This particular piece is my major work, the product of everything I've done in Extension 2 English. I submitted it last week to the Board of Studies for marking, and can only hope it's well-received there!
Entitled 'Undermine', this piece is a dystopia set in a not-too-distant future. There's a moral lesson in there somewhere, but it's mostly an expression of nihilistic power hunger and the endless struggle to climb your way to the top of the food chain.
So, let's get this going, shall we?
Have you seen this man?
Eamon Lazarus came across the missing sign, the fifth in as many telegraph poles. Around him, the city was silence. No children were playing, no friends laughing, no couples sharing a lunch in any of the restaurants that were open. Admittedly, it was a working day, but it was his lunch break, and no doubt the lunch breaks of many others. Yet still the emptiness cast its oppressive gaze over the district.
The next telegraph pole he passed had fallen down, and if it had ever born a sign, the poster had been swept away by the wind.
It was another grey day. The smog emanating from the industrial districts was masked by the clouds. Employment figures were up, the news reports said. The economy was booming. What were a handful of trees to hundreds – thousands – of new jobs?
Eamon finally found a shop that was open and bought a wrap to eat, rifling through his pockets to find the change he needed. He wasn’t exactly the most impressive figure – his construction workers’ uniform was ratty, the yellow hi-vis jacket stained with mud and grime accumulated over the past few weeks. His plain face and light blond hair was likewise dirty, albeit from just the morning’s work.
As he was halfway through the wrap, he checked his watch. He had to be back at work in fifteen minutes or else – well, he remembered the last time he was late back to the site! Quickly, Eamon scoffed down the rest of the wrap and started back to his worksite. He was lucky, in some respects – the proximity of the current development to his home meant that he could save more on petrol. And, of course, spend more time with Sam.
No doubt his son would have homework and Eamon would have to help, since his mother’s disappearance. The police had suggested that she had been kidnapped, perhaps by a drug cartel or the like, but Eamon had his own theories. It was more than a bit suspicious that she had published in the newspaper, a few weeks before, an article criticising the new government legislation regarding privacy laws. She wasn’t the first journalist to vanish, either. Others had done so, both before and after, seemingly indiscriminately. Of course, these disappearances had been reported, but nobody had appeared to draw links between the different cases. The President had assured them that CIGO were investigating, yet Eamon had seen no evidence of that. Yet still, what had he to do but hope?
His theories. How laughable they were under open daylight, when the benevolence of the President was apparent! All around, monuments detailed his accomplishments, and the museums littering the metropolis showed the nature of the horrific world that preceded the coming of the New State. There was no way the government would betray its citizens after all it had done for them.
That was what he thought under the cover of day. But, when night threw its dark gaze over the world and he was alone, Sam asleep with a book about the heroic government spy Joseph LaCroix, or humming the latest education-song he’d learnt, Eamon’s thoughts would return to the disappearances and the complete lack of explanation, and suspicion would cloud his mind.
It was likely just grief, the aching hole in his heart looking for something to fill it, even if that something was self-destructive. She is gone, Eamon reminded himself. They are trying to find her. The government had been assisting those who had lost loved ones as much as they could; it was illogical to suspect them of being behind the same disappearances.
Fortunately, he returned to work just in time, mere seconds before roll call. Letting out a slight sigh of relief, he answered his name as it was called out and went off to his assignment. Here, he could lose himself in his work, letting his worries go and just rolling along with the order as everybody else seemed to do.
Minutes dripped into hours into the end of the day, the afternoon sun shooting faint rays of light past the high buildings. The foreman called break, and the workers finished the tasks they were doing and broke off, leaving for their residence. Eamon was one of the last to exit the site, and strode quickly down the streets towards home.
