by Chris Ayala
Lucky for him, the Union's worldwide social media website did a nice job of restoring all his old posts. Of course, he hadn't tweeted in a very long time. Front row seats and sunny day, go Eagles! #thisislife. His last post seemed like it was from a different person.
His photo album still stored digital pictures, all five thousand of them. As fathers, both of them were so thrilled at their new lives that the camera's storage would run out of room on a weekly basis. So many pictures, that if printed, he could probably make it a flip book. Pictures of the wedding day. Pictures of the adoption agency. Pictures of the a baby boy in a hospital. Pictures of Willie holding him. A drop smacked his hand on the keyboard. It was a tear that had travelled off his nose, one of many lining up on his nose. He wiped his face harshly, wishing it could wipe the memories away too. Because memories hurt.
Trying to take his mind off the past, he focused on the future. In the search bar, he typed in "People of Bliss". Expecting slews of degrading stories or hateful posts, Willie found himself in a state of shock. The search came up with no results. Maybe he lost internet connection? He tried it again. And again, no results. On Google, even the phrase "eating pumpkins on a stick" turned up millions of results, he knew because his son tried. He typed in "Sirius Dawson". She'd worked as a journalist two decades before leading the opposition, surely there would be some results.
Nothing. The existence of an rebellion against the Union had been erased. Leaning back, Willie couldn't decide how he felt about this. It all reminded him of prison, where the computers were so restricted that even Words With Friends had been banned because of the chat feature. Could this be worse than a prison cell? At least prisoners tried to escape their cells. Here, prisoners of the Union tried to stay.
CHAPTER NINE
Everything was at his command. Elements obeyed his whispers. Colleagues would look into his eyes, opening a tunnel into their soul, allowing him to tweak the darkness deep within. Even his body would heal expediently from any wound. Marcel wondered at times, if that ability, made him immortal. If so, then he was a step above humanity. Immortality, magic, and leadership meant he had the makings of a god. Marcel smiled at the thought. A god that had nothing to be afraid of.
With all this, why did emptiness still haunt him? An emptiness that only his family could fill. The Celests. If only his mother Victoria could see them now. What would she think of his brutal murder of Brent? He rubbed his palms together, imagining the night he stabbed his own brother and Brent's blood stained his palm.
"Everything okay, Supreme Leader?" someone said.
Sometimes he would do this, stare off into nothingness like an online video stuck buffering. He looked up. Wind blew and parted his hair. It was chilly here, more than anywhere in the world.
Behind him, the Union castle was nearing completion. Scaffolding covered every parameter, but the moonlight struck the breathtaking structure like light gleaming through a crystal. At every angle, it dazzled the eyes. Perfect for glamorizing his ideals.
Being that this was his first televised speech, he couldn't help but feel slightly nervous. His father Nelson had a knack for putting on the appearance of stern professionalism even in the most dreadful of moods. Marcel had to do the same. "Yes, I'm fine. When will the uplink be ready?"
The cameraman, who seemed to be the only one who knew the answer to the question, spat out, "Should be any moment now, Supreme Leader." His hand trembled as he typed into the laptop on a stool next to him. Either it was impatient or nerves, Marcel couldn't tell. Not until the seven people around him quieted so much that their breathing could barely be heard did Marcel realize the truth. He made these people very tense. Tense to the point of fear.
Before he became this godlike figure, he never experience tension from his employees. Saying the word boo might make them jump out of their shoes. He brushed his hair with his hand. "Is my hair okay?"
"Fabulous!"
"Great!"
"Tremendous!"
The wind laughed into his ear. He could always here the elements and feel their emotions. For some reason, the air element enjoyed these moments where Marcel questioned his loyalty. "So, I have enough powder? How's my makeup?"
"Perfect."
"Spectacular!"
"Fantastic!"
Before this filming group ran out of positive words in the thesaurus, Marcel asked a yes or no question. Something that might garner a smile from them. "Is there anything in my teeth?"
