless fires boiled their blood. Before he at last mustered the ability to turn and run, he saw a familiar figure, though he was able to pay no mind to one more screaming and damned soul. While he ran it felt like his body at last realized the danger he was in, and he sprinted away from the fire faster than he had ever thought possible. With a glance over his shoulder as he ran, he saw the green leaves of the Valley's tree boldly outlined by the fires.

Jericho and Ben sat next to each other in silence. In front of them was a metal table with a microphone embedded into its surface, and on the far side a man in his forties stroked at his five o'clock shadow and adjusted a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on his nose. None of them spoke a word, and the two boys didn't even exchange glances to one another. Both stared intently at the man in front of them; Jericho appraised him with a raised eyebrow while Ben almost dared him to say something. Both had clothes and faces darkened by soot, and on the table Ben's forearms shined red in the light with hundreds of blisters along their length, each tiny lump threatening to make his glare twist into a painful grimace. Jericho seemed overtly-confident with his calm stare,but he wasn't even focused on the man in front of him. Instead, his attention was directed on the second-by-second audible ticking of the clock on the wall behind the interrogator's back. So far,six hundred ticks had gone by, and before the silence in the room was broken another two hundred and forty had slipped away.

“Inarei and McAllister; two pretty heavy names, huh?”The man finally said, eliciting a dry laugh from Ben.

“We're not our parents, sorry.”Ben replied as he leaned back, taking his arms off the table, where flakes of skin left a reminder of his previous position.

“You need some bandages, son? This can wait.”

“Detain a kid and throw him in an interrogation room, then offer to help him. Little backwards, aren't you?”Ben made a jab at the man, deflecting his attempt at establishing a rapport.

“Processing and securing an ambulance can take time, especially in such a crisis.”
“Lies and excuses are your tools of the trade. Spare us, please.” Jericho chimed in, breaking eye contact from the clock as he did so.

“At least there's an offer. With your parents being war heroes, we're obligated to keep you in a nice, secure, private room like this in case any of those protestors from the Valley try to target you. Medical treatment's an afterthought to security.”

“Look, Mr. … ”

“Dojima.” The man supplied Jericho with a name that rolled smoothly off the tongue, a good name for a man that worked the streets.

“Ah, not from around here, are you? Immigrants are rare in this part of the Commonwealth.”

“I could say the same to you. You've got the look of those Ilya Sornans up north all over you.”Dojima retorted with a smile, gesturing at Jericho's narrow nose and squared jawline. Jericho recoiled almost imperceptibly and flashed a venomous smile of his own.

“And you? Tanseele's never been on good terms with Shikigawa, especially now considering that stink going on with Ishaarn. Whispers abound of the two allying against Tanseele, you know.”

“What the people of my homeland do is of no concern to me. There is a reason I'm here and not there. Though I could do without smart-ass kids trying to distract me. This isn't international, so leave names that don't belong here out of this. You two are here for a reason.”

“A reason you already covered: we can be targeted.”

“That's part of it. We're more concerned with what you know about what happened with that explosion back there, along with your well-being in the aftermath. It's pretty public info that your parents are zealots in the protests against the Valley dwellers. You know anything they did that may have helped what happened today along?”

“Molotovs. Crates of 'em. Modified with napalm jelly.” Ben cut in, despite Jericho shrugging and feigning ignorance.

“And you didn't tell any authorities about this?”

“They are my authorities, sir. They do this kind of shit all the time, it's just this time they actually followed through. You wouldn't believe the crap they've brought to riots.”

“Guns, chemical agents, tear gas, push blades, the list goes on.” Jericho continued, counting the items on his fingers.“Never used a damn thing.”

“You two knew about this and never alerted the police?”

“Once the war ended our dads were nothing more than talk. They brought devastation to the riots as deterrents, but that's all it was.”Jericho shrugged.

“Even today they didn't cause that explosion. A molotov from the Valley happened to land where they stashed their own home brew firebombs. Fate's more at fault here than anyone else.”

“Fate caused the deaths of over a hundred people, not to mention the countless injuries when the police finally arrived and met the fleeing crowds. You two are disturbingly casual about this.”

