SANCTUARY 6

 Explosions make the earth beneath me shake. Dirt around my face trembles. The frontline looks like the fist of God itself has smashed through, sending soldiers, tanks, and trucks flying into a malaise of black smoke and raging fires.   I'm around two miles out from the frontline, where a small cluster of hills provides the safest cover I can find. The constant barrage of bombs blows so much dirt and smoke into the air that the sky is the color of bruises.    They have lost. I knew they would days ago--so did most of them.

A soldier gets out of a burning tank, bleeding heavily from under his helmet, disoriented as the sunlight hits his eyes.  I zoom from a horizon to horizon shot of  the destroyed army,  down onto one terrified, human face.  His expression is desperate.  He hesitantly waves a piece of his t‑shirt tied what looks like a pipe wrench.   He has heard my reports about what comes next, and laughed at Koch's News lying response.   As he drops to his knees and raises his pathetic flag he is praying otherwise;  praying the propaganda is true..

The Ellison soldier pulls out a laser knife and cuts the kids throat.  Holds onto the struggling soldiers as he carves off the head, then slices up the body, throwing him into a blood soaked canvas bag.   Begins slowly dragging it toward a truck half‑filled with bloody bags. 

Tanks aim machine guns at the survivors, giving them zero chance of fighting once they leave shelter -- the move itself is asking for mercy where I know all too fucking well there is none. I can barely watch and I am practiced. I want these holo images to drive the same anger into my viewers that this does me... destroy the lies they hear. After 20 years plus reporting, the famous Juan Rivera sure as hell knows better though.  I report nightmares so people have more nightmares, not necessarily because anyone was going to do anything about it.

They look so young now, as they crawl out of trucks, tanks; left with no choice except leaving the sanctuary of their burning vehicles;  some waving those pathetic white flags — which now seem like baby blankets. All get down on the ground, on their knees. After forcing the last soldiers out, Ellison's soldiers have them put on zip ties, hands behind their backs. I know what is happening next and so do a lot of them.

For almost a week I have been filming variations of the slaughter as the battline held, fell back, was won, held . . .  I was surprised the first time one surrendered, after living with them, hearing how much they hated Ellison's civil war.

Ruby talks into my ear: my AI half‑track/truck hidden in camo a few hundred yards off.  A Union spy has approached. Evidently you are in danger, or he would be. That is all he will tell me.”

“Get him up here.” I pack up my camp. Carefully fold the weather proof tarp I have had wrapped around me and shove it in with a filthy change of clothes, an extra holo and  then shake the bag and hear the reassuring rattle of my pills. Plenty. I'm ready to go.

“Elias. Nice to meet you both.”  He says as Ruby lets him inside and straps him in.

I turn on a camera and check out our spy. 

Look at his finger.

Elias is nervously tapping a finger on his thigh and that is something trained spies do not do  -- give away their 'poker face.'   Period. I zoom in on his eyes and I know the look from the years on the front.  Something happened to this man, something too big to fix the crack.  Once I would have been curious about what happened to him, listening for hours with my holo going waiting, for the six or ten lines my segment would get---now I did not want to know.  Still, this time, sleepless, and drugged, something hard and cold inside of me cracks, just enough for a flash of real, unadulterated fear to flash through the misanthropic facade. Whatever he was afraid of, I was in the middle of the same shit.

"They need you at Thiel prison.  That is where the soldiers are regrouping."

“Why bring me in?”

“Last few years.  I was with Koch.  I have holos.'"

He speaks so hesitantly, I have to take into account how young he is. Ill‑suited for his job.

“Proving Koch is a pervert, a pedo.  Likes inflicting pain, death.  He has plans that...  you'll see.”

“They said so..”

“They wouldn't listen to the women, of course.”

“Never did, never do.”

“Before their release, we need a Celeb, so they are not buried, or laughed off.  Juan Rivera, Celeb.”

Ruby pulls up out of the fog. Her modified half‑track/truck combo is covered in electrified cameo nets, and various assundries I've gathered over the years. Her open door looks as inviting as all heaven. Home.

My belts snap on and Ruby nestles me into the soft Naugahyde as she rumbles down the hill and out toward the open road. “How is Maya?”

" I've only seen her a few times.” 

“Ruby, start drafting the video for tonight’s show. Only refer to the tapes, put an adult identifier on the holo, requiring three adults present to view. Cover all the private parts, on all the holos. I want them to fucking be afraid of this…  Elias, you have anything to add?”

I look out at the passing trees of a once forest, burnt almost to the ground in 2079, the new growth was sick, where there was any.

“Hide the faces of the children,” Elias adds in a soft voice that says too much.  He turns to look at me, after a trip he spent mostly staring out the window as we talk, or closes his eyes, rubs his temples

“Add that, thanks. I don't know what happened, but...”

“I grew up watching you. Ruby was my grandmother. How did you find her, or build her or...”

“How old are you”

“26.”

“Christ. Ruby, show the man what you can do.”

You mean that, because I...

"Go show this young man, Grandma can still hobble a bit.:

330 in 6.5 seconds.

Outside our window becomes an instant blur, the gravity compensators are military grade, as is most of the weapons soldiers convinced me I might need.  The usual the banging and clanking of Ruby's loose parts and all the shit I have tucked under her cameo goes from her usual cover of a broken down old truck, into a beast screaming in the night.   I talk to Elias now as a fan, though I notice his finger is tapping again.  Whatever is going on in his head wants the moment.  I try to take it with the story. “A physics professor once told me, 'Only trust what you can measure with a ruler.'  So, I had Ruby programmed to act on pure physics, and scoff at anything else. The voice... to be honest... got me so many claps, she is probably why I became a Celeb. Though it was easier back then, before Koch owned all the media. There was a time I had an agent, and... it was different world, just forty years ago. I had comic relief, thinking people would... it is not appropriate, really, anymore.”

“Okay. Tell me what I can do? At Sanctuary 6”

“I’ll take you to Thiel Prison, so you can counter the propaganda shit show that Koch is pumping out....  You're one of the last stars we have, the only one down here.  They only seem to trust fucking lying Celebs, you and especially Ruby, not included of course.” His voice becomes eerily flat. “I spent the last five years down getting these holos. You put them out and get them believed."

"Playo..."

“No” Elias and Ruby interrupt me almost simultaneously.

“All right. You gave the holo's to Ruby?” 

“I wanted her help dealing with your reaction..  She monitors your thoughts, so...” 

Ruby tries. “Vegetarians used to say they only had to go to a slaughterhouse once to quit eating meat. Well, let me be the person who went and says don’t go. As most did not.”

“Fine.  Thank you.  Now, I am going to play this holo.”

Elias looks away from me, I see his eyes reflected in the doors window, closed as he tells me, in a voice flat and non‑judgmental. “You will, you’re too curious, and after a few seconds, you will regret it,”  Elias starts talking faster then, has to stop himself from starting to rock back and forth.  He is seriously fucked up and I really wonder what the fuck I am getting into but I have fucking seen it all right? 

“You're going to want to turn away the second it comes on, listen for five seconds, watch it unredacted, know what the fuck he is... sorry.  Get him a puke bag, Ruby."  He is furious at me for wanting to turn away, I can sense this and  watch as once more his finger starts tapping again.“Sorry. I have orders to get you to . . .  watch and come work with us at the prison.”

“I want Koch as bad as you do."

He turns and looks out the window, not disagreeing with me.  At first.  Then he adds, in that same quiet voice, "Watch the clip and know I filmed that for them, then repeat those words.  Count out five seconds of wtching the film."

As I prepare to turn on the holo, Elias unconsciously closes his eyes and puts his fingers in ears, curls away from the holo like a child.  I quit thinking of this guy as a spy. He is a broken kid playing spy

 “Play. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thous...”  A famous middle-aged actor speaking in a wise, whisky smooth voice, sells lives into horrendous slavery as if they were luxury yachts,complete with pictures. I am puking before I realize the acrid taste is pouring out my mouth. Elias is ready with the bag held to my face.  My hands shake too much to take it from him. ‘ Four seconds.  Four Seconds I had to fight to stay trapped in an eternal montage of sadistic child rape. 

"Elias, I am sorry."

"Just make them believe.  The truth isn't enough anymore."

Chapter Two

Around 15 or so young Black men, prison‑buff, well groomed and wearing clean clothes, are working their way smoothly through the crowd toward me. A few make eye contact with me, smile and wave — like people do when they see a Celeb they have grown up with and think they know, before getting back to the business of moving through the people, flowing like water. They get here like that. Obviously practiced at picking up cars and shit, they hunch down under us and then smooth as hell lift this 2.3‑ton vehicle on their shoulders.

Behind them, the Mongrels — mixed‑race, disciplined, calm — begin forming a human corridor to protect the women and children being funneled into the gym. They move with quiet authority, guiding families past the chaos, keeping them away from the white gang’s territory.

Another gang, Mexican, goes out ahead of us and begins to clear a space for them to bring her in. They order the guards around, to get the refugees into the yard so we can get through.

The Diablos coordinate with the Panthers, both groups running crowd control. Panthers keep the men from pushing forward. Diablos keep the elderly from being trampled. It’s a choreography — not kindness, but competence.

This is the last thing I expected. After all the horrors I have tried to walk past in the last week — after a LOT OF PILLS trying to forget the sound and faces of this last platoon... they come rushing at me and I shake my head, come back to the now. There is never time to mourn.

I look around at the men carrying me and those clearing a path. They, like the whole place, are spotless. In a world with a dim sky and black mold everywhere, no showers or clean water usually, the simple luxury of being clean was part of the past. I figured I was driving into chaos. Not order. Not after the battlefield. Not after seeing that which I will never speak. Not after watching a man tear his teeth into raw, bloody, steaming brown liver like the starving animal he was, right on the battlefield as he slaughtered a soldier. If there is a worst part it was how terrified he looked that someone would see him. His offense would get him shot in the Ellison army. A memory I repressed or the pills blacked out until now.

Try again to take comfort in the sheer order of the prison. Order — a strange, improvised, gang‑built order. The yard was filled with choreographed movements, people with purpose. Supplies were stacked neatly. Outside the prison walls there is extensive work being done. Battle prep from what I can tell, ramparts. Trenches. IEDs.

The white gang — Sons of Odin — are separated from the others, working in a designated section of the yard. They build fortifications with military precision. They do not mix with the Mongrels or Panthers. Their tattoos are Odin‑related. Their territory is clearly marked. They watch Juan with curiosity, not hostility.

They are all white, muscled like the rest. Their tattoos are Odin related. White supremist. Are they alone because they segregate?

I look back into the prison yard and realize I had no expectations coming into this prison, but clean and organized were not among them. Let alone a gang carrying me to a parking spot.

⭐ MAYA ARRIVES (your prose preserved)

Maya is standing by where they sit me down. She looks harrid. Her black hair disheveled — what I used to call her “Einstein hair” in university.

She looks at me with a wry smile, “Wow, aren't you Juan Rivera, the Celeb? You look shorter in person.”

"Well, the camera adds a foot.."

“Touche.”

…

Ruby leaves a cloud of dust behind us on the empty road.  Around us are burnt trees, long dead, stubbornly still standing, their branches scratching at the smoggy sky.  We travel a few hundred miles in quiet, then begin to see people headed toward the prison -- as soon as they see the camo covered beast coming they start trying to wave us over to get a ride.   There are only a few at first, then more and more as we near the prison.  War refugees. Promised food for days by 6 holos if they gathered at the prison.  They are beyone carrying any possessions, just the clothes on their backs, unwashed and dusty, too worried about trying to get their next meal --or avoiding becoming someone else's -- to worry about petty shit like dirt.  Kind of like me, lately. Four days laying in filth -- I stayed because I didn't want to leave until I knew none of the platoon was meeting back up with me. 

"Ruby, start telling these people that we are law enforcement and will run them over if they do not get out of our way.   Add we cannot take riders, and anyone coming near the truck will get an electric shock. Run on repeat."  I try not to look too close at anything or anyone anymore.  Hard to miss the road scorched black in front of me speaking of the fires of 2079 turning the skies dark, or the death of animals, plants, most life... or the ragged defeat in the posture of the people I pass/or their rugged ability to go on when all they had left was hope itself. When we are forced to slow down enough the windows beside us are no longer blurs, I start to see the dead,  and much worse, the given up on, by someone else or themselves, laying here and there by the road preparing to join the rotting corpses. 

I had heard enough of those stories to fill a holo library. 

The announcement and a flashing blue light clears the road for a few minutes, while the refugees are few enough for such niceties, though the closer we get to the rising prison walls, the denser the crowds, the slower our progress.  I stop about 20 yard out from the crowd trying to cram into the prison gates as guards  direct them.   

As soon as I stop,  Elias is wide awake.  As I now suspect he has been for who knows how long? 