He rounded the last corner, entering his street – or perhaps ‘alley’ was the better term, for the side-street was decrepit and run down. Grime and grit festooned the sides of the buildings, which had once reached out to grasp the sky but now had lost their former glory, collapsing in on themselves until only the bottom few floors were left – and even those were on the verge of decaying into nothingness. The restoration process from the wars that were the precursor to this Age of Enlightenment was not yet complete. The governments and councils still had much to do, they had said.
Eamon had been alive during the final days of those wars. Still he remembered the sounds, the smells, the lights – the bright flares, retina-scorching, shrieking upwards to the heavens. From the ashes of those wars had the New State arisen, formed by those with a vested interest in protecting the world from another modern war, for the world had very nearly been destroyed in those days.
Acting entirely from routine, Eamon walked slouching to his flat, fiddled with the lock, and entered, expecting to see Sam there puzzling over his schoolwork. The education system was barely recognisable to Eamon now, so much had it changed with the coming of the New State. Where once the elder generations had been taught how to critique, to analyse, to evaluate, now they were taught morals and the lessons of history. The generation gap had widened so far that Eamon could barely recognise his son as his own blood. It saddened him that children were brought up knowing only the consequences of their actions, and not the wonderful things that the world could show them.
To his surprise, Sam was not there, and instead a police officer, in the usual black uniform, was waiting on the tattered, faded couch. Eamon’s heart skipped a beat. He had not voiced his thoughts, his conspiracies, to others… had he?
“You are Eamon Lazarus?” the officer asked in a rhetorical tone. Eamon nodded, the movement slow and slight. “Fear not, your son is safe. We’ve taken him to a care centre for the time being.”
“W-why?” Eamon asked, stammering slightly. “Have I done anything?”
“Have you?” the police officer raised an eyebrow, and he felt as if the man’s gaze was boring into him, peeling back layer after layer and baring his soul. “This is about your wife, Mr Lazarus. We have received word of her.”
Relief flooded Eamon. So his heretical thoughts had been wrong – the government had been looking for her. And they had found her.
“Where is she?” he asked eagerly, barely able to contain his excitement. Yet the officer looked grave.
“Perhaps it is best you come with me. The man who found her would like to speak with you.”
Again, the nagging suspicion rose, along with a sense of trepidation and foreboding. Swallowing back his fear, Eamon followed the officer as he left his apartment and headed out onto the street. A shimmer of fractal light, and the policeman’s vehicle appeared, the refraction shield shed to bring it into plain view. His companion entered the vehicle, and indicated for him to do likewise. Eamon followed the instruction without thought.
They drove in silence through the district, until the spires of High Metropol loomed above them. Eamon had never been here – this was the heart of the capital, the seat of government, the district that rose like a phoenix from the ashes of war. All this set Eamon’s mind to asking the question – who exactly had summoned him?
The police car parked out the front of a building, larger and more impressive than the rest, but unmarked save some letters bulging out far above them that Eamon could not read. The glass façade opened for the two as they left the vehicle and moved towards the door, as if they were expected. But of course, they were.
There the police officer stopped. “You are to proceed alone,” he instructed. Nodding, Eamon did as he was bid, heading towards the elevator.
“Floor sixty,” the receptionist said, but otherwise did not interact. Eamon entered the elevator and pressed the button, and was catapulted upwards with frightening speed. Within twenty seconds, a soft female voice announced the floor number, and Eamon stepped forwards to what he suspected was his destiny.
Floor sixty, as it appeared, was wide and empty, save a single oak desk at which was seated a small man in a grey suit, absent-mindedly typing something onto a computer. Eamon waited a few metres away, unsure of what to do.
The question was answered for him as the man glanced up, his razor eyes alighting on him.
“Eamon Lazarus?” he asked, standing up and extending a hand. Uneasily, Eamon shook it. “I am Kieran Harrowmorne. I run numerous corporations around this area, but you would know me most from my work with the counter-intelligence governmental organism, or CIGO, as you know them. I also fill the role of Minister for Intrigue within the government structure.”