“Have you ever watched the news? With how they rattle off deaths everyday, unless you personally know a victim it starts to lose its shock value. Couple people die, me and mine are still alive. Life goes on and you forget. Everyone forgets eventually, I'm just really quick at it.” Ben replied airily. Dojima's expression paled and he leaned forward sliding a folder in front of him across the table. Ben stopped it with a finger and flipped it open with a sigh. The smile on his face dissolved and he gasped for air, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“I thought you two knew.” Dojima whispered as Ben pushed the folder in front of
Jericho, who looked down to see two side-by-side pictures of a body on a coroner's slab. Both figures were burned so far beyond recognition that next to each was a diagram of a dental scan and a positive ID for two names: William Inarei and Arthur McAllister.

“Why the fuck didn't you tell us this in the first place?” He immediately asked Dojima, tearing his gaze from the folder and looking to Dojima's tired grey eyes over his glasses.

“We thought you knew. It's all over the news. Everyone's speculating that the protests of The Valley are gonna wind down now.” Dojima hastily explained, his hands making a “calm down” gesture.

"Once we got hauled in by your boys we haven't heard shit about anything. Why the hell did you think we'd even see the fucking news?!

“What happens now?” Jericho asked, his voice trembling slightly, but not showing the blatant fear Ben exhibited.

“Our parents are dead, man! Don't you get that?”

“They're dead, but we aren't, and we can't provide for ourselves,” He brushed off Ben's fear-infused yells and directed his attention back to Dojima, “So who will be providing for us, Mr. Dojima?”

“When do you have to go back to the academy?”

“You gonna miss me, Jerry?”

“No, I just hate waking up early to see you off at the airport.”

“You say this like you have better things to do. What has your home-schooled ass accomplished in the year I've been gone?”

“Well I--”

“Not a damn thing is the answer I'm sure you were looking for.”

“I was searching for a more elegant way of putting it.”Jericho feigned a haughty tone and Ben smirked; the fear that was a mainstay on his face for so long after the riot had finally melted away. Instead he looked like a man already, even though he was only eleven. Jericho concluded, however, that it was the uniform. The two sat on a bench in Elysium's massive botanical gardens, chatting as if they were in the living room of a house.

“What have your grandparents been teaching you?”Ben switched the subject in his usual no-finesse matter, knowing Jericho enjoyed their now rare time together too much to give him the practiced cold shoulder.

“Grandpa's got me doing core classes. Grandma's trying to teach me crap. Art history, drama, music theory. She has me playing a recorder.”

“Those little shitty plastic ones?”

“Yeah.”

“Look at you, stepping backwards through time.”

“Hot Cross Buns and 16th Century Ilya Sornan History. Guess who still babies me.”

“Well your twelfth birthday's coming up, right? Maybe she'll finally see you as a man. Almost done with the tweens, maturing a bit I hope.”

“I could stay just as mature as I am now and you'd never catch up to me.”

“Well there's a point I can't argue.” Ben conceded with a chuckle. Jericho, on the other hand, recoiled and massaged his jaw with a scowl on his face. “I see you got one of those new phones. I'm jealous.”

“It's a curse. My gums are inflamed from them putting this damned thing in and now whenever I get a call and it hurts like hell.”

“Well who is it?”

Jericho tilted his head to the side and rolled his eyes. “Grandma--No, not you. I was telling Ben who was calling... Yes, that Ben... I don't want to ask him how the academy is. I don't care and I'm sure he doesn't care to tell me... It's 5:30. Yes I know it'll be 6 soon, that's how time works. I'll be fine if I get home after sun-down. Goodbye, grandma. Goodbye, grandma.”He droned in a monotone through the entire conversation, then shook his head again, cutting the call.

“You really don't like your grandmother.”

“I don't like anyone that tries to tell me how 5:30 is halfway between 5 and six, and that it'll be 6 soon. She tells me like there's a chance one day that it'll count down from 5:30 to 5.”

“Least you've got someone, you know. Don't know how you'd keep going if you had to deal with an entirely new family and an entire new neighborhood. Count your lucky stars you're still in Elysium.”Ben said as his hand slid into his pocket. He withdrew a thin tube and put it to his lips, then ran a finger along a magnesium stripe at its tip. The end sparked and smoldered as Ben inhaled deeply.