"Ruby, open my window, please."  He says in his preternaturally calm voice. Before I can think to do shit Elias leaps out of the window and disappears in the crowd.  "What the fuck?'

Ruby responds through the Ai sounding amused.  'Sherlock Not. Look in the yard, kiddo, before you start I banging on the dashboard.'

Around 15 or so young Black men, prison‑buff,  well groomed and wearing clean clothes,  are working their way smoothly through the crowd toward me.   A few make eye contact with me, smile and wave -- like people do when they see a Celeb they have grown up with and think they know, before getting back to the business of moving through the people, flowing like water. They get here like that.  Obviously practiced at picking up cars and shit, they hunch down under us and then smooth as hell lift this 2.3‑ton vehicle on their shoulders.   Another gang, Mexican, goes out ahead of us and begins to clear a space for them to bring her in.  They order the guards around, to get the refugees into the yard so we can get through. This is the last thing I expected.  After all the horrors I have tried to walk past in the last week -- after a LOT OF PILLS trying to forget the sound and faces of this last platoon .  .  .  they come rushing at me and  I  shake my head, come back to the now. There is never time to mourn.

I look around at the men carrying me and those clearing a path. They, like the whole place, are spotless.  In a world with a dim sky and black mold everywhere, no showers or clean water usually, the simple luxury of being clean was part of the past.  I figured I was driving into Chaos.  Not order.  Not after the battlefield. Not after seeing that which I will never speak. Not after watching a man tear his teeth into raw, bloody, steaming brown liver like the starving animal he was, right on the battlefield as he slaughtered a soldier.  If there is a worst part it was how terrified he looked that someone would see him.  His offense would get him shot in the Ellison army.  A memory I  repressed or the pills blacked out until now.

Try again to take comfort in the sheer order of the prison.  Order — a strange, improvised, gang‑built order. The yard was filled with choreographed movements, people with purpose. Supplies were stacked neatly. Outside the prison walls there is extensive work being done. Battle prep from what I can tell, ramparts.  Trenches.  IED's.  They are all white, muscled like the rest.  Their tattoo's are Odin related.  White supremist. Are they alone because they segregate?

I look back into the prison yard and realize I had no expectations coming into this prison, but clean and organized were not among them. Let  alone a gang carrying me to a parking spot.

Maya is standing by where they sit me down.   She looks harrid.  Her black hair disheveled--.what I used to call her 'Einstein hair' in university. 

She looks at me with a wry smile, "Wow, aren't you Juan Rivera, the Celeb?   You look shorter in person."

"Well, the camera adds a foot.."

“Touche.”

"Only took me twenty years to think of a good response to that.."

Her smiles fades, first from her eyes, then her lips. “Koch is already slamming you.”

I don’t react at all and thank you God for pills.  "Of course he is."

“You’re helping lying deserters,” she continues. “And that your broadcast tonight will be dangerous. He’s putting on a special show — pulling out all the stops. The 40 Celeb's Phenom.”

I groan.

Celeb 40's Phenom — the most vapid, manipulative, emotionally engineered spectacle Koch had ever created. A nonstop parade of Celebs crying, confessing, forgiving, begging, praying, performing morality like it was a talent show. 

“He’s trying to spare people from the pain you’re bringing,” Maya said. “That’s the line.  Juan is a bummer, has been the tag line by Kosmo all day, promoting the show.”

I laugh bitter and snide. “Of course, he fucking  is.”

She nods.

“They know we're going to try to regroup here.  Then take whoever we can to Chicago.  They are ready to close their doors."

I frowned.  Looking around the yard, how organized they are, with at least four gangs I can tell now. The blacks work with two others, the Mexicans and Native Americans.  They must hate each other but I know they work together behind bars to deal drugs, AI's, keep the peace.

“Chicago?”

“The last public sanctuary,” she said. “The only one Koch, or the environment, hasn’t taken.   His soldiers are starving.  They want the food here.  Supplies.  They want to use... us, and our supplies, to get  Sanctuary 6's working farms.  They are not using slaves, so they don't have the problems Koch does. We have reports of people sacrificing themselves to stop his progress on his shelters.  It's that bad.  Now with what Elias went through, brought back... Lord.  The world will walk past this.  We just need enough people to get to Chicago.”

I looked around the yard — at the gangs, at the refugees, at the guards taking orders from men most people dismissed as criminals.  They are more organized than the latest recruits to the union, who had seemed like cannon fodder.  I wonder how many of them will listen when I ask them to regroup here?

“We can get north, with the last of the war refugees." Maya goes on, "Once Chicago shuts the doors on the shelter, they are shut.  Sanctuary 6, complete.  Unless Koch can talk his way in.  That is where you come in.  Pen mightier than the sword and all that.  A counsel would have to vote him in."

I motion around at the bee-hive like activity, as the guards process the refugees, the gangs police a troublemaker silently, with no fuss.   Just take him to a room off to the side.  "Maya, I want to get this.  For tonight. "

"Well, that's what we need you for, to prove these guys are not cannibals."

"He's saying they ...  are.... the cannibals?"

"Psy-op's 101.  School Yard Bully.  'I'm not, but you are."  It works on people who want to believe.  They want Ellison's army to be coming to save them.  They believe the myth."

"Maya leads me through a CLEAN smelling prison.  The windows are even clean.  Smelling all the variations of cleaning products contrasts strongly with my stench.   Of course, Maya is perhaps the only person on the entire damn planet I would even think to care about that shit. 

The people we pass who recognize me say hello and I nod.  Maya is amused by my act.   I needed my

credibility in the beginning of my career, and part of that was not being an asshole to people.  I always

hated people who used whatever bit of power they had to look down on someone else.  Despite the

fame, inside I was never anyone and never would be, really.  I WAS the kid who wanted to save the world . . .  who learned the  generations before me had already killed the planet. Forcing us to go underground for our last few years of life on the planet.    Our next phase...  then I became the guy who was going to expose injustice, in industry and the government,  and that worked when we had a

government that could enforce laws.   Before the multi-trillionaires decided fiefdoms were more to their

liking, and Ellison's private army grew too strong for the domestic forces to fight.

"I could give a shit, Maya.  I watched the Holos... don't."

"I been doing this long enough to listen when people tell me that I don't need another nightmare."

"Yeah, well, I spread nightmares.  That is supposed to make them go away, for reasons that make no sense right now."

"We are going to stay ahead of this.  First show Koch, then you respond.  I need you to win these people over.  All of them.  They're all your fans.  They won't admit it.  Well, maybe Theo.  Just be ready, and know.  For now, the Panthers and the Mongrels are protecting you, but no one wants you harmed, so... you are the safest person in the prison.  For now.  Fuck up in there, they might shiv you."

"My old agent used to try to motivate me, too.  She never tried the Shiv thing, but... it works."

Maya has had the gangs gathered into the gym, along with most of the refugees, minus the children. The place is packed wall to wall, bodies pressed together.  I walk in and it hits me like a  body slam--swamp stench;  after the clean smell I am a little shocked that I smell like them.  The refugees have the usual reaction to a celeb, the glassy eyed look I never quite understood, as if they were discovering for the first time that I was real?  They loved to be near me because of the face showing up on their holo, the same as the painted celebs Koch used to fuel his destruction and death.   Nothing to be proud of. One woman wolf‑whistles. Most of the others just stare with that glassy, worshipful look I’ve come to hate — the look people get when they think fame means divinity.  People always think I can get things done that... I wish I could.  I hear a few of them mention my height.  They always expect me to be six foot seven or something.

I know how others use their fame, and I hate the results worse than I could ever show. My instincts tell me to hate all humans for the shit I’ve seen, but something flips inside me and I slip into the role they expect — the hipster reporter in dark sunglasses and leather, driving the mythic beast Ruby, the cranky old woman who somehow has more fans than I ever did --  bless her cold, cold heart.

Maya raises her voice. “This is Juan Rivera."  The gang leaders make hand signs and the gymnasium goes silent, other than a few people, who notice the silence after a moment and shut up too.  "He has holos he’s going to release tonight, and Koch doesn’t want people to believe them. So, you’re going to see this tonight during Primetime Kosmo Live.   Hold off your opinions until you see both broadcasts.  Juan is responding right after this.”

The holos around the gym flicker on, showing everything in a perfect 90‑degree panorama.

Bright purple lights explode across the gym, pulsing in hypnotic strobes that shrink into a single dot and vanish. Music blasts — the number one hit of the afternoon. Kosmic Kosmo bursts onto the stage in a neon green suit, his candy‑apple red pompadour bouncing like it’s alive.  He seems to be in the room, the 90 degrees of the holo giving the usual illusion of viewers being right in  the audience of the show, like they could be touched.

“WE ALREADY KNOW THE STORY! WE ALREADY KNOW THE STORY! WE ALREADY KNOW THE STORY!”The audience chants it with him. A CLAP SIGN flashes overhead: CLAP NOW — YOU GET POINTS! People clap madly, hoping someone at home will clap while they’re on screen, raising their Celeb status. Their holos blink green: POINTS AWARDED.

The audience laughs. My stomach twists. They had laughed last week,too, when they countered my witnesses to the cannibalism with the this food poisoning shit.

Kosmic spins, kicks, thrusts, freezes mid‑pose.

“Folks, folks, folks… apparently a certain someone — a certain Juan someone — thinks he’s BREAKING NEWS. Uhm, that was… gas, Juan.”

Kosmic cups his ear. “Little Red is SCREAMING. He says, ‘Kosmic, baby, we SAW that cannibalism LAST WEEK!’”

He twists his nipples violently.

“CRY ME A RIVER‑IARIA!”

The audience howls. The CLAP SIGN flashes again. More points.

Kosmic struts across the stage. “Juan, sweetheart, darling, my little battlefield blogger… you’re late. You’re SO late. We already covered the whole mayo‑madness thing!”

He winks.

“Bad mayonnaise, folks. BAD. MAYO. NAISE.”

The audience chants: “BAD MAYO! BAD MAYO!”

Kosmic nods solemnly. “Those soldiers weren’t monsters — they were HUNGRY and CONFUSED. Who among us hasn’t eaten someone... errr, I mean something questionable at a picnic?”

The audience roars.

Music softens. Plumage floats in wearing a feathered gown, made to glow like a saint descending from heaven. She smiles warmly.

“Juan… sweetheart… we worry about you.”

The audience “aww”s. The CLAP SIGN flashes: CLAP IF YOU CARE. Holos blink: CARE POINTS AWARDED.

“You’re out there alone, filming terrible things, and we admire your courage. Truly.”

Kosmic wipes fake tears. “He’s BRAVE, Plumage. SO brave. Like a puppy lost in a thunderstorm.”

“But darling… you’re seeing things that aren’t real,” Plumage says. “You’re interpreting chaos as conspiracy.”

She leans toward the camera. “Juan, we already knew about the soldiers. We already explained it. You don’t need to carry this burden alone.”

Music kicks back in. Kosmic shouts, “HIT IT!”

Backup dancers rush in wearing glitter‑covered military uniforms. They pretend to eat giant foam drumsticks, faint from “bad mayo,” and film themselves crying dramatically like me. Kosmic sings:

“🎵 MAYO MADNESS, BABY,

DON’T YOU LOSE YOUR MIND!

JUAN’S OUT THERE FILMING,

THINKS HE’S SAVING MANKIND! 🎵”

The CLAP SIGN pulses: CLAP FOR BONUS POINTS! Holos blink: BONUS AWARDED.

Plumage joins the dance, doing slow, exaggerated crying gestures.

Kosmic shouts, “Juan, honey, you’re not a hero — you’re a HOLO‑HYPE MACHINE!”

The audience explodes.

Music stops. Lights dim. Plumage steps forward, voice soft.

“Juan… listen to me.”

Kosmic holds Little Red like a wounded pet.

“We care about you. We really do.”

“You’re overwhelmed,” Plumage says. “You’re exhausted. You’re seeing patterns that aren’t there.”

“He’s cavorting with spies,” Kosmic says. “He’s talking to shadows.”

“Juan, sweetheart… we want to help you.”

She gestures to a holo graphic: CELEB MENTAL WELLNESS CENTER — FREE FOR JUAN.

The audience gasps. One celeb dressed in a shiny purple suit with yellow flamingos everywhere, and two stuffed ones held straight up from his shoulders with sticks literally up their asshole to keep the dead birds stead, They heads of the birds bounce around theatrically as he stands up and says to the camera, "Juan, that is the most hospital in the country? People beg to go there. Hell, I will beg to get in, please please please..." He sits back down and shuts up and turns from the camera. A celeb trying to get airtime, to raise their audience reaction, hoping they would be the one in a million. Everyone was raised to think they could be a star. When I read the statistics, years ago in university, that everyone thought they would be famous, I felt deluded and stupid to have believed this would happen to me, than it did. AND WHEN IT DID, I discovered I was dreaming about working in a world of laws, but that brute force was ruling the land these days. Pushed along by Celeb chatter and babbles. Pens shaped like swords?