The pair could not have been more different, Eamon noticed. He was still in his dirty work uniform, while Harrowmorne was impeccably dressed, each action smooth and calculated. His eyes were a piercing, cold blue, so pale as to be almost white. Yet they were, in a way, darker than anything Eamon had seen before, and he came to a realisation that before him was a man more ruthless, more ambitious, and in every way his superior. The smile that graced the businessman’s lips did not reach upwards to those striking orbs.
Suddenly, the smile faded. “I am resigned to be the bearer of bad news, Mr Lazarus,” he said gravely. “We have found your wife.”
“Is Maya…” Eamon asked, not wanting to say the last word. Harrowmorne shook his head gravely, which did nothing to alleviate his fears.
“She is not. However, some would say she is worse.”
“Worse than death? Is that possible?” Eamon asked bewildered. Silently, Harrowmorne pressed a button on his desk and a holo-pict was projected into the air between the two men. Though the image was somewhat blurred, his wife was easily recognisable, clad in the splodged grey of urban camouflage, a defiant look etched on her face.
“This is an image taken of the terrorist group, who refer to themselves as the Protectorate,” Harrowmorne intoned, but Eamon could barely hear him past his roaring heartbeat. “She is now an enemy of the State.”
Those cold blue eyes fixed on his, and though his words were comforting there was no warmth in them. “I am sorry. Rest assured that we will do all we can to ease the pain during this time. However, I am required to ask you questions from an investigative perspective.”
Numbly, Eamon nodded, still reeling from the shock. Harrowmorne leaned forward.
“Firstly, did she exhibit any suspicious behaviour prior to her disappearance?”
“She – she published an article. Criticising the new privacy laws. Perhaps-” The ghost of a smile creased Harrowmorne’s lips.
“You thought we had taken her.”
Shocked, Eamon tried desperately to deny it, but the other silenced him with a wave of his hand. “You think you are the first to have such thoughts? Please. If it was a crime to have opinions, we wouldn’t have any citizens left.” Harrowmorne shrugged. “Regardless, you believe that her misgivings may have led to her defection? It is precisely because of these happenings that the laws are being changed!”
Eamon couldn’t really argue with that logic. Harrowmorne continued.
“The Protectorate often attempt to recruit those close to their existing members, if they believe they are gullible enough… while I doubt that you fall into this category, you will of course make it your first priority to contact CIGO should the possibility eventuate?”
He nodded in reply. “Of course!” The official smiled.
“There is one more thing. You seem far more… clever… than the other members of your caste. Usually, the defectors are from the academics – that it was the wife of a worker speaks of potential from both parties.” Harrowmorne paused, and it seemed to Eamon that it was for dramatic effect more than anything else. “With that in mind, I would like to offer you a chance to work for us.”
His jaw dropped, and audibly cracked as he picked it up and composed himself. “Me?” he managed. Harrowmorne frowned.
“Since there is nobody else in the room, I can only assume I was referring to you,” came the snide remark. Abashed, Eamon nodded.
“I- but, of course I will work with you.”
“For me,” Harrowmorne corrected.
Yet the important difference between the phrases passed Eamon by, his thoughts full of self-glorification. Here was the path to success, to make meaning of this life – a way to rise in society, and placate that feeling he was destined for more. His son, too, would benefit from this, even more than he would.
And as he watched his new pawn come to terms with the possibilities, Harrowmorne allowed himself a small smile. He had him.
***
An hour later, after Eamon Lazarus had departed, Kieran reclined on his lounge in his own apartment suite. He clicked his fingers at a servant, demanded wine. The minion scurried to do his master’s bidding.
Getting close, he thought to himself. While his latest tool worked towards the State’s goals, it gave Kieran the room to work at his. It was all coming together so nicely.
He flicked the holo-screen on the coffee table, opening up the conference call. The face of the Defence Minister, Andrew Lane, appeared, larger than life, projected against the wall.
“The meeting went better than expected,” Kieran remarked casually to open.