“I hear that's unhealthy, you know.”

“I roll them myself.”

“Somehow I don't think that helps.”

Ben shrugged and exhaled a long tendril of smoke over Jericho's shoulder. Jericho watched the smoke twirl past him with a slight look of distaste, his lips creasing into a frown.

“Smells terrible.”

“Makes you feel great though,” Ben countered, “And I think I deserve a vice.”

“You're eleven.” Jericho killed Ben's argument in its infancy. Ben acknowledged the loss with a smile and took another drag.

“Think anyone will readily accept a twelve-year-old smoker?”

“I wouldn't bank on it.”Jericho said with a chuckle, which Ben joined in. As they stopped laughing a comfortable silence slipped into the gardens and they both got comfortable on the bench they sat on, turning their attention to the sun setting on the horizon.


“Happy Birthday, my little baby boy!” A wrinkle-ridden face adorned with half-moon spectacles squealed as Jericho emerged from his room the next morning. Ben was already gone. All that was here for him now were the silent, sagely old man that sequestered himself in the house's library and an over-protective that had a malformed opinion on everything. He had a disturbing feeling that he was the most normal one in the whole house, and that didn't say much.

“Come on, Jericho. Thank your grandmother.”Grandpa called out from the kitchen. The scent of sizzling bacon wafted into Jericho's nostrils, and he promptly identified his grandfather's birthday present.

“Thanks grandma, and thanks for breakfast, grandpa.” Jericho yawned as he fell back onto a sofa across from Grandma, who was literally shaking with anticipation for the day. He silently studied the maddening number of wrinkles on the face across the room from him with a raised eyebrow, unsure of whether the shaking was still just jitters or Parkinson's Disease. Before he could open his mouth to ask, Grandpa emerged from the kitchen with a tray of eggs, bacon, and pancakes in hand.

“Eat, then you open your grandmother's present” He instructed, placing the tray down on Jericho's lap as he received a nod in response. “Give him some room, dear.” He directed at Grandma, who was now leaning toward the tray as well. She smiled and leaned back onto her chair, watching her grandson eat breakfast with a smile.

“Done.” Jericho announced a few minutes later, his plate devoid of anything edible. Grandpa chuckled and shrugged.

“Deal's a deal, I guess. Let me go get grandma's present. Grandpa said, heading upstairs with slow, careful steps. He came back down with a battered black case in the shape of an hourglass with a stick attached to it. He set it down in front of Jericho and thumbed open the latches on both sides of the opening, then lifted up the top of the case.

Inside was what Jericho could only identify as a really big violin. It looked like the kind of instrument played at presidential banquets by snooty men in tuxedos.

“Cello. Master of arpeggios. Backbone of the melody.” Grandma said with her usual smile. Jericho looked uneasily to Grandpa, who nodded.

“Just give it a try.” He offered the instrument and a long Pernambuco wood bow to Jericho, who took hold of both uneasily.

Jericho pulled the cello toward him, balancing it on the small stand attached to the bottom. He hesitantly put the bow to one of the four strings and pulled. A squeal cut through the room and Jericho immediately dropped the bow, wincing.

“It's very hard to start, dearie. Don't be discouraged.” Grandma said in a soothing voice. Jericho shot her a glare and picked up the bow again, determined to do it right once and then never touch it again. He put the bow to a different string and angled it slightly, then drew it across. A low, smooth note drifted our for a second before wavering and scattering into the same squeal as before.

“Oh! Very good, darling! You've got a knack for it. Practice every day and you could be a great musician some day.”

Jericho looked down to the instrument before him and smiled as a plan formed in his head.

“Every day, huh?”

Jericho didn't know how long he was standing in the long line of refugees, but he did know that the sun had gone from right over his head to just above the horizon since he had been forced into the queue. At most he had moved a few feet, and the only recurring thought in his mind was freedom. That was the prize that this line served as a test for. Once he got to the front they would perform a background check, document him, and send him on his way back home—assuming there was indeed a home for him to return to at all.

“Next.” A tired Galcian clerk called out, and the line shifted in its miniscule fashion forward. Jericho took the small half-step afforded to him and continued to wait. At least waiting was easy.