“Come home,” Plumage says. “Let us take care of you. You don’t have to fight alone.  We realize you are surrounded by criminals, and they have probably taken you hostage, or made you their bitch by now.  We will save you.  Don't worry.  We are coming, so no matter what lies you say, or how you get this mistake... this 'mayonnaise mistake'...  Oh, God, now I am laughing and crying.”

“Little Red says you’re crying,” Kosmic adds. 

The audience laughs.

Plumage looks directly into the camera. “Juan… please. Get help. We’re here for you.”

Kosmic puts a hand on her shoulder. “We love you, buddy.”

The CLAP SIGN flashes: CLAP IF YOU SUPPORT JUAN’S RECOVERY. The audience claps wildly. Holos blink: SUPPORT POINTS AWARDED.

“You’re not alone, Juan,” Plumage says. “We believe in you.”

“Even when you’re wrong,” Kosmic adds.

Fade out.

The gym stays silent. Hundreds of eyes on me. No one cheers. No one jeers. They just wait.

I feel humiliated — not because of the jokes, but because the jokes work. Because truth becomes entertainment faster than I can film it. Because Plumage’s fake compassion cuts deeper than Kosmic’s cruelty. Because the gangs behind me are angry, humiliated.

I send an AImind to Ruby to edit the prison footage and start talking as soon as I can get control of my anger.  Sanctuary 6 gives me an intro I do not hear, and Maya tells me I am on.  Suddenly I am no longer just in the gym.  I feel myself splinter into peoples living rooms, abandoned basements, anarchists camps, prisons, Union areas throughout the north and maybe the west.   Standing in a gym filled with supposed bloodthirsty criminals  --  who they are going to all notice are clean, just like he did, first thing. 

“You saw what Ellison’s soldiers did.” My voice is steady. “I didn’t go looking for anything except the truth. I went looking for cannibalism… and I found something worse.”

I pause.

“I found slavery. AND MUCH WORSE!"

“And now you’re going to see what Koch calls ‘sanctuary.’ You’re going to see what he hides under his shelters. You’re going to see what he advertises to his Celebs.”

I have Ruby load the first Koch holo, faces and genitals blurred out as grotesque perversions of pain and pleasure play out.  I leave the demonic voice over on for five seconds, than cut it off.

"How can a human being even describe perversions in this manner?  Like they are selling luxury yachts.?  Let me  frame them like they should be.  Children. Raised for sex. Raised for torture. Raised for entertainment.  Koch — you told the world I’m unstable. You told them I’m crying. You told them I’m late. You told them I’m wrong. But I didn’t find madness. I found your business model.”

I add, “I will only release this holo with three adults on the presets. I wouldn’t watch it if I were you. If you find anyone who likes watching this… kill them.  The children's faces will remain marked out, the adults will be shown.”

I switch to footage of the prison — food lines, order, discipline, children eating, no chaos, no cannibalism.

“Koch says the prisoners are eating people. Look at them. Look at the food lines. Look at the order. Look at the discipline.”

I pause.

“The only people eating human beings are Ellison’s soldiers.”

I don’t yell. I don’t rant.

“Kosmic, Plumage — you danced. You sang. You mocked the dead. You pretended to be my friends. You pretended to care. You pretended to offer help.”

I shake my head.

“You don’t want to help me. You want to bury me.  Or give me a personality like your own, vapid, insipid selves.  I didn’t find a conspiracy,” I say. “I found a supply chain.”

"Cannibalism.

Slavery.

Pedophilia.

Propaganda.

Brainwashing.

This isn’t madness. This is policy.”

I raise my voice — not in anger, but urgency.

“If you can hear me — if you’re retreating from the battlefield, if you’re National Guard, if you’re local militia, if you’re armed, if you’re starving, if you’re scared — come to the prison. We leave for Chicago this week. After we kick Ellison’s ass. Which we will, with your help."

I nod toward the gangs.

“They all think very differently, but when it comes to working together to save their lives, they come together.  Everyone is welcome, as you can tell.  I always say, 'Friendship will be the last commodity.'  If you are hungry, you know a meal is priceless, and whoever feeds you is a saint.  They’re feeding people. They’re protecting people. They’re saving people. Some will only protect their own. This is like 6, they don’t care how you think, just how you act”

“They are not eating anyone.”

I look straight into the holo.

“Koch — you want to hospitalize me. You want to erase me. You want to put a compliant personality in my body.”

I smile.

“No.  I am going to tell people the truth about your perversions, and Ellison's army.  We know you want the last Public Sanctuary.  You fucking multi-trillionaires were taxed one tiny fucking bit to get five shelters going.  This is the last one we know of... we are going to shut your perverted ass out.”

I lean forward.

“As far as coming to the prison, well...  we are ready to kick your ass.  So, bring it the fuck on.   This is Juan Rivera, wishing all of the good people out there a warm place to sleep, and a full stomach.”.   ”

I end the broadcast.

The gym stays silent. Stoic. Concerned. Measuring me again.

Chapter 3

 The showers are one large room, with toilets and sinks at one end, tiles and shower heads at the other end,.  I go in and Adam stays outside, makes a series of hand motion to someone who has been tailing us who I hadn't noticed.   "He's going to get you some prison threads, so you fit in-- smell wise.  Clean up, Celeb.  We'll have the make-up and hair people ready when you are done.”

"I'll have champagne an my masseuses' ready, too please,"

"Just part of the accommodations, sir."

The warm water feels like ambrosia flowing over my body.  Hot water is a rarity.  The world a wasteland out there, especially where I travelled, toward the trouble with nothing but a holo and a huge killing machine with a voice based on a tv show my agent saw in some ancient holo. The prison is one of the last vestiges of a working government that they were thirty miles into, and losing ground by the moment;  boilers still had parts, and despite the draughts killing the forests around us, water still flowed though a near by river. I thank God for this moment as I feel the luxurious water and look down at the drain and watch the stench and dirt flow away.

Behind me, Adam’s voice echoes down the hallway.

“Juan — remember out there, we’re ‘the’s.'   'The' murderer... 'the' killer...  In here, we’re our actions.   We might hate each other, but we follow the rules. And you? You’re the one who makes the world see us.   You have got to pen mightier than the sword.  Most of them wanted to kill you, but I told them, unless you can get us some recruits, we lose.  Which might be true, actually.  Only a fool believes the pen is mightier than the sword.  Don't try to use Celeb shit on us."

I step out of the shower, water dripping from my hair, dry off a bit, throw the clothes on and they cling to my damp skin. Adam waits in the hallway, leaning in a shadow against the wall stroking the small beard on his chin, looking off into the distance as he talks.  He pushes off the wall and starts walking. I struggle to follow.

We come to a locked door that Adam opens with a key off a ring on his waist, goes inside and comes back with two plastic bags, gives them to me. "Put that shit in here."  My clothes do stink.  We walk away from the smell and a cleanliness that feels like Godliness settles in over us, whatever the hell that means?

As we pass, a Mongrel steps aside quickly, eyes down. A Panther nods at Adam as he passes, looks at me and says, "You were always my favorite, but Ruby... man, when we got to carry her in... sorry.  Sleep well, man."   He nods to Adam and something passes between them I miss.  He then stations himself near by, under an open gangway of steps,  leans back against the wall silent and still.

We reach the end of the hallway. Adam stops and faces me fully.

“Juan,” he says, “you need to understand why they need you.”

I wait.

“Out there,” he says, “we’re ‘the’s. The killer. The thief. The monster. The convict.”

He gestures around the prison. “In here? We’re men. No labels unless we choose them.”

“But the world won’t follow us,” Adam says. “They won’t trust us. They won’t listen to us.”

He looks me dead in the eyes. “They’ll listen to you.”

He laughs, "Sure you are.”

“Not a general, though,” he says. “You’re a symbol.  I am a mother-fucking General, little man,”

"Like I don't know that."  We laugh and I feel relieved, like maybe I can trust this guy, much as I do.  Though I can't reach around far enough to get all the knives out of my back already.

Adam turns away, starts walking again. “Sleep well.”  He walks off and three of his officers appear,one holding a clip board. 

Leaves me standing in the hallway, hair still dripping water, heart pounding.  My mind flips through images from throughout the day with the occasional horrors from the past breaking in.  So. I am the only Celeb left outside of 6.   They kept saying I was the last one. Without saying that meant Latoya, Cecelia, Kathy and Pauly were dead.  Or worse, signed on with Koch and suddenly converted to their conservative religion in public, and perversions in private...  Elias said they were coming for me.  I could have ended up.

I think this night ends with a pill vacation and then I notice her, coming down the hall, Maya, her eyes soft in a way I haven’t seen since university.  He hair the usual disheveled maven crown, slim body moving toward sleek as a cougar.  There are no words spoken as she comes into my arms and I am kissing her neck, smelling her hair, hearing her moan. 

We step into my room, I push the door closed with my foot.   Hear Maya reach back and lock the door.  We push down our pants and she lays back on the bed,  I touch her smooth thighs as she pulls them wide apart, then her wetness on the tip of my finger..  I slidedeep into her and grind, pull back out, shove in hard again... again.. All the way out,  all the way in.   Again.  Again...  Desperation.  Fire.  Forgetting.  Remembering.  She goes lunatic as she comes, screams and scratches my back bloody. As her nails rip my flesh,  I come hard;  seem to shoot everything I am into her,  the top of my head to the tips of my toes spews out through my groin into her.   For a moment empty of everything, existing as pure pleasure and affection, we are both just animals, sated and panting. We hold each other too tight, painful.  Battle sex I call it.  Usually between soldiers in the midst of horror, desperately just needing to feel something good.  Only kind of sex  I can remember having for decades. 

She sits on the bed smiling and looking up at me.  She doesn’t say anything at first.  I don’t either. “You smell tolerable again.  Come on,” she says, getting up and putting on her clothes,. “You haven’t really seen this much of my office. Bring your holo.”

We walk through the corridor, past refugees sorting blankets, Panthers carrying crates, Mongrels fixing a broken pipe. The air smells like soap and metal and cooking.  The place runs 24/7.  From the yard and outside in the yard I can hear big machinery working, moving earth into place for their elaborate plan.

Maya pushes open a set of double doors.

The kitchen gleams.

Stainless steel counters shine like mirrors. Pots hang in perfect rows. The floor is scrubbed so clean it reflects the overhead lights. Prisoners move with the precision of a five‑star restaurant staff. Chopping vegetables with experienced rhythm.   A great pot of stew is boiling on three of the stoves.

"They are cooking the perishables, to feed to them now.  They will start making pancakes in a few minutes, if you want to come back."

I stop walking.

“This is…” I whisper, "You're home." I feel the warmth of what I just assume she has created here. “It’s beautiful.”

She smiles. “The gang leaders insist.  They knew to keep discipline.  They plan on getting to Chicago before they close the doors -- against the elements, like they keep saying.”

"They know about this pedo..."

"Yeah."

We move on, down another hallway. The cells are open. Families are inside them now. Blankets hang as curtains. A few home made toys, obviously made by the prisoners, mostly dolls, are clutched by the children.

I stop again. “Where do the prisoners sleep?”

“They gave up their cells.”

“All of them?”

She nods. “Every last one.  They like sleeping outside.”

"I would too.  Gorgeous night.  Breathability has to be a nine but at least it's not that hot.  A hundred or so."

We walk into the gym.

Hundreds of children sleep on mats, curled under blankets, breathing softly. The lights are dim. The air is warm.  I ask Maya, "Remember that book we read, White Noise?  There was a line about a Cathedral of Sleeping Children.

I use Aimind to pull up the quote as she says, "We laughed so hard... that academic world was already gone by our time, but still...  I don't remember that line, though it's nice."

"Yeah, this is nice.   Here it is  I read the quote:'

“Watching children sleep makes me feel devout, part of a spiritual system. It is the closest I can come to God. If there is a secular equivalent of standing in a great spired cathedral with marble pillars and streams of mystical light slanting through two-tier Gothic windows, it would be watching children in their little bedrooms fast asleep...."

Looking out at the children, some laying still, others moving about obviously having nightmares; rolling about, making noises, talking in gibberish.   I want to reach into their dreams and save them.  I want to save them. Not film them. Not witness them. Save them.

I pull Maya in close and she leans into me. We stay like that for a long time before going back to my room to grab my bag, then head back to her apartment for battle sex until we are exhausted.  Then again... until we are really exhausted.  I go to sleep now for once feeling warm, safe, and clean... even a bit loved, though I am no idiot.  I know this passes.

Chapter 4/  should be part of the above split.  Will be in the end.

Chapter 5  

The sky is a sheet of  dark gray Smog  pressing down hard on you, makes you breathe a little shallow.  The rising sun is a small smudge of glowing clouds in the smog.  Adam, Maya, Theo, and I are standing on the wall overlooking the battlefield.   The brown concrete walkways gives a view of the entire field of battle.