"No, Sir."
"Nope!"
"I see nothing."
Not even a coy smile. Marcel gave up and looked at his speech notes.
A car drove up the steep hill toward them. The trail of dust clung in the air as the vehicle stopped, then settled calmly. From the driver's seat, his brother-in-law Gerard stepped out casually as though he wasn't an hour late. Marcel didn't bother to look at his watch to show his discontent. They've known each other since high school and neither of them had changed…or ever would.
"Okay, uplink is ready," the cameraman said a little too excitedly.
Gerard walked up and said, "Wait." He straightened the tie around Marcel's neck. "Jesus, you've never been able to get this right."
For the moment, Gerard was his only loyal family left. And he found himself giving a genuine smile. "Remember when Dad lost a percentage point in the polls before his re-election because people thought his green tie clashed with his blue suit?"
"Well," his brother-in-law smirked, "not like you have that to worry about. Doubt any polls are going to change your leadership position."
As it stood, Marcel had a comfort that most politicians would sell a right arm for…he couldn't be voted out of his office. Because he was a god. And gods had nothing to fear. Especially not from the lesser beings.
"We got to start rolling soon," someone on the film crew said.
Gerard looked into Marcel's eyes. He rarely met his eye. Maybe he suspected Marcel's ability to peer into the soul via the entrance in the eyes. "Hey," he snorted, "you've got something in your teeth."
His shoulders sank. The film crew glanced in different directions as Marcel stared angrily. After sucking between his teeth with the tongue, he looked for a visual confirmation. Gerard nodded and gave a thumbs up. He quickly exited the camera's path.
"Okay, we're on," the cameraman whispered.
Marcel stared into the camera, a trick his father told him to do. People enjoyed eye contact. Even through the television screen. "Good evening. I'm Marcel Celest, Supreme Leader of the Union. Today, it's been eight months, since tragedies struck around the globe. Countless lives were lost and countless lives became lost. Lost in hope. Lost in sadness." Marcel stepped aside so the camera could a larger shot of the building behind him. "Not that long ago, this castle was a barren wasteland. Vines had shadowed much of its landscape. The environment had eroded much of its construction. Rain had flooded and destroyed most of the ground levels. But just like this glorious landmark, we too can be rebuilt. We as a nation. We as one world. And with the help of the Union. Already jobs and infrastructure are being returned. Imported goods are hitting shelves again. Humanity had been pushed into a hole on Doomsday, but we will ascent out with the hand of the Union." Marcel paused for a moment, just like his Dad would say. "And you can help by joining our cause. As agreed by world leaders before their demise at the actions of a cowardly terrorist, the Union will be led by three leaders. Being the only one to survive recent events, I've had to endure this burden alone. But that will change. And we need your help."
Something changed. Marcel's vision went from the subtle darker palette of colors to a grayscale. His pause went for too long because Gerard gave a subtle cough.
Marcel blink several times but his vision didn't return. He continued at a more uncomfortable voice that he wanted, "Democracy is about the power of the vote. And you shall vote for two other supreme leaders to join the Union's government. To avoid voter fraud as we transition a new licensing procedure, all votes must be
cast using the palm chip. In 160 days, you will have the chance to take charge of our –"
The air turned cold. Much colder than it had ever been. So frigid that Marcel felt his chest heave in. What was happening?
Someone else appeared. Someone he hadn't seen in ages. Not alive anyways. Even visits from the master of darkness never left him this frightened. Standing behind Gerard's car stood the image of a man. A man that he'd known his entire life. Ever since they fought over the remote control for which cartoon to watch on Saturday morning.
Brent.
His dead brother gave no expression. No anger that Marcel had murdered him. No sadness that the family missed him everyday. No bitterness that few showed up to his funeral. His diamond eyes cut into Marcel's soul. He whispered, "Brent?"
The film crew turned around but shrugged to each other. Nothing was there.
Brent mouthed something. Words that Marcel couldn't understand.