“You assuaged his doubts?”
“Better yet. I recruited him to help us against the Protectorate.” An expression of surprise drew over Lane’s face.
“A peasant? Why?”
“His wife is the person of interest,” Kieran snapped, irritated with his compatriot’s lack of vision. While Lane was a very effective minister, he did not possess the personal aspects needed to achieve greatness. Unlike myself, he thought with some satisfaction. “I believe he will try and contact her, and we can turn that to our advantage.”
“You are taking a great risk, Harrowmorne,” Lane growled. “You know he does not look kindly on failure…”
“This is nothing compared to other actions I have authorised,” he replied, with his thoughts on his ulterior motives. “Like all of those, this shall work out as intended.”
He waved his hand and dismissed the hologram, somewhat frustrated. Lane was becoming a problem – too suspicious. Vague solutions ran through his head, but Kieran dismissed them, resolving to find an effective one later. The paranoia of the leader was well-documented, and perhaps some whispering would trigger him…
The servant returned with the drink, and Kieran sipped slowly, savouring the taste of the vintage. His minion remained there, awaiting further orders, and the minister waved him away, pondering deep thoughts.
Tomorrow, there was much to do.
***
The first day of his new employment filled Eamon with trepidation and no small amount of guilt. After he’d told Sam he had gotten a promotion of sorts, the boy had been delighted and excited about the ‘new adventures’. Yet Eamon was not so keen, worried exactly what Kieran Harrowmorne had planned for him.
He was greeted by the same receptionist, and was directed to floor twenty-seven. Exiting the elevator revealed a series of office cubicles, each occupied by a person in the same uniform as he was. Another receptionist met him.
“You’re the new employee?” he was asked, and Eamon nodded. “Look for cell 12-A. Your assignment will be posted on the holo-screen.”
Simple instructions. Eamon did as he was told, and to his surprise the holo-screen, when activated, popped up with the sharp face of Harrowmorne.
“Most employees do not get a personal message on their first day, but for you I have decided to make an exception. Just so you know, this is a recording so do not bother trying to communicate.” The voice lowered. “I have much planned for you, Mr Lazarus. First, however, I would like you to inspect your colleagues. No employee of CIGO is content in a low position and they are eternally struggling to get to the top. Tell me of what you find.
The holographic visage broke out in a smile. “They remind me of someone, but I can’t think who. Regardless, there are instructions attached to this message. Hack into their accounts and find out who serves who, and deliver that information to me.”
Eamon grimaced slightly as the hologram faded. Already he’d been thrown in the deep end, and privately he wondered if this had been a good idea. Almost as quickly, he banished the thoughts and set to the task. His fingers swiped across the holo-screen, and he logged into the system mainframe, somewhat surprised to find he had access. A few more flicks and a list of employee names was brought up. The first one on the list, he tapped, their photo, information and State Number brought up. Not really sure what to do, he moved around in the system, monitoring communications, checking contacts and spying on them via surveillance.
And through the cameras, Harrowmorne watched.
***
It was with a hawkish smile that his employer greeted Eamon a few days after. His pursuits had turned up a few suspicious details, and he noticed that the following day, these people would not be in their usual cubicles.
“You’ve done well on the task,” Harrowmorne informed him. Two servants stood near the minister, ready to do his bidding. Although the praise was obviously meant, the thought that he had been spying on his colleagues for favour did not rest well with Eamon. It seemed… dishonest.
A quick look at the Minister for Intrigue reminded him that things were not so clear cut as they had been before. The world of CIGO, even of their clerks, was half-shrouded in the shadows.
Seeing Harrowmorne’s patiently waiting expression, he forced himself to reply. “Thank you, sir.” He felt as if he should use the formal address now, even more so than usual.