 Below us, the ground around the prison has been built up into a series of ramparts, rising and falling.  Jagged, improvised, brutal and beautiful:  built high enough to get the tank’s machine guns firing into the sky, for the seconds needed for the runs to sanctuary points set up to weather the machine gun fire when the tanks came back down and pointed into the fields.  The Sons of Odin built most of them, preferring to be with their own, working day and night, hauling concrete chunks, welding scrap metal, stacking sandbags, shaping the fields around the prison into a series of landmines.  They went up.  The day before I was in the yard when a seemingly minor conflict came up and his military side came out like a repressed beast.   

“You need help, and you don’t take it, why?  You want to die here?”  Jake tells them, “The more ramparts, the more chance we have of winning this battle. You don’t have enough people to finish, you call on the Diablos.” 

The Son who is demanding they finish on their own tells him, half‑joking, half‑serious — too serious for Jake. “We are going to Valhalla. Are you suddenly afraid of dying?  We are…”  Jake is beside the man before I realize he has crossed the field. He smacks him open‑hand across the face, the ‘crack’  is loud as hell.   Silences the yard.  Turning around looking at all of his men he tells them,  “I .   .  . .  .HAVE NO NEED .  .  .  .    FOR CORPSES!.”  His voice thunders across the fields, into the quieted yard.  The Diablos were helping them within the hour.

In the blackened trees on either side of the road, the National Guard and the gathered soldiers were hidden by camo invisibility equipment blending them into the environment, scramblers for the heat sensors on the drones. Their firepower leading into the prison — ancient artillery pieces dragged out of storage, humvees, and a few shoulder held missiles.  Enough, they are thinking. They’ve set up firing positions, dug trenches, placed spotters with drones all over the battlefield. They look tired, underfed, their uniforms loose on their bodies, but their movements showing the determination of hope.  

They know Adam is in charge, follow his orders without hesitation. They’re young and were without officers since the front broke and the wealthy officers took off in helicopters for safer ground. I can tell they are happy to have an authority figure. I read once that 80% of people are looking for someone to follow. Not me. 

 ‘Trust no humans,’ is my favorite line from the bible. That and the shortest verse. ‘Jesus wept.’  Shows my complexity, eh?

‘Shut up’

Fine, asshole.

Adam holds a walkie‑talkie in one hand, binoculars in the other. He scans the horizon from left to right. Finally  stops dead center out from the prison where the road was, still an open pathway through the surrounding forest..  “They’re coming. Anyone think they’re ready? Time to think again.”

Theo mutters, “May we live to see another day, says Big Chief Who Munches On Bears But.”  He might be the only one who laughs at his joke, but everyone seems glad he tried. Maya’s hand finds mine. She squeezes my hand too hard,  her nervousness exposed before she loosens her grip.

The first tank appears on the ridge —  dark silhouettes appear against the smoggy brown sky. A distant, blurry motion coming slowly at us. Then another. Another and another.  Three in the first prong of the attack, just like the deserters predicted..

Adam speaks into the walkie. “Positions. Sons, prepare to charge. Napalm ready.  No Valhalla trips today.”

Most of the Odins react with bluster, but a few look up at Adam  before talking among themselves as they take their place in a line behind the ramparts, faces painted with ash, tattoos gleaming. They look like warriors from some ancient myth — doomed, ecstatic, hungry for the fight.

Adam looks tired. I doubt he has slept in days. “Attack.”

The Sons wait until the tanks hit the ramparts and their machine guns momentarily rise too high to fire down on them. Then, for the first time in a hundred years, an infantry unit charges.

They start screaming, hitting their chests, waving the napalm wildly in the air. As the tanks hit the ramparts and their machine guns are too high to hit a ground attack, they run… at a dead heat, and one makes it to the steel‑reinforced foxhole they built. Another hesitates, then follows. He’s psyched up and drugged and gets his mojo way too late.

I hear Adam behind me whisper under his breath, “Fucking idiots.”

The Son runs through the dirt and garbage walls, weaving through the path they made. The tank comes down and machine gun fire rips across the battlefield, first hitting the dirt and then goes across the lost Son. Blood spurts from a line of bullets slamming into his chest, spinning him around.

“Stay. Hold your positions.”

I hear Jake come through Adam’s walkie‑talkie, head of the Odins. He comes walking up to us on the wall. I straighten up for some reason and he looks at me and automatically says, “At ease.”

He has refused to speak to Adam up until then, except through Maya. “Adam, no matter what a man believes, I judged them in the military by their actions. Right now we are both warriors. We have no color. I am not going to be a slave. To die in battle is our highest honor, and the most foolish part of this damn religion. My men judge me by my actions, too.”

“No fucking way,” Adam says as he steps forward and offers his hand. Jake takes it without hesitation, then pulls him in for a hug. “We die in battle together, we go to Valhalla together.”

Adam breaks off the hug and laughs. “We live together. We will make it to Chicago.”

“Better,” Jake adds, joining in the laughter, showing me how much of his ‘hatred’ toward Adam was part of his act to keep discipline among his men. Divided and conquered. Always works.

The tanks rise on the ramparts again. Adam does not appear to be watching, though he is the first to notice and has the walkie at his lips, sounding nonchalant this time as he sends men to their death.

“Charge.”

Next up they try three, explicitly against Adam’s plan, and they know it.   

“Two at a time.  Stand down.” They ignore Adam, one taking the time to flip him off.

The first runs fast, covering the maze with the other two Sons on his ass. Too many, too many, too many… I try to remember this is just some fucking racist but it is too late not to care a bit about people who died on our fucking team, or whatever.

They hit the rampart a third time, the machine guns again useless — this is the suicide run.

I watch an Odin’s muscled arm throw the canister of napalm into the dark underside of a tank. Orange fire lights up and spreads across the bottom hatch. The tanks are at their highest point on the gauntlet, useless machine gun fire blasting into the sky. As all three begin their runs back from the burning tanks, they begin the tip back down. The men take off running toward safety, breakneck speed… one is too nervous, keeps looking back.  The others pull off ahead of him. The tanks come back down and the Son is not going to make it.

Adam yells, “Stand down.”

Machine gun fire rips across the muscles that once defended him by intimidation alone. A line of four bullets across his abdomen splattering blood and spinning him around before he falls to a knee. The bullets have ripped up his guts so much, they eviscerated him; his intestines fall from his gut. He tries to shove them back in before collapsing, falling face‑forward into the macabre mess.

A tattooed, muscular arm comes out from behind the steel sanctuary, trying to reach him.  A  bullet shatters his wrist,  leaving his hand dangling by a flap of flesh.  The sanctuary is fired upon now.  They scrunch down, cowering as bullets rip apart the flesh,

Adam, beside us, has been screaming “Stand down” into the walkie and again.  An Odin did not listen to a Black man and this one lost his hand, the other his life..

“Jake, you need to issue orders. Jorge, you too. Theo, you need to get on here, too. Everyone needs to know these orders are from all of us. Not just some n——.”

Adam hands Jake the walkie. “How is Jason doing?”

“Jake?”

“Yeah, they got a tourniquet on that?”

“All the leaders are up here. Adam is instigating a plan that we all worked on for many months. I was the one who thought we could finish the yard, not any of you.”

“So when you don’t listen to some n——, you are not listening to me. How many times do I have to say this? In this military, we tell people how to act, not how to think. Next time you get an order from anyone, I do not care if it is a goddamn cell mouse, you better jump.  Period..”

Jake lifts the walkie, voice suddenly iron.

“All Sons — stand down. Hold positions. No more charges unless Adam says so.”

The battlefield shifts.

The chaos tightens.

The Odins freeze, then obey.

The tanks, burning from the underside, begin to panic. Hatches slam open. Soldiers spill out, coughing, choking, dropping weapons, stumbling through smoke.

The Panthers move in — not to kill, but to disarm.

The Mongrels herd the soldiers behind cover.

The Diablos drag wounded men — enemy men — out of the fire.

The National Guard sees it.

They stop firing.

The battlefield goes quiet except for the crackle of napalm and the sound of men — enemies — gasping for air.

Adam lowers the walkie.

“That’s it,” he says. “They’re done.”

Jake nods. “We won.”

Theo exhales. “Holy shit.”

Maya squeezes my hand again — not fear this time, but relief.

Below us, the captured soldiers sit in a line, dazed, coughing, terrified.

A Mongrel hands the first one a steaming bowl.

Soup.

Actual soup.

The soldier stares at it like it’s a hallucination.

“You’re feeding us?” he whispers.

Maya calls down, “Eat.”

Another soldier sobs.

A third mutters, “We thought you’d burn us alive.”

Adam walks past them, not unkind, not gentle — just practical.

“Prisoners get fed,” he says. “That’s the rule.”

Jake adds, “Honor.”

Theo shrugs. “Soup’s good.”

I holo it all for posterity..

Mercy, confusion. Humanity.  I feel something in my chest loosen — just a little — like a knot that’s been there for years finally giving way.

Not hope.

Not forgiveness.

Just… possibility.

The sky is a flat sheet of gray, the kind of smog that presses down on you,  makes you breathe shallow.  The sun is a smudge of lighter smog.  Adam, Maya, Theo, and I stand on the wall overlooking the battlefield.   Below us,  the ground around the prison is dirt churned up into a series of ramparts rising and falling — jagged, improvised, brutal and beautiful. The Sons of Odin built most of them, preferring to be with their own, working day and night, hauling concrete chunks, welding scrap metal, stacking sandbags, shaping the fields around the prison  into a series of landmines.

A minor conflict comes up while Jake is showing me their efforts.  They needed help finishing their job.   “The more ramparts, the more chance we have of winning this battle.  You don’t have enough people to finish, you call on the Diablos.”  The Son who is demanding them finish on their own, tells him, half-joking, half-serious – too serious for Jake. “We are going to Valhalla.  Are you suddenly afraid of dying?  We are going with, or without you.”   Jake is beside the man before I am aware of what the holo is recording.  He smacks his open hand across the face;  the smack is loud as hell, even over the tanks,. “I have no need for corpses.”

Back in the blackened trees around the road, hidden by cameo and invisibility equipment blending them into the environment, scramblers for the heat sensors on the drones;  the National Guard was ready. Their trucks sit on both sides of the road leading to the prison — old Humvees, battered transports, ancient artillery pieces dragged out of storage.  They’ve set up firing positions, dug trenches, placed spotters with drones all over the battlefield. They look tired, underfed, determined. They know Adam is in charge here, and they follow his orders without hesitation.  They're young and have been without officers since the front broke and the wealthy officers took off in helicopters for safer ground.  I can tell they are happy to have an authority figure.  I read once that 80% of people are looking for someone to follow.  Not me.

Adam holds a walkie‑talkie in one hand, in the other binoculars.  He is scanning the horizon from left to right.  Finally stops dead center out from the prison and says,  “They’re coming,” he says. “Does anyone think they are ready?  Time to think again.”

Theo mutters, “May we live to see another day, says Big Chief Who Munches Bear But.”  He might be the only one who laughs at his joke but everyone seems glad he tried.  I smile.  All of us seem reassured he is just acting like himself.

Maya’s hand finds mine. She squeezes once, hard.

The first tank appears on the ridge — a dark shape against the smoggy brown sky.   A distant, blurry motion coming slowly at us. Then another. Three more. .

Adam speaks into the walkie. “Positions. Sons, prepare to charge. Napalm and Molotov's ready. left flank, disabling tank in position L-2.  Let’s burn some fucking pedo lovers.”

Most of the Odin’s react with bluster but a few are looking up at Adam for a moment before talking among themselves as they take their place, in a line of Odin’s behind the ramparts, faces painted with ash, tattoos gleaming. They look like warriors from some ancient myth — doomed, ecstatic, hungry for the fight.

Adam looks tired.  I doubt he has slept in days. " Attack"

The Sons wait until the tanks hit the ramparts and their machine guns momentarily rise up too high to fire down on them.  Then for the first time in a hundred years an infantry charges.  They start screaming, and hitting their chests, waving the Napalm wildly in the air.  As the tanks hit the ramparts and their machine guns are too high to hit a ground attack, they run... at a dead heat, and one makes it to the steel reinforcement foxhole they have built, another hesitates, then follows, he’s gets his mojo way too late.

I hear Adam behind me whisper under his breath, "Stand Down.  Now.”  He tells the walkie.  To us he whispers, “Fucking idiots."

The Son runs through the dirt and garbage walls, weaving through the path they have made.  The tank comes down and machine gun fire rips across the battlefield.  Bullets slam across his stomach, the bullets large and frequently fired, he takes God knows how many across his lower stomach.  Blood spurts from the  line of bullets slamming into his chest, spinning him around.  