Gerard shouted, "Goddamnit, stop rolling."
"It's a live feed," the cameraman said sarcastically.
"Then cut it!"
Marcel couldn't keep his eyes off the shade of his brother. Even in the grayness, he could almost see those blue frightening eyes. Brent repeated his unheard words. Marcel found his knees weaken and he nearly tripped backwards.
Those words again. Haunting words. He could now read the lips of his pale sibling. Join us.
"Brent?" Marcel said again.
Join us.
"Brent? I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"
Join us.
"Turn the camera off!" Gerard ran and kicked over the camera. It shattered into pieces.
Marcel looked down, then glanced back up. Brent was gone. Colors began to return to his vision. The bitter cold returned to the regular chill. Wind cackled again.
Worrying about the embarrassment later, Marcel stumbled toward to the car. "Brent! Come back! What did you mean?"
Gerard chased after him. "Marcel, calm down. Breath."
"I saw him! My brother."
Join us.
Marcel circled the car. No one was here. Maybe inside the car? He opened the door. "Brent?" Nothing.
"Sit down. Relax," Gerard commanded.
He obeyed and sat. His knees were shaking. "I saw him, Gerard. I swear."
With an eyebrow raised, his brother-in-law stared at him for a while then said, "Catch your breath. I'll be back." He closed the door leaving Marcel in the silence of the car.
Hands shaking, breathing rapid, face trembling…he realized that perhaps gods can be scared of something.
For nearly fifteen years, Gerard had protected Marcel Celest. First, as a paid bodyguard from bullies (he loved being a Senior beating up Freshman bullies). Second, as a paid Secret Serviceman. Now, as a paid Czar for the Union Security division. A lot of money had been made, but also a lot of stress. That meant for nearly a quarter of life, he'd been by Marcel's side. But he'd never seen him act this way. Never seen him so scared.
Gerard walked away from the car and towards the film crew. Before he could make it up the hill, the cameraman already began the bitching. "Did you have to crash my camera? Know how much that camera cost?"
"Where's the footage?" Gerard asked, keeping Marcel's image in mind. The Supreme Leader, after all, couldn't made a mockery of.
"It was live," the woman who he'd suspected was the producer said snidely, "it's already on the website."
Reporters, at this very moment, were probably contemplating the headlines: Supreme Leader loses mind! Marcel Celest sees dead brother? Not fit for his position?
Gerard said calmly, with his hand moving up and down like petting an invisible dog. "This is what we do. I realize you people work for the Press Czar, but something like this could cause the uprising to get worse. Let's just stick with story that Marcel is under a lot of pressure and hasn't had much rest."
"Looks fine to me," someone whispered.
"That's the story," Gerard stressed, "Understand?"
A few hesitant nods, but it was enough to give him solace. For now, anyways. He walked away, back down the hill, towards the car. Better chat with the Supreme Leader. Marcel was the most troubled of the Celest family, constantly on edge of mental breakdown since their mother's death. Gerard's wife Janice always knew what to say; he tried to put himself in her shoes. But it only reminded him of how much he missed her. He wondered who slept by her side each night, instead of him. He wondered if she thought about him. He wondered if they would ever weld this broken marriage back together.
At the car now, he decided against knocking and just simply walked in. He sat across from the still shaken Marcel Celest. Was it his imagination or had he'd grown more pale? His black hair had a few gray hairs growing. Those blue eyes that could catch any girl's attention now seemed terrifying rather than alluring.
"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" Marcel stuttered. "That I saw Brent."
"Brent's dead." Gerard was never good at consoling and realized immediately that stating the obvious didn't seem sympathetic enough. He added, "Accident on the rooftop, remember?"
Hesitating longer than usual, Marcel opened his mouth then closed it then opened it again. "My earliest memory of me and my brother was back in the days when we lived in Arkansas. God, must've been about…twenty-something years ago. Before Janice was adopted into the family. Back then, it was just me and Brent. We enjoyed hanging out by the Mississippi River. Fishing was something Dad got us into. But one day, we decided to give catching catfish a shot. Ever tried it?"