At the fore of the line the newly-processed refugees waited for transport trucks to pull into the camp, then loaded themselves aboard and were whisked away outside the chain-link fence wall, where columns of smoke still rose into the air two weeks after the blitzkrieg occupation. Rumors were abound of the Valley's destruction, and that the tree looked like it had passed from its eternal spring green to the mix of warm autumn hues of orange and yellow with a smattering of red. The rumors also noted that the red was the blood of the people that died in bunker 0158 the day the Galcians first attacked. Criminalizing your captor won't do anything but get more martyrs. He felt for the precarious tightrope the Galcian soldiers were subjected to walking for the sake of the suits that were talking to Ilya Sornan diplomats at this very moment.

“Sir, calm down. Believe it or not, it is actually my job to help you. If you raise your voice again I'll have to ask you to step to the back of the line.” The clerk's loud voice boomed again, this time full of indignation that only seconded the initial feeling of pity that pervaded Jericho's gut.

“We have our rights, you know. We also have international laws against doing something like this without a declaration of war!”Another man roared back, his tone indignant. Must've been a Valley dweller.

“Sir, our nation's civlization started in the plains and foothills around this city. It was ours to begin with, and your government stole it from us. This is a matter of initial ownership, not war.”

“Don't try to pull that bullshit with us. We all know what you monsters did in that bunker!”

“Sir, please allow the Sergeant to your right to escort you to the back of the line. Have a nice day.”

“Fuck you!” The crowd uniformly gasped, then a gunshot cracked the sky overhead. The line of refugees instinctively dropped onto their stomachs and willingly took a mouthful of mud. Jericho glanced up as he spat out a chunk of grime and saw the man at the head of the line frozen in place, a heavily-armed soldier two feet away from him. The soldier had a drawn pistol and its muzzle was aimed at the ground, where a small wisp of smoke rose.

Good move, sergeant.

The sergeant holstered the pistol and grabbed the shocked man by the arm, roughly dragging him to the back of the line.

“The next time you assault someone in this camp I'll make sure your head's nice and empty to we can put some manners in it.” The sergeant growled in the man's ear as he passed by Jericho, who smiled. He was liking these Galcians more and more (destroyed city aside). Was this “Stockholm Syndrome” or just a man appreciating assholes being put in their place? Jericho didn't know, but he was happy when he heard the clerk shout “next” once again.


Six hours later Jericho looked at the sitting clerk that now sported a black eye, courtesy of the tussle that took place earlier. The clerk looked up to Jericho, then back down to the small splotch of light on his desk where another form sat.

“Alright, sir we're both tired, so let's just make this easy. All basic information please.”

“Name's Jericho James Inarei. Birth-date of the twentieth of Kanbaal, 3,000th cycle (about November 20th, 2075). Address is 762 E. Keplan Street. Anything else you need?”

“No, that should be enough to pull your record from the Ilya Sornan archives.”The clerk replied, penning down the information as he clicked his tongue. “Please take this wristband and commit the number 499 to memory. If you are stopped by Galcian personnel outside of a camp, you will need to supply this number or be detained. Do you understand, Mr. Inarei?”

Jericho took the wristband from the clerk and slid it onto his right wrist, then nodded to the clerk. “499, right.”He committed the number to memory and put the dog tag-reminiscent bracelet, then looked from his wrist back to the clerk with an expectant gaze.

“That's it.” The man said, shrugging. Jericho arched an eyebrow in suspicion.

“How has this taken so long for everyone else?”

“I don't believe I can say much else other than that Elysium seems to be full of a lot of 'free spirits'.” He lazily made air quotes with his fingers as he contained his job in one small unoffensive sentence. Jericho responded with a chuckle as he glanced to the opens gate to his left.

“I guess I'll see you some other time, then.”

“I hope not, sir. People like you make doing the right thing easier.”

Jericho nodded, opting not to voice how a military action preceding negotiations was 'the right thing'. Instead he gave the clerk a small wave and left the camp, his eyes focusing on the gates as he passed them, and then the truck beyond. Once he got on that truck, everything would go back to normal. Ever since this started he told himself that. Every time he told himself he also believed it less and less.

He didn't like the unfamiliar feeling that crawled into his heart. It was different, and a masochistic part of him liked it.