"Stay. Hold your positions."  I hear Jake come through Adam's walkie talkie, head of the Odin's.  He comes walking up to us on the wall. I straighten up for some reason and he looks at me and automatically says, "At ease." 

He has refused to speak to Adam up until then, except through Maya.  "Adam, no matter what a man believes, I judged them in the military by their actions.  Right now we are both warriors, we have no color. I am not going to be a slave.  To die in battle is our highest honor, and the most foolish part of this damn religion.  My men judged me by my actions, too. “

"No fucking way."  Adam says as he steps forward and offers his hand.  Jake takes it without hesitation, then pulls him in for a hug.  “We die in battle together, we go to Valhalla together.”

Adam breaks off the hug and laughs, “We live together, we make it to Chicago.”

“Better,” Jake adds, joining in the laughter, showing me how much of his ‘hatred’ toward Adam was part of his act to keep discipline among his men,  divided and conquered.  Always works. All of the gang leaders relied on the principle.

The tanks rise on the Ramparts again. Adam does not appear to be watching though he is the first to notice and has the walkie at his lips, sounding nonchalant this time as he sends men to their death,  "Charge!" 

Next up they try three, explicitly against Adam’s plan, and they knew it. The first  runs fast, covering the maze with the other two Son’s on his ass.  Too many, too many, too many. I try to remember this is just some fucking racist but it is too late not to care a bit about people who died on our fucking team, or whatever.

They hit the rampart a third time, the, machine guns again useless – this is the suicide run.  The tanks are up and as the two  run at different tanks, trying to get the napalm burning through the bottom, sending noxious fumes inside, driving the soldiers outside, where they are going to have to fight fully armed, motivated soldiers.  

I zoom the holo in on  an Odin’s muscled arm as he throws a canister of napalm into the darkened underside of the tank. Orange fire erupts, and spreads across the bottom hatch..  The tanks are at their highest point on the gauntlet, useless machine gun fire blasts into the sky, as they all three begin their runs back from the burning tanks, they begin the trip back down  . . . the men take off running back toward safety, break neck speed… one is too nervous, keeps looking back and the others pull off ahead of him. The tanks come back down and the Son  is not going to make it. 

Adam yells, “Stand down.”

The machine gun rips across the muscles that once defended him by intimidation alone. A line of bullets  across his chest splatters blood and spins him around before he falls to his knees.   The bullets have eviscerated him,  his intestines fall from his gut. He tries to shove them back in before collapsing, falling face forward into the macabre mess.  

A tattooed, muscular arm comes out from behind the steel sanctuary, trying to reach him.  The aim shifts back and  a bullet hits his wrist, shattering the bones, leaving his hand  dangling by a flap of flesh. 

Adam, beside us, has been screaming ‘Stand down’ into the walkie again and again, an Odin did not listen to a black man and this one lost his hand.  The first one lost his life. 

“Jake, you need to issue orders.  Jorge, you too.  Theo, you need to get on here, too.  Everyone needs to know these orders are from all of us.  Not just some n…….   “

Adam hands Jake the Walkie. “How is Jason doing?”

“Jake?”

“They got a tourniquet on his wrist.”

“Yeah, all the leaders are up here.  Adam is doing a plan that we all worked on for months.”

‘So when you don’t listen to some n….., you are not listening to me.  How many times I gotta say this.  In this military, we tell people how to act, not how to think.  Unless it affects the job you are doing.  Like this shit.  Stand down, and wait for orders.”

“Get back Samuel back with Theo’s folk.  Listen to your commanding officer next time, dismissed.”

Adam mouths to Jake, ‘Stand down,  Be prepared for further attacks.’

He  adds, “For now, stand down.  Prepare for further attacks, if nothing happens, I will send you over to do back up for Panthers and Mongrels.  The National Guard. Now, fucking understand something.  I love you dumb fuckers, but right now, whoever talks through this walkie is the general, and I don’t give a shit if it is a goddamn cell mouse.”

Adam takes back the Mic, “N.G., when you have six tanks in the lines…  hold on, almost there.  Now, break your cover.  Fight well.”

He is addressing the National Guard out in the forests..  I zoom the holo in on a camouflaged soldiers face, painted black and brown to fit in with the smoggy sky and burnt earth.   The forest of mostly burnt stumps, has just enough still standing scorched  trees to hide the old fashioned arteliery, flame throwers, trucks;  other tools of death.  Called up, they go from staying still to a clockwork of movement, sketched months ago on a chalk board, in a crowded war room, carefully separated by Gang affiliations.”

 The black smoke and stench of the burning tanks attests to their being disabled chunks of metal  blocking the route into the prison. Forcing the line of tanks to go around, though the woods that the National Guard had filled with artillery.  They begin to fire immediately, a tanks is hit and the top explodes.  Between the exploding missiles fired from shoulders into tanks,  the gangs run fearlessly, using the chaos exactly as was meant to be, throwing napalm on the remaining tanks to force them out into the open,  IEDs are hit, blowing out he tracks on the humvees.  Explosives built by chemists with what they had in the prison, and they had plenty of explosives and hundreds of years of prisoners research into making explosives in prison..  The retreating soldiers brought more.  The commanders, trapped now without nine of their tanks, are trying to retreat.  The soldiers they interrogated said get the commanders and they will surrender.  The commanders, in their black and gold uniforms, with guts that show they are not lacking for any food.  The National Guard moves in quick again, the prisoners again thinking they will die bad, one commander shoots himself in the forehead rather than face the lies about us.

They surrender and are surprise when they are zip tied and lead to the other prisoners, who showed their anger toward them, to the point they needed to be separated.

We won the physical war.  What was to come next, who knows?

Adam motions to some panthers sitting down with drone controllers and I see them fly directly to where the commanders are getting out of their disabled humvee.  

around the commanders – their real target.  Most the soldiers were conscripts fighting with a gun at their backs – and the commanders held the guns.

Maya and I are holding one another on the wall, looking down on the battle.  I think of laying on that hill in my own filth, filming the desperate scenes of horror, a man sneaking a bite of another man’s liver, knowing he would be shot the way he  so terrified.  The faces of the platoon come back, and I see them between battles, just people, talking, laughing, joking.    I knew they should have deserted. Every one was going to end up dying bad.  I wanted  to tell those kids to desert before that last battle.  Had I suggested the soldiers desert, the officers would have shot me on the spot. I shake my head to come back into the now. Maya is looking up at me oddly, as if I were a wounded animal?  Fuck that. 

We all watch as Ellison’s caravan comes to the disabled tanks and splits into two slim columns.  The chalk board has them doing just what they do –  now we were waiting  until the tanks are well into the woods before ordering the attack.   

6

The gym smells like smoke and sweat and metal.  A triage set up and running.  They are using the cells for the wounded now, especially the critical.  All of the gangs lost someone.  There are two army doctors here, retreating from the loss in Southern Illinois.  The drugs are from the gangs mostly.  Better supplied than the pharmacy. 

Gang bangers move through the room with clipboards they stole from the guards’ office.

They mark down injuries.

They check on families.

I hear two argue over numbers for a moment and conclude peacefully.

No one looks at me.

I sit on a broken bench, rubbing dried blood off my knuckles.

My hands won’t stop shaking.

Ruby’s voice slips into my ear.

“29 Dead.  Another 43 wounded..”

29 lost.  I would think that wasn't bad, but to twenty nine people and everyone who loved them, that was too many.  You learn a few things journaling around the world.  Even when you have to wear a costume to hide from being recognized for being a despised Celeb. 

"Famous equals celeb in the mindset developed by the combined media efforts of hundreds of right wing crap.  I always liked Marx but knew humans were too mercenary for such a gentle philosophy.  Humans are all just fucking mercenaries.  Hired by the unconscious thoughts inserted by the media, the repetition that causes you sheep easily led to slaughter. "

"Where have you been?  Talking to your spy friends?"

"Your dick took your head, so I let it have it, get laid and win a battle.  You needed a win, not my cranky ass voice drill sargenting you thru life.  Or punning when you were..."

'Setting you to no puns was the best thing I ever did, in my entire fucking life.'  You can't cheer me up, though thanks for trying.

I can, and will.  Already did.  I monitor your brain and body, read your thoughts like an electronic map.  for a rather fucking small oval track."

A young child walks past with a bandaged knee and a complete stranger tries to ruffle his hair.  I see the kid cringe while he is being touched.    I look away.   I think again, a phrase I heard once about how a Jew was someone who when they saw someone crying, they sat down to cry with them.  Used to make me think I was Jewish, until I lost the ability to cry, or even want to sit down with them.  Though it was the job that is Juan Rivera, not me.  Just Juan.

Scene 2 — Strategic Realization

The gang leaders gather near the chalkboard wall leading out of the prison.  The exact lines and plans 

and inventory again impress me.  Now that I have seen the chalkboard come alive in battle I understand better how long and hard they worked on this.   I remember the sight of the jagged Shiv scars Adam took when he was attacked when the leaders first started meeting.  Think of what it must have had to take to come back from that.  Maya barel mentioned the war that followed, though Adam living was the only reason any of them were there.

Adam taps the map with a marker.

Maya  shakes her head and redraws a route.

Maya steps into the circle.

She doesn’t raise her voice.

She doesn’t gesture.

She doesn’t ask permission.

She just says:

“Chicago.”

One word.

It lands like a stone dropped in water — small sound, big ripple.

The gang leaders look at her.

Not confused.

Not surprised.

Like they’ve heard the word before.

Like it’s been sitting in the back of their heads, waiting.

She is playing them. You too.

I don’t answer.

Maya doesn’t look at me.

She keeps her eyes on the map.

Jorge wipes blood off his cheek with the back of his hand.

He steps forward, nodding at Maya like she just confirmed something.

“We all know Chicago’s the move,” he says.

The tension snaps like a wire.

Someone says, “Chicago.”

Another echoes, “Yeah. Chicago.”

Another: “We won this battle, ain't nobody stopping us..”

I stand there, surrounded by motion as they finish the planning.

I don’t lead.

I don’t speak.

I don’t decide.

I follow.

Because I want these people to live.

And that scares me more than anything.

7

he land changes before we see anything.  The roads get noticeably  better than the usual left over path of burnt concrete Ruby vaguely follows.    Missing are the usual refugee altars lining the road — stones stacked, ribbons tied, names carved into metal scraps.  Or the dead.  Who was sacrileges enough?  Would consider the last testament of the dead an eyesore?  Celebs?  Here?

This is a slave pit.  They are gathering slaves for Eliison Security, for Scum filled assholes, so to speak.

Dust thickens.  Wind dies.  The column slows.  Ruby whispers:

We are being approached by various civilians.  All in high states of emotional agitation.  Extreme agitation.  Do i need to report the starving on this mission?'

‘That many?'

Ask Maya, she knows.  Or, let the spy slowly give her spin on why we have to pass by  a thousand plus starving people being kept, for better words, in a slave pit.  These are human slavers, working for Ellison.  Her orders are to by-pass.  I say they are just soldiers you will fight another day, after the concentration camps.  Free them while you can.  Elias is talking to the new people.  He is becoming highly agitated as well.

Stopped we can usually see dead cars rusted into skeletons.  Billboards peeled into strips.   Here someone has cleaned this away, along with the ubiquitous dead.  Kids go quiet in the trucks around us.  There is something soothing in moving toward the sanctuary.  Something very disturbing in stopping..

Gangs stop joking.

Even the engines seem to hold their breath as they go into idle.

Maya hops out and walks ahead, jaw tight.  I follow her, turning on my waist holo.

“I don't know what is going on?” she says.

"We're close to the slaves.  But we're passing them by."

People are leaving their cars and going up to where a crowd is developing.

"That is classified. Ruby?"

"She makes her own decisions, I don't always agree like people think.  Best to let them underestimate me as some AI Head who couldn't wash dishes without going on auto."

"Don't get involved Juan.  Remember your place.  Your job is too important to end up in the middle of a gang fight.  No one would be safe if we splintered like that."

People are shouting and crying, not in angry, they are pleading.  Skinny, probably hungry.  We get closer and I realize they are pleading for help to free the slaves.

I tell Maya, "Put away the gun.  I will go along,  with what they want. Okay?"

Ruby is not supposed to be able to do that?  This is her comeback to your pouring out what little fucking bit of soul you have?

'You're trying to hide this, but we will come back here, when I am done with Maya.  Suggest whatever I need.  Too important for my brain alone, I agree for once.'

'Too important for my  brain alone.'  Ah, if only you were always this sane all the time, dumb ass.

We find a scene already embroiled in conflict.  Just as we walk up into the middle, she shows me the gun, now loaded with bullets. 