Gerard shook his head no. He grew up Washington DC where the only catfish in town had a long reservation list and came served fried on a fancy dinner plate.
"Well, anyway," Marcel continued, "the best way to catch them is with your hand. You could use chicken hearts or livers, but Brent wanted live bait. He caught a bluegill. I let him do all the work because I didn't like the idea of using live bait. It seemed…inhumane. The bait didn't ask for its sacrifice.
Anyway, after what felt like hours of fishing, we caught nothing. He had tied the bluegill and kept it alive. The poor little thing kept trying to swim away, but Brent wouldn't let it escape."
"Did you eventually catch one?" Gerard asked.
"Yes," he swallowed back hard, "Yes. But not the way you'd think. The catfish swam around the bluegill but didn't go for the bait. It's like it didn't fall for the trick. For what, as far as I could recall, was Brent's first fit of anger…he ran into the water and caught the catfish with his hand. It wiggled around trying to free itself, but he held it by the gills. He cursed a few times; words that Mom would've never allowed around the house. Eventually he lifted the catfish above a rock and smashed it's head into it several times." Marcel made swooshing motions, somewhat too dramatically. "It didn't take long before it was dead. Brent stared at. I don't think he'd ever killed anything before. I'll never know for sure, but I swear he enjoyed it."
Considering Marcel's brother grew up to be an assassin for the terrorist group Servo Clementia, Gerard didn't doubt the slight psychopath might've enjoyed it.
After a few minutes, he waited for Marcel to say something. Obviously there had to be a point to this story.
Finally, the Union's Supreme Leader spoke. "That night…I played the role of the bluegill. The role of the live bait."
"What night?"
"That night." Marcel stressed. "The night Brent died."
Gerard found himself holding his breath. "You said it was an accident right?"
His brother-in-law shook his head. "I knew he'd come for me when we arrested his girlfriend Sirius. Brent's wanted to kill me since joining that terrorist organization. I'm one of their targets, remember?"
The insane Christian radicals had it in their manuals that Marcel, as well as a dozen others, were going to bring about an apocalypse. Gerard had done his research because protecting this politician was his job. But maybe the Servo Clementia had been so…radical. He asked, "So what happened on that rooftop, Marcel?"
"He didn't
…even…fight…me. Just like that catfish. It just swirled and swirled. I can understand the frustration of my little brother then. A murder was supposed to happen and it didn't. Me. I wanted to die. But Brent didn't fall for it. So I…had a fit of anger."
Marcel didn't have to finish, Gerard knew enough. The stab wound in Brent's body was intentional. And here he sat, in a car, with the murderer. Marcel buried his face into his hands and wept. Every time Gerard would watch a movie and the woman cried, he didn't react, but to see a grown man cry made him weak at the knees. Especially if it someone as close as Marcel. "Have you admitted this to anyone else?"
"No. And now his ghost is haunting me." Marcel sniffled. He looked up. "Am I the bad one? The bad guy? I mean, Brent smashed an innocent animal to death. He was the monster."
Gerard sat and leaned his back to the wall. He thought about how to answer for seconds, but it seemed like hours. "I don't think you're the bad guy or the good guy. It's too early in the game to decide."
"What do you mean?"
"Secretary Charles Declan protected this country from several international attacks. He won a Medal of Honor in the early century. Several coalitions praised his actions in fighting terrorism. Yet, when he walked into a federal building with pockets full of ammo and assault weapons then murdered over a hundred innocent people...he was branded 'the bad guy'. Forever. But was he? Everyone will have that moment that defines them in the end. And it's up to the individual to decide."
Marcel nodded, his tears stopped flowing and wiped the leftovers on his sleeve.
"Do you…" Gerard unsure of how to ask this paused and decided to be blunt. "Do you still want to die?" Suicide had been on Marcel's agenda once before, shortly after Victoria Celest died.