The expression of his employer became positively predatory. The unsettling, pallid eyes glittered in the twilight. “No need to thank me. It was you, after all, who was doing the work…”
Eamon shifted uncomfortably. Harrowmorne clicked his fingers and glanced at a servant, who immediately bowed and scurried away, returning just as quickly with a seat. The minister gestured languidly, and Eamon slowly edged himself into the chair.
Both men were silent, Harrowmorne seeming far calmer than his compatriot, who had a nagging suspicion the silence was intended to make him uncomfortable.
“Watch this,” Harrowmorne demanded without warning. He reached out and tapped the holo-screen on the desk, and what appeared to be a completely normal ad promoting the work of government employees played. As the 30-second clip ended, Eamon was left confused as to why it had been shown.
“Notice anything?” the minister asked.
“One shot… seemed to show my workplace?”
“Very astute! You yourself were in that clip, if you looked closely enough. Can you think of why we would put you in there?”
He had a sinking feeling he knew the answer. “As bait. You are using me to draw her out.”
That humourless smile again played across those thin features. “You seem displeased.”
“Is this all you wanted me for?” Eamon asked bitterly.
“There is much more I have in mind for you. As promised, there could be much advancement of your position should you meet our demands.”
The tone was beguiling, making promises and bargains. Yet, Eamon remained wary, knowing well the precariousness of his position. He decided he was not made for this kind of life, with its intrigue and deceit, yet feared the results should he pull out now.
He dipped his head. “I’m still in.”
Harrowmorne grinned widely. “I thought as much.”
The end justifies the means. Why didn’t he believe it? He had learnt so much, and had realised too late his fears that past week – how long ago it seemed! – may well have been justified. At its fingertips, CIGO had the details, the records, the lives of every citizen to peruse. Privacy was nothing. Most of the files were classified, unable to be accessed, and Eamon dreaded what he may find should he read those.
“That will be all,” Harrowmorne stated. “In seven days, I want you to meet me here again. That should be enough time…”
As Eamon scurried away, looking frightened, Harrowmorne turned his chair around slowly, gazing out of the window across the city with a piercing intensity.
He was so close, it ached. Seven days, and the pieces would be in place. He thought over the meeting, already planning what it was he would say.
He reached behind him, drew a small slip of paper, and wrote one order on it. Watch them all. A servant moved forward, taking the command, ready to distribute it to his agents.
Harrowmorne stood, moved into his suite. A book next to his luxurious bed recorded everything, held secrets that would assure his execution a thousand times over if it fell into the wrong hands. He didn’t need to read it to remember its contents – a map of each body of government, originally empty, but now each map was marked in key locations. Those astute enough that observed it, and the context of the minister’s actions, would easily put two and two together. Thankfully, no such person existed.
So close, so very, excruciatingly, tantalisingly close. Harrowmorne took one more look at the diary, and laughed.
***
I must do this, Eamon urged himself. Six days since the Minister for Intrigue had shown him that damned video. Ever since then, he had felt a presence behind him, something he could not shake. His suspicion had grown exponentially, eating away inside, until finally he had come to this.
Were he caught now, there was no telling what would happen. There was no possible excuse – it was treason. By now, Eamon knew the signs that signified the presence of a hidden police car under its refraction field, and there was none there. He was alone.
Hopefully.
He slipped into the tiny shed, and sat the computer down on a desk. Quickly, he accessed CIGO’s mainframe and began the careful process of bypassing its security systems. He had always been a fast learner, and the hacking skills Harrowmorne had had him instructed in were etched into his brain.
The password protection was a facade that hid an intricate network of alarms, each triggered to go off should one be triggered without proper authority. The hacker’s task was not to avoid triggering an alarm, but to give himself the authority to do so without the system recognising anything out of the ordinary. He searched around, coming across the signature of the supervisor of Floor Thirty-One. Quickly, he cloned it and linked it to his own device, and entered.
Nothing. He was in. Eamon breathed a sigh of relief. Then, he began painstakingly searching through files, trying to find anything to either validate or denounce his suspicions.