A woman is talking when she see's us walk up,.  She stops in mid-sentence when she see's me, " ... Juan, is that you?  You can help us.  You will.  No one passing would do anything more than run, or speed up.  I know we look like we want hand outs, but we are beyond hunger here,   Starving out here is better than getting that slop to stay alive until the sales.  We can't leave them.  The Sales are coming soon, Celebs come in to get workers for their shelters.  Buyers for them, still... high up enough to get new roads."

"Sales?"  Jake is upfront on this, surrounded by Odin's looking for a fight. "Who do they sell white people to?"  He looks back at the Adam and shrugs,  like he can't believe he is the one out front? 

Maybe he isn't going along with Maya?  His men sure as fuck aren't.  They want to free their Aryan Brethren from being slaves.

The Sons are painting their faces with mud.   One cuts his arm, uses his own blood to write war symbols on their bodies.  Today I am just as angry as the Odins.  Understand wanting to die even to stop this hsit.  Why be out here with an army, and not use it?  Even I can tell this is an easy win.  Shoot a few guards, they  run inside for shelter, we get the slaves out.  

War is never easy.  War never goes the way you want. Maya has the gangs split and now she is asking for my opinion. 

Maya is standing beside me calmly looking at me with disgust and anger, and  has a tranq pistol aimed into my gut.

"Juan, you would be brainwashed into looking, as your favorite album called them, 'reflective.'  Remember?"

"Talking heads.  These people are too reflective.  True Stories.  My second is And she was."

"I don't remember that one." 

"Right, I sent it to you when you announced to me you were leaving journalism for the war."

"Objectivity was gone by then.  You take sides when Hitler's rise.  You were a romantic. As they say, only a true Romantic can be a true cynic."

"You sound like Ruby, is she in your ear now jabbering away?"

"She knows when to stay silent, by reading my brain...  she knows I prefer privacy most of the time, though she is a good companion, so what?"

"IF us spies had not intervened more times than you want to know, to stop Koch from making you into a  brainwashed Celeb.   Why?   Because of our side, the actual good part of the government, what was left after Ellison made his move.  He'd already hired the shit heads who started this by letting the multi-trillionaires do what they wanted.  The government made private armies above the law hundreds of years ago, with Blackwater...  Above the law.  Enough sell outs let them change the laws,"

'That crowd is gone.  Sanctuary 6 is a government all its own now.  You would like it.  Let me get these people here.  Help me, or...  I do not need you.  In fact, you will be in the way of my mission." 

 I don't believe her for a second.  Barely listen.  She and I both are noticing the Panthers.  The crowd around the Escaped Slaves is broken mostly by race, birds flocking together.  Reminds me of the Kosinski book.  Paint red on a crow, then let go back to its murder, and it is attacked and killed, suddenly made a stranger by blotch of paint.  Same thing works with chimps comes back.

I notice Panthers talking like they are pissed at the slave sellers, act like they a ready to join the Sons.  Then Adam walks into the group off Panthers,  looking particularly tall and muscled like a gladiator in a sleeveless Kaftan;  a mix of spirituality and bad ass which tells me again, against all hope, this man could general them home.   The Panthers go quiet to a man.   They knew the board better than Ruby ever could;  she had never lost her freedom, never felt the offer of freedom after learning what it means to lose it.  A chance to meet up with families, instead of being stuck on the Ellison side of a war;  brainwashed into shock troops or worse to some, becoming someone's fetish.  Either way who they would become would go along with frequent back up's rather than risk any slips.  And could change in three blank days.  Eventually ending up as food for slaves like himself.  They believed the deserter's, my broadcasts.  All of the gangs did. This was never dreamed of by me, but all my supposed allies knew.  I had forgotten they considered me a part of their plan, a mouthpiece, nothing more.  More importantly to what I am about to do, they forgot.

Maya handled you personally to have that at the ready.  The night she sent Elias out, he was going to die to get you free.  They need a Celeb.  You have more leverage than they give you credit for.  They NEVER considered you wouldn't go along.

'Why'  I ask but I know and usually this would feel complicated but now it makes me want to go along with her, exactly as they planned.  Time to fuck some shit up, old lady.'

"Slave pits?"

I stay back and let her perform.   She goes to the slaves with food and water, just enough they will not be sick.  She stands in the middle of the crowd, listens with the utmost concern, looking surprised in all the right places.  I watch Jake turn away from her, then next Jorge, soon even Theo is embarrassed by being on the wrong side, again.  They were supposed to be the heroes on this trip not the fucking villains again, I guess.  Maya talks about time spent here, as opposed to safe in Sanctuary 6.  Here they endanger themselves by poking a hornet nests for no reason.  A crazy phrase when they have been extinct for a hundred years.

I cannot tell what the quiet Adam is doing,  he just stands outside the crowd listening quietly, stroking the small beard on his chin.  The quiet Panthers around him, to a man, tells me enough.  He is following Maya.  He has a family up there.  Married her in prison, three kids.  Sent them away years ago to Sanctuary 6.  

Adam is going to work the gangs, once Maya quits embarrassing them.  The Odin's have gone back to preparing themselves for battle, no longer even pretending there is not going to be war, and Valhalla was the goal, dying in a glorious battle.  Any God who only accepts dead soldiers sounds like an old man lie to get young kids to fight.  Most things do lately.

This is not going to end right.  I am noticed.  A woman and her children see a Celeb, she leaves Maya and runs into my arms.   She is trembling a bit less than me.  I am not used to letting people hug a Celeb.  She is one of those 'Celeb's can do anything people.'  "You have to get them out.  Tell the people what is right, Juan!  You have enough men here to free them all.  There are children down there."

"Mam, I am not in charge."  Adam is watching me closely.  Elias stands off to Adam's left, in his blindspot, ready to change the odds with violence if it comes to violence.  Maya has her hand in her pocket, pistol at the ready, aimed at me.  Empty threat.  I learned long ago, if someone is going to try to kill you, they don't advertise the fact, they smile and they hug ya, just to get the knife in your back.

What would I do to get revenge for what has happened to those around me, let alone stealing any life I might have eked out in this mes, if s had I gone to live in Sanctuary 6 like most reporters with any integrity.  I was proud of staying with the grunts.  Though really thinking now I was just afraid to leave them, these people, alone with no one to tell their stories to,,, to believe in for a bit.  Walking hope dope.  The Celeb who convinced himself he wasn't?

The slaves are in deep trenches carved into the earth — long, narrow, packed with bodie  People standing shoulder‑to‑shoulder, pressed together, barely able to move.    The sight of hardened gang bangers leading them out of the trenches as quickly as possible, carrying two of the weak and I am in tears at the sight of them slowly making their way up to freedom.  I stop the tears quick.  People know celebs can cry at will and never take you seriously.  Maybe that is part of why I don't cry?  I never was one to cry, though I miss it now.  Never know what ya got til it's gone.  

Some sit.

Some lie.

Some cling to the walls.

Some stare blankly at nothing.

Ellison’s guards walk the edges — rifles slung, boots kicking dust into the pits.

I reach under Ruby's front-seat for a self-aiming pistol filled with hollow points,  crawl up on her hood and examine the slave pits again, the Guards walking the perimeter looking bored.  Those in the pits were the real psycho shows, beating people to get more people in where none would fit without crushing some in the back.  I can  see people starting to put children, and each other, on their shoulders to get a break.  The Guards walk around yelling or beating slaves who move too slowly into the packed trenches.  They are separated by the walls of dirt, set up for the sale.  Older people like me in one pit, the women, men, the young.  The sound of crying children can only reach us through the holo. I aim for the closest guard's head.  He is dressed in the gold and black outfits of the Ellison Security, no patches or names or rank.  I look through the scope at the side of the head of the Guard, pull the ai-aiming trigger and see a zoomed in view of an explosion of a living, breathing head into blood and brain and bone into a red mist.  I aim at the next guard, fire again.  And again. 

I use the hollow points for maximum horror show effect.  I want to inspire some, terrorize others,and  force the hands  of the rest to take up arms.   The other guards look stunned by the unexpected attack.  I fire on the other side of the compound so they all see, taking down a guard who was beating the prisoners.  The bullet transforms his black haired head into a cloud of blood and brain and skull.   Headless from the back , his face exploding and blowing into a cloud of blood, before his body crumples slowly down to the ground.  An alarm sounds.  

 Killing the guards feels good.  I have seen the faces of men in battle enough to know the come down afterwards involves remembering whoever you killed had a holo-wallet full of pictures of loved ones at home, just like they did.    I shake off the thought as the Panthers fire expertly over and over.  The guards toss down their rifles and make a dead run toward the closing doors of the Celebrity Sanctuary.   I notice they let the guards get to the door.   

Around me, plan B is taking place.  The Panthers have sniper rifles they'd had at the ready -- none use AI. 

They take down guards with kill shots to the neck, like deer hunters used to use, opening the same veins that I watched Ellison Security use for four days on a hill somewhere back in one of those levels of Hells I traversed.  Probably learned the technique from their deserters.  Now here they are. 

The gangs and soldiers on our side become reluctant to kill the retreating motherfuckers.   They may be unarmed but I know they were not in the past, or will be in the future.  Better to kill them now.  I aim my pistol again, and take out the guard closest to the door.  Feel the triumph of killing one of those bastards I watched chop up the last off my platoon.  I shoot the ai-aimed pistol at anyone nearing the door.   

I feel the sting of a  tranq hit me in the fat of my left  love handle.  I fall to the hood, catching a glimpse of Maya already barking orders to someone following her with a walkie.  Elias is with her, leans down closem tells me, "I'll put you in Ruby to sleep this off.  They're free because of you. Not me."

I wake up slowly, wanting to sleep just barely less than I wanted to be awake.  Three hours and forty three minutes have passed.  Three hours later, on the road again, moving significantly slower now as the caravan absorbs more people, fixes more trucks found alongside the road with parts scavenged easily from the lines of abandoned cars, gets food to the three thousand we ended up adding to our group.  We were able to take plenty of trucks from the lot outside the slave pit.  The same trucks that were there to take them to slavery took them to freedom, I might have cliche'd out on some holo.   The path to the Sanctuary had been in operation 25 years, even before the east coast made refugees a curse word in ignorant pockets, or trampled pockets, raped and murdered and eaten up pockets.   

Elias is sleeping beside me, obviously dreaming of some hell, moving around in his sleeping moaning. 

'Iced coffee.'.

Sure. He has been like that the last hour.   Before that he seemed to be worried about you.  Kept whispering me questions, I answered since you were out and he is, whatever he is.  I could give a diagnosis, but you are right, I have no feelings.  It does encumber my understanding.  I knew this, by the way, but I am glad you figured it out.

"Wake up.  You're having a nightmare.  To be specific."

He is instantly awake and happy to see me, from the smile he flashes me.  Or maybe just happy to be away from whatever hell-dimension his nightmares rode him into?  The first smile I had seen from him.

"I take it things went alright back there?"

"You inspired a lot of people to do the right thing.  You figured out by now I did a job like that... worse.  Can't explain beyond the four seconds that made you puke."

Ruby drives us through a narrow road between two ravines, reminding me again of the great forests that once filled Southern Illinois.  How gorgeous in the AD era's.

"How did the battle go."

"So far, the board getting us to Chicago is perfect planning.  Plan B was fine.  Plan three was to kill the slaves, so they could hurt the enemy.  Better than lives of slavery they said.  I doubt they ever consulted an actual slave about that at Sanctuary 6, elitist fucks.  Sorry to sound like Koch, but they need some field training.  And those who have it, get like Celebs, they want nothing to do with the outside world."

"You don't seem like any spy I have ever met."

"I was kind of drafted, after Koch got ahold of my brothers.  I wanted to do anything.  And I told them anything.  They gave me a lot of tests that said I would finish my mission, then kill myself.  As long as I finished the mission.  I read that, it was like, no way in hell am I killing myself.  Besides, I have family there.  As long as I'm alive, there's hope.  However false,"

The battle goes as I figure it would.  They followed plan B on the board, like I knew they would. Elias lets me know, than adds,  "My place was to secure you.  They did not peg you for a shooter, but they planned for everything else. Dead guards sniped from a distance, and the rest running for the door.  Pretty basic.  They were letting them live, then they made the mistake of trying to throw down their guns and out run the gangs.  They died quick, or gave up.  None did.  We heard from deserters they would have been tortured, along with their families, for a month if they surrendered."

"So we won?"

"They won."

"Yeah."

You like this kid and he is driving four hundred miles an hour toward a brick wall.

'Yeah, I realize that.' 

8

'HOLO SHOW.

Suddenly the caravan was stopping, and holos filled the night.  Surreal to see the ninety degree figures dancing around on stages that seemed to include the viewer.  Beguiling colors. Sex for sale everywhere on the screen, from the half or undressed men and women, to the fucking idiot Celeb Coral Reef wearing his Brand penis sheath.  What the hell is that thing, Ruby?

Also called a horim.  It is traditionally worn by several highland tribes in New Guinea, especially in Papua (Indonesia) and Papua New Guinea.   And the circus begins.

'Indeed.'

A burst of cosmic light blinds the screen for a second, alighting the night and showing the lines of cars and trucks watching the holos.  Their smiling faces sicken me. The Celeb factor has some of them even clapping a bit, like they were trained to do with the rating system of stars Koch media had used for years, to get the audience involved in what they saw, and win prizes for their clapping time.  I see the hands want to clap and move even when they know better.  The same system that pushed me onto this pedestal.

The light slowly fades into the shape of a man standing backlit into infamy, the best looking man-creature plastic surgery and steroids can create.  Atom Saner.  Muscles oiled. Jaw square. Hair sculpted into a wave that defies gravity, looks like a wind is blowing his curly blonde locks back away from his sculpted face.  His codpiece is so exaggerated it looks like a superhero costume designer lost a bet.

He stands with fists on hips, chest out, chin lifted toward a destiny only he can see. “People of America,” he booms, voice drenched in studio reverb, “I am here to take this River and change its course, I guess.  I lost the post it.  I could have solved all of this so easily.

The audience sighs — a rehearsed, sympathetic sound. 

"But, I  have arrived too late… again.”

They break into canned laughter at the Celeb's celebrity

Atom shakes his head with cosmic disappointment.

“If only I had known sooner,” he says, “I could have prevented Juan Rivera’s latest disaster.”

Ruby whispers in my skull:

New propaganda vector detected.

‘I see it.’

Plumage drifts into frame like a neon ghost with a six‑foot hairdo -- a cage built into her costume with a live bird drugged into compliance, barely able to stay upright even with staples pinning its feet to the swing.

She has their asses sewn up so they do not shit in her hair.  Pretends to love the thing, that it is the same at every performance,  Longest living canary on the planet.

Her backlight is dramatic — spiritual, compassionate, her Brand.  She touches Atom’s arm like he’s a sacred relic. “Atom,” she says softly, “Juan stole our workers.”

Atom gasps — theatrically.“He stole them?” He looks into the camera.“If only I had known sooner, I could have saved them.”

The audience moans with pity.

The bird sways.

Plumage smiles like she’s blessing a funeral.

Kosmic Konan slides into frame — glittering green jacket, black mirrored sunglasses, hair sprayed into a shape that looks like a hatchet.

He points at Atom’s codpiece.

“Look at this man!” Konan shouts. “He could’ve saved Juan’s whole operation with one heroic thrust of justice!”

Atom nods solemnly.

I start to hear people in the caravan laughing at the jokes, at the people who seem right there, among them, the Celebs they had known all their lives, who were their 'friends' from the crib on up.  Later, they knew the rumours, heard Juan, knew better...  Long ago I learned, they prefer the myth to reality.  My life is throwing the acid at their myths, trying to melt them or some shit.

“If only I had known sooner.”

The audience howls.

Ruby whispers:

Sentiment manipulation increasing.

Blaze Burns storms onstage — cheap suit, crooked tie, mic held like a weapon.

He jabs a finger at Atom.

“This man could’ve saved Juan from himself!  If only we could go back in time.”

The audience roars.

“The Sons of Odin? More like Sons of Overacting!”

More laughter.

“The Panthers? Cute cosplay. Real fighters don’t use flamethrowers from Home Depot!”

The laughter becomes frantic on the screen.

The gangs finally act.  I hear Jorge yell, "Shut the fuck up."

"Clap and we'll break your fucking fingers," Jake adds.

Coral Reef enters — multi‑colored skin paint, body glitter, ceremonial penis sheath strapped around his waist.

He bows to Atom, bouncing his huge dick extension. 

“Cosmic brother,” he says, “Juan Rivera is a thief of destiny.”

Atom nods gravely.

“If only I had known sooner.”

The audience applauds like they’re watching a coronation.

Atom steps forward — heroic, glowing, ridiculous.  “Juan Rivera,” he says, “you stole workers we protected. You handed them to criminals. You endangered The New America.”

He lifts a finger — cosmic judgment.

“If only I had known sooner, I could have saved you.”

The crowd gasps on cue.

Atom shakes his head, eyes full of theatrical sorrow.

“You’re hurting the people you claim to save.”

The holo cuts out.

I get out of Ruby and go to the group gathering near the front of the line of trucks and shit.  Panthers stare at me like I am responsible for what was said about them.

Public sentiment shifting?

‘Ruby, shut up.’

Shutting up.

Jake steps forward.

“Juan,” he says quietly, “that wasn’t comedy.”

Theo nods. “That was war.”

Maya lifts her chin. “They’re scared of us."  She looks at me — not angry, not afraid, just… certain.

“You started this,” she says. “Now finish it.”

The wind picks up.  Dust swirls. Engines hum. 

$T0he3 column waits.

I breathe once, slow.

‘Ruby…’

Ready.

I look at the gangs.

“I only care about what people who I care about me say about me.  I do not give a shit about any of those fuckers.   They are afraid of us.  What do we fucking do?  We kick their ass."

All of them.

Even the ones who wouldn’t look at me a few minutes ago.

Sanctuary Six waits ahead.

Atom Saner waits behind — posing, glowing, lying.

And I stand in the middle — the man they trust again, the man they need, the man who has no idea how to win the next fight.  I trust myself enough to know by now, piss me off and give me a holo and I'll do alright.

9

CHAPTER NINE — THE WORD AND THE WOUND

First‑person present tense — pure showing

⭐ Scene 1 — The Column Moves Again

The freed slaves walk with us now — thousands of them — stretching down the road like a second column shadowing the first.

Some limp.

Some lean on gang bangers.

Some carry children.

Some carry nothing but the clothes they escaped in.

The gangs are quiet.

Not peaceful quiet.

Not relieved quiet.

The kind of quiet that comes after a fight you didn’t want but couldn’t walk away from.

Dust rolls across the road.

Engines hum.

Kids cry softly under blankets.

Jake walks ahead, jaw tight.

Tito keeps checking the rear.

Marisol stays close to the families.

No one talks to me.

They’re still pissed.

But they’re also seeing the scale — the sheer number of people Ellison kept underground.

Thousands.

And that changes something.

Even if they won’t say it yet.

Your actions increased survival probability for the column.

‘Rube, not now.’

Not now.

⭐ Scene 2 — The Broadcast Hits

A Panther shouts, “Holo on!”

The screen flickers to life on the side of a truck — static, then neon, then Koch’s face glowing under studio lights.

He looks furious.

Not theatrical furious.

Not performative furious.

Real furious.

“People of America,” he says, voice tight. “We need to talk about law.”

The column slows.

Engines idle.

Dust settles.

Koch spreads his hands.

“Ellison’s workers have been stolen.”

He pauses.

“By criminals.”

He tilts his head.

“By Juan Rivera.”

The gangs stiffen.

Koch leans toward the camera.

“These workers were essential. Contracted. Protected. Fed. Housed.”

He smiles.

“And now they’ve been taken by gangs.”

Jake mutters, “They weren’t fed.”

Tito mutters, “They weren’t housed.”

Marisol mutters, “They weren’t protected.”

Koch keeps smiling.

“You think there aren’t bugs in your clean little prison? Think again.”

Theo snorts.

“Oh hell no.”

⭐ Scene 3 — The Spies

Koch taps his ear.

“We hear everything. We see everything.”

He pauses.

“Two of my people were inside your little march.”

The gangs freeze.

“They were captured,” Koch says. “But they fought. And they died before you could interrogate them.”

He shrugs.

“Heroes.”

Maya’s eyes flick toward me — sharp, quick.

He is playing with their heads.

‘Yeah. I know.’

He heard the Bear Butt joke from one of his spies.

Theo’s eyes widen.

“That son of a—”

⭐ Scene 4 — The Demand

Koch raises a finger.

“So here’s what we’re going to do.”

The column leans in despite themselves.

“We’re going to give Sanctuary Six what it needs.”

He pauses.

“Law.”

He spreads his arms.

“We will provide law enforcement. Real law enforcement. Trained. Armed. Disciplined.”

He smiles.

“And we will give everyone what they need. Food. Water. Shelter. Medicine. Jobs.”

He leans closer.

“And when people have what they need… there is no crime.”

Theo mutters, “Bullshit.”

Koch keeps smiling.

“You gangs won’t have to steal. You won’t have to kill. You won’t have to fight. You won’t have to pretend you’re heroes.”

He tilts his head.

“You’ll just have to obey.”

The word echoes through the column.

Obey.

⭐ Scene 5 — The Hit

Koch’s voice drops to a whisper.

“And if you don’t obey… we will hire our workers back.”

The gangs stiffen.

“He means slaves,” Marisol whispers.

“He means take them,” Tito says.

“He means us,” Jake says.

Koch nods.

“We will bring them home. Back underground. Back to work. Back to safety.”

He smiles.

“And if you resist… Sanctuary Six has room for criminals too.”

The holo cuts out.

Silence.

Heavy.

Thick.

Suffocating.

The gangs stand frozen — hit hard, hit deep, hit where it hurts.

Adam’s jaw trembles.

Jake’s eyes burn.

Theo’s fists shake.

Marisol’s breath comes sharp and fast.

The tension is a wire stretched tight across the column.

⭐ Scene 6 — The Break

Then—

Leo laughs.

Not a chuckle.

Not a snort.

A full‑body, bent‑over, wheezing, uncontrollable laugh.

“Hire them back?” he shouts. “Hire them back? Like they quit? Like they filled out a W‑2?”

He slaps his knee.

“Like they’re gonna clock in underground with a lunchbox and a smile?”

The laughter spreads — first the Panthers, then the Mongrels, then the Diablos, then the Sons.

It rolls through the column like a wave, breaking the tension, breaking Koch’s spell, breaking the fear.

Even Maya smiles — small, sharp, dangerous.

Jake wipes his eyes.

Tito shakes his head, grinning.

Marisol leans against a truck, laughing so hard she can’t breathe.

The column roars.

The freed slaves stare — confused, then relieved, then smiling.

The fog vibrates with laughter.

And for the first time since the pits, the gangs stand together again — united not by fear, not by anger, but by the absurdity of Koch’s lie.

⭐ Scene 7 — The Turn

The laughter fades, but the unity stays.

Jake steps beside me.

“You hear that?” he says.

I nod.

“They’re with you again.” Elias claps my shoulder.

Maya nods.

Theo grins.

Maya looks at me — not with judgment, not with anger, but with recognition.

“You broke his spell,” she says.

The road stretches ahead.

Sanctuary Six waits.

Koch waits behind.

And the column moves forward — tighter, stronger, ready.

11

Sanctuary Six’s intake hall feels like a hospital lobby built inside a vault — bright lights, clean metal, polished floors, everything humming with quiet authority. The refugees move through the scanners in small groups, guided by workers in soft uniforms.

Children cling to their parents.

Parents cling to hope.

The gangs stand behind the line — unmoving, uninvited.  Adam watches the intake corridor like he’s studying enemy troop movement.

Theo keeps his hands in his pockets, eyes flicking between guards.

Jake’s jaw flexes with every refugee that disappears behind the doors.

Jorge stands steady, arms crossed, breathing slow.

A guard gestures to me.

“Juan Rivera. Council chamber.”

Adam steps forward. “He doesn’t walk alone.”

The guard doesn’t blink. “He does now.”

Theo mutters, “Here it is.”

Jake cracks his knuckles. “Say the word, Juan.”

Jorge’s voice is low. “We’ll be here.”

Maya touches my arm. “Be careful.”

I walk into the chamber alone.

The doors seal behind me. The chamber is circular, lit from above by a ring of white panels. Twelve councilors sit at a curved table, tablets glowing in front of them. Their faces range from worried, to fake calm,  -- practiced, unreadable, politicians, no doubt..

A woman in the center speaks.

“Juan Rivera. Thank you for coming.”

Her voice is soft and kind, in remarkable contrast to the size of the knife she is stabbing in my back.

Ruby whispers in my skull:

Tone analysis: controlled empathy.  At best.

‘I know.’

She continues.

“Your actions at the Celebrity Compound, run by Ellison Securities, amount to theft, destruction of property...”

I stand still and interrupt her  in the same calm, soothing footage, "We set people free.  He calls them property.  They were about to be sold."

“We have reviewed your footage. We have reviewed your interviews. We have reviewed your march.”  She is reading a script, has to fold her shaking hands as she continues saying words that must sicken the poor woman.

“And we have reached a decision.”

My anger feels volcanic, explosive.

Ruby notes my blood pressure and adds, .

Brace.

The woman looks at the others. They nod.

“Sanctuary Six will accept the refugees.”

I exhale — once, sharp.

She keeps going.

“Sanctuary Six will not accept the gangs.”

My jaw tightens.

She keeps going.

“Sanctuary Six will not accept the prisoners.”

Heat rises in my chest.

She keeps going.

“Sanctuary Six will not accept you.”