To his dismay, it took barely thirty seconds. However, it took much longer for him to recognise the significance of the find.
The Protectorate Act (2048) (World). As he read through the contents of the law, his heart beat faster.
With one act, the government had complete power. Total control. While technically the citizen’s rights were still there, the Protectorate Act allowed them to be overwritten at will and with no requirement for justification. Arrests could be made, people detained, even executed without a trial. And the name, too… was this the cause of the ‘terrorism’ he was tracking down?
The Information Control Act (2048) (World). The designated Leader shall have the ability to order the alteration or cancellation of any advertising or other form of media, or to commission the creation of any he deems necessary for the keeping of Peace (the term defined by the aforementioned Leader).
Oh God. Oh God. Eamon shut the computer down in horror, and ran out. His mouth was dry, his hands shaking. How did we allow this?
There was no other act his conscience would allow. He must confront Harrowmorne. Tomorrow. No. That was too far away. How could he reach him? No way. Impossible. Must be some way… somehow.
He staggered back to his house. Must not let Sam know. Must solve this alone. How?
Find Harrowmorne.
Where?
***
The day could not have come fast enough.
Eamon had composed himself and, putting on a determined look to mask his trepidation, stepped forward into Harrowmorne’s office. For the day, he’d chosen the one suit he owned, and though it did not compare to the expensive make of his superiors he at least looked not so out-of-place as he felt.
To his surprise, the minister was not there, and instead a servant stood in front of the desk.
“Master Harrowmorne will meet you at the State Penitentiary,” the servant said, bowing. “He has sent a car to pick you up.”
The prison? What does…? The somewhat ambiguous wording of the servant’s statements only amplified Eamon’s fear. He swallowed, nodding in response.
The car arrived, and he was driven through the city. Thankfully, it did not appear he was under arrest… at least at this moment. The legal documents he had read yesterday were burnt on his mind, and the precariousness of his freedom was abundantly clear.
They pulled up in front of the prison, its grey walls imposing and eerily silent. Eamon stepped out carefully, adjusting his tie. He was escorted by prison guards through the complex, coming finally to the warden’s antechamber. There, he found Harrowmorne.
“You’re late,” the minister frowned. “Traffic?”
He nodded, but the other had already moved on.
“Follow me,” he ordered. “I have something to show you…”
Without another option, Eamon had to keep up with Harrowmorne’s long stride. They wound their way through the maze of walls and doors, the illumination bright yet cold from glow-tubes suspended from the ceiling in cages of their own. Closed doors and security restrictions simpered before the minister. While Eamon had no idea where they were, Harrowmorne seemed to know the way.
Finally, they stopped after ascending a level. A long balcony extended before them, overlooking a glass cage guarded by two men in CIGO uniform. Is this my fate? Eamon gulped, looking with dread at the frosted, windowless glass that he could not see through for the life of him.
“This, Mr Lazarus, is what we refer to as results,” Harrowmorne intoned, and clicked his fingers. The frosting dropped from the glass.
“Maya!” Eamon called out, running to the handrail. His wife, imprisoned by the cage, did not react at all.
“The glass is soundproof.” The minister’s voice was utterly emotionless.
“May I speak to her?” he pleaded.
“Of course not. She’s a traitor,” came the dismissive reply. “Traitors don’t deserve anything.
Shoot her!” he snapped. The guards responded, turning towards the cage and unloading one shot each. The first cracked the glass. The second shattered it, and pierced the occupant inside. Maya dropped like a stone. Eamon cried out, lunging towards the edge and trying to leap over it. Harrowmorne’s hand grabbed his shoulder, forced him back with incredible strength.
“Why did you do that, you bastard?!” he screamed at the minister, who flinched away from the outburst.
“You have seen so much, and yet you still fail to see?” Harrowmorne snarled. “You, who spent a good portion of your time yesterday peering into where your eyes were not meant to see?”