I stare at her.

“You are so afraid of Koch, you are delivering families back to a slave holder. What the fuck kind of times are these?"

"The kind where humanity itself has to be preserved. We are protecting our city.”

I step forward.

“You watched the pits,” I say. “You saw what they survived.”

“We did.”

“And you’re turning away them back over to those people.  Good luck trying to get them to leave.”

“We are preserving Sanctuary Six.”

I laugh — sharp, bitter.  "You think you can bring in Ellison to round up their slaves, and they will leave afterwards.  Your sanctuary is better than any of theirs, further along.  They know it.  He will own this place the moment you let his armies come in.  You’re think you're preserving your comfort.”

A man on the council leans forward.

“Juan Rivera,” he says, “you brought armed factions to our gate. You expect us to welcome them?”

“They’re people,” I say.

“They’re dangerous.”

“They’re alive.”

“They’re unpredictable.”

“They’re survivors.”

“They’re not Sanctuary Six.”

I breathe once, slow.

“What happens now?” I ask.

The woman lifts her tablet.

“We vote.”

The councilors tap their screens.

One by one.

Soft clicks.

Twelve votes.

Outcome predicted: unanimous rejection of gangs and Juan.

The woman looks up.

“Sanctuary Six votes to surrender the gangs, the prisoners, and Juan Rivera to Koch’s forces.”

Juan—

‘I know.’

The woman continues.

“The refugees will be housed, fed, and then turned over to their employers.. They will be safe.  We will be safe.”

I stare at her.

“You’re handing the rest of us over to die.”

She doesn’t blink.

“We are handing you over to the rightful authorities.”

“Open the doors,” I say.

She nods.

“Of course.”

The doors slide open.  The gangs look up.

The gangs can read by my body language what happened as I walk out.  Eagle eyed and studied through dull years of watching guards for signs of buttons they could push, angles they could take,  or just plain reconnaissance for the gang's histories had taught them to read my slow walk, head down, looking as defeated as I feel.  Glad my sunglasses are on because I am sure the dark bags under my eyes book like bruise today..

In the gleaming, clean room, our dusty road clothes stand out from the citizens.  I begin to feel like I do not fit in this glamor.  That this could never be my end.  But I damn well sure was not going to let Koch have it...  not after the four seconds of hell I saw, or what he did to Elias, and worse, his family.

Adam’s voice is low. “They’re surrendering us.”  A statement, not a question."

Jorge’s voice is steady. “To Ellison’s forces.  I'll die first.”  He kisses a gold medallion he has hanging around his throat, then crosses himself.

Jake explodes. “Koch dies."”

Adam looks at me. “What’s the plan?”

I breathe once, slow.

Ruby whispers:

Juan…

‘I know.’

I look at all of them.

“We’re not staying,” I say.

Jake nods instantly. “Good.”

Theo exhales. “Thought so.”

Jorge cracks his neck. “We move.”

Adam steps forward.

“Juan,” he says, “tell us what comes next.”

I look at the gate.

At the city.

At the council chamber behind me.

At the betrayal.

“We finish what we started,” I say.

The gangs nod.

All of them.

Even the ones who wouldn’t look at me an hour ago.

Sanctuary Six watches from balconies and windows — silent, afraid, complicit.

Ruby whispers:

The vote is done. The betrayal is complete.

I breathe once, slow.

“Let’s go.”

We walk out of the chamber.

And Sanctuary Six closes its doors behind us.

12

anctuary Six shuts its gates behind us with a sound like a verdict — a deep metallic thud that echoes through the clean streets and the clean air and the clean illusions. The crowd has already thinned. The joy that greeted us at the barricades has drained away, leaving behind a residue of fear that clings to every face.

Adam’s family pulls him inside their apartment tower, hugging him like they’re afraid he’ll vanish if they let go. Other families do the same — dragging their sons, daughters, cousins, lovers away from the column, away from the prisoners, away from the gangs, away from me.  He tosses them off and walks like a soldier with mission over toward where the gangs are gathering, preparing to go surrender to Koch. 

No one except I know Elias has been carrying around a nuclear bomb since not being able to use it on the Koch compound, like I later learned he was ordered to do.  Bue he had Kids,  His wife.  He wanted them saved, not dead.

They’re retreating from the painted bird.

I can still hear the crowd’s shift — the moment Koch’s holo turned us from heroes into contagion. The moment the paint splashed across us. The moment our murder stopped recognizing its own. 

Maya walks beside me, silent, her jaw tight. She’s watching the guards more than the people. She always watches the guards.

Elias trails behind, eyes unfocused, tapping his finger against his thigh — the same nervous tic Ruby flagged the first time we met him. He looks like he’s bracing for something he already knows is coming.  We reach the central plaza — a wide, polished space surrounded by towers and screens. Sanctuary Six’s leadership stands on the raised platform, arranged in a neat line, faces pale and stiff. They look like people preparing to deliver bad news they’ve already convinced themselves is necessary.

The crowd gathers again, but this time they keep distance. A ring of space forms around the march — a buffer of fear.

Ruby murmurs:

Weapons concealed under jackets.

Guards positioned at flanks.

Leadership heart rates elevated.

This is not a welcome.

The head councilor steps forward. Her voice shakes, but she tries to hide it.

“Juan Rivera,” she says. “Gang members. Refugees of the march. Sanctuary Six thanks you for your bravery.”

The crowd doesn’t cheer.

She continues.

“But Koch has made demands.”

A ripple moves through the plaza — a collective flinch.

“He wants his workers returned. He wants his prisoners returned. He wants his… property returned.”

Her eyes land on me.

“And he wants Juan Rivera surrendered for theft.”

The crowd murmurs — not in protest, but in agreement. Fear makes people agree with anything that promises safety.  They want to believe the Celebs Koch is keeping going 24/7 are telling the truth, like they believed when they were children, and the world simple.  This new reality some are being asked to believe is too much for them.  They love their stars more than the truth. 

Ruby whispers:

Paint spreading.

The councilor lifts her chin, trying to look strong.

“We cannot risk war with Koch. We cannot risk Ellison’s army coming here. Sanctuary Six must survive. Therefore—”

She pauses.

She breathes.

She delivers the sentence.

“Juan Rivera and the prisoners will be remanded to Koch’s custody.”

The plaza erupts — not in outrage, but in relief.

Relief that the danger is being removed.

Relief that the painted birds will be cast out.

Someone shouts:

“It’s their fault Koch is coming!”

Another:

“They brought this on us!”

Another:

“Get them out before he arrives!”

The gangs tense instantly — shoulders tightening, hands drifting toward weapons. Ruby’s voice spikes in my skull:

Juan, they’re preparing to surround you.

Recommend retreat.

Recommend immediate withdrawal.

But there’s nowhere to retreat to.

We’re inside the city.

Inside the gates.

Inside a murder of crows that no longer recognizes us.

Maya steps closer, her voice low.  “Juan… they’re going to hand you over. All of you.”

“I know, they are going to try."

“You need to leave.”

“I know.”

Elias looks at me, eyes wide, terrified.

“They’re going to bury us,” he whispers. “Just like the pits. Just like Ellison.”

Ruby murmurs:

Probability of survival if you stay: negligible.

The councilor raises her hands, calling for silence.

“Sanctuary Six will prepare a transfer. Koch’s representatives will arrive within the day. Until then, Juan Rivera and the prisoners will be held in protective custody.”

Protective custody.

The phrase tastes like rot.

The crowd cheers — not for us, but for the decision.

For the illusion of safety.

For the idea that danger can be removed by sacrificing the painted birds.

Ruby says:

“They’re not seeing you.

They’re seeing the paint.”

The gangs look at me — waiting for direction, waiting for a spark, waiting for anything that tells them what to do next.

Maya looks at me — waiting for the truth.

Elias looks at me — waiting for hope.

And I realize, with a clarity that feels cold and hard in my gut, Sanctuary Six has already chosen sides.

Not ours. Not truth’s. Not the march’s. Their own.

The councilor speaks again, voice firm now that the crowd is behind her.

“Guards — take them.”

Weapons rise.

The crowd steps back.

The painted birds stand alone.

And the betrayal is complete.

13

.

The valley outside Sanctuary Six looks staged — dust hanging like curtains, tents arranged like props, soldiers positioned like extras waiting for their cue. Koch’s army has built a grotesque carnival of holo rigs and banners, all shimmering under the dim, dust‑filtered light.

Ellison’s soldiers stand farther back, forming a jagged perimeter of armored silhouettes. Sanctuary Six’s negotiators wait in the center, clutching tablets like talismans, faces pale with hope they don’t deserve.

Juan… Koch is preparing a broadcast. He wants an audience.

‘Of course he does.’

The gangs walk beside me, silent, carrying the nuke in its reinforced case. They don’t hide it. They want Koch to see it. They want Ellison to see it. They want everyone to understand exactly what kind of moment this is  -- when the time comes.

Elias trails behind, tapping his finger against his thigh — faster now, frantic. Maya watches from Sanctuary Six’s outer wall, her holo feed locked onto us.

Koch steps out of his tent like he’s stepping onto a stage. His outfit is absurd — glittering fabric, neon accents, a cape that looks stolen from a children’s parade. His celebrities flank him: Plumage with her drugged bird, Kosmic Konan smirking, Blaze Burns preening, Coral Reef clutching his relic like a toddler with a toy, bouncing it up and down with a bit too much joy.

Koch spreads his arms.

“Juan Rivera!” he calls, voice amplified through the holo rigs. “My old friend!”

The negotiators flinch.

The gangs stiffen.

Ellison’s soldiers shift uneasily.

Koch walks toward me with exaggerated warmth, smiling like he’s greeting a beloved guest.

“I forgive you,” he says loudly, for the cameras. “I forgive you for the rebellion. For the uprising. For the pits. For the march. For the chaos you caused.”

The crowd murmurs.  The negotiators look confused.  Even Ellison’s troops tilt their heads.

Koch steps closer, lowering his voice so only I can hear.

“And when I get you back,” he whispers, “I’m going to love your new personality.”

His breath smells like synthetic mint and rot.

Ruby spikes an alert in my skull.

Juan — elevated threat. He intends psychological and physical harm.

I laugh.  It starts small — a dry, exhausted chuckle, then it grows, rolls out of me like something breaking loose inside my chest.

Koch freezes.

The gangs hear me and begin laughing too — wild, hysterical, unhinged. It spreads through them like fire.  They laugh at Koch’s cape, fake forgiveness, whispered threat.  They laugh at the absurdity of a man who thinks he can control anything in this valley.

Ellison’s soldiers shift nervously, Koch’s celebrities step back, the negotiators stare in horror. 

Koch’s smile falters. His eyes widen. He looks at me like he’s seeing something he didn’t plan for — something he can’t script, can’t control, can’t turn into a show.

“Stop,” he says quietly. But the laughter only grows.

Juan… He’s afraid..  Love ya, kid.

Maya hears the laughter through Ruby’s holo feed.

She’s standing on Sanctuary Six’s wall, watching the valley, watching me, watching the gangs.

She knows exactly what the laughter means.

It’s time.

She whispers into Ruby’s channel:

Juan… I’m ready.

Koch steps back, cape trembling, voice cracking.

“Enough,” he says. “Enough!”

The laughter keeps rising. . . until all Maya can see on her holo is white.

14

Sanctuary Six rebuilds slowly, cautiously, like a city afraid of its own shadow. But something changes — not in the leadership, not in the infrastructure, but in the people.  Celebs still appear in local shows but their glamor has worn off when they were forced to live like other people, who do what they can for themselves, and others.

Maya starts a program of small plays — art by ordinary citizens, not celebrities.  Stories told by refugees, prisoners, survivors.  Stories without glitter, without propaganda, without lies.  People love it.  They pack the small theaters, sitting shoulder‑to‑shoulder, listening to voices that sound like their own.  Ruby.  She helps organize the events, projecting holos, adjusting lights, guiding children backstage.

Ruby becomes Maya’s child’s nanny — a role she takes with surprising seriousness since being placed into a nanny computer, she hums lullabies. She reads stories. She plays games with the baby’s toys, her mechanical fingers surprisingly gentle.  Though she does continue to curse like a hardened soldier, she promised to stop when the kid started talking.

Maya, the most intelligent people curse more.  She will obviously be bright, gonna have you two's curious minds.  I will make sure she has a good story to tell, when the passions have worn down, and the Celeb's stop starting their little killer cults.

Sometimes she takes the child to the plaza where the statues of Koch, Plumage, Kosmic Konan, and Coral Reef still stand —  idols to the official story where Juan and the others were murderous revolutionaries. 

Ruby circles them, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Those statues will finally move when the book comes out.

I’m going to suggest they cut off their heads.

Goo goo, ga ga.

Right back at ya, kid.

The baby laughs.

She will write the book when history is ready.

The march is over.

The truth remains.