He noticed Eamon’s look of shock. “Don’t be surprised. You were meant to crack through the security. It was your final test.”
“I don’t understand,” Eamon whispered. He felt numb, so very numb, and so very confused. Why?
“This… State… is completely corrupt. Completely flawed, irrevocably so. I intend to fix this.”
“By shooting my wife?!” Eamon snapped.
“That was a demonstration. This is what the government does to its foes. This is why we should fight them.”
“What, so you’re going to join the Protectorate?” he growled. Harrowmorne laughed, the sound piercing, not entirely sane.
“There is no Protectorate,” he said, after the mad cackling subsided. “This entire situation is a test, one which many before you have taken.”
“You… lied. To me. To-“
“Quite a lot of people, Mr Lazarus. As I said, you are not the first.”
Harrowmorne paced around slowly, hands clasped behind his back as he narrated.
“In a way, you were right. The government was behind the disappearances, in a way. They told me of people they didn’t like, and I acted on that as I’m supposed to.”
“Some simply disappeared,” he continued. “With the names of others, I created the Protectorate. Since CIGO has complete independence regarding the management and disposal of political prisoners, it was very easy to fake the records of the Penitentiary to make it look like some had never turned up.”
“But… why?” Eamon begged. “Why go to all this trouble?”
“The same reason anyone would; to change the world. Many people lost associates to the Protectorate. Most of those were contacted as you were, and I seeded them in important governmental positions in the same manner I did you. Then, when we ‘captured’ their terrorist acquaintance, I would be here, explaining this as I do with you.”
Harrowmorne’s eyes blazed with pride. “Once I revealed the nature of the State, quite a number of them were very eager to help me overthrow it. So far, the attacks of the Protectorate have been small scale – a house here, a policeman dead there… soon, they will intensify. Ministers will begin to die, and my seeded minions will find themselves promoted rapidly, catapulting upwards in the social hierarchy. Eventually, the President will find that his government, that once he could divide and conquer, unified under me. And then, I shall take over.”
“You’re insane,” Eamon uttered.
“On the contrary. It is all those others who are mad. The question is; where does your mind lie?”
“What do you want from me?” he asked. “Do you want me as a part of your… sedition?”
“You would not be here if it were otherwise,” Harrowmorne said matter-of-factly. “I see in you a lot of potential, especially for someone of your caste. So, answer me this: will you rise in this new order?”
“I will not trade one tyrant for another,” Eamon stated bluntly.
“I shall lead this world to a glorious age!” Harrowmorne yelled back. Now the eyes burnt with madness, madness that had always been there, but hidden. “This society will rise, higher than the old world ever did!”
“That is always the dream,” he replied bitterly. “Yet I do not see good coming of a madman.”
“No, Mr Lazarus,” Harrowmorne intoned gravely. “It is you who are the mad one. I am merely the one with vision.”
“And what of those who do not fit into your vision?” Eamon hissed. “Will you shoot them, too?” He could not believe he was saying these words, saying them to a man who was past all reasoning, so detached from reality.
“You refer to yourself?” the treacherous minister inclined his head. “Take him.”
Too late, Eamon realised the guards – no, the murderers – that had guarded the glass prison had moved, and now each grabbed one of his arms. He struggled, but their grip was iron. Harrowmorne merely watched impassionedly.
“Since I am magnanimous, I shall give you a few days to reconsider your choice,” he said. “After all, you do have such a lot of talent…” He smiled. “And now, plenty of time to contemplate your options.”
As the guards took away his disobedient pawn, Harrowmorne allowed his smile to broaden. Whether or not Eamon realised what a perfect opportunity this was, the success of the coup was a foregone conclusion. Minister, no longer. He would rule.
President Kieran Harrowmorne… yes, he decided. That had a much better ring to it.
top marks
nice to know im the villain u bastard ;)
??? What do you mean?
nice to know im the villain u bastard ;)
Great job, I loved it.