Almost immediately after the crisis is over, the politician has already retied his tie, straightened his cuffs and smoothed dow

AN: A piece for English coursework and so very important, all reviews returned.

Quintessence

Almost immediately after the crisis is over, the politician has already retied his tie, straightened his cuffs and smoothed down his hair; appearing ruffled or even remotely bothered by the scene would be detrimental to his career. The bomb did go off quite a way away from the podium, to be fair, but he had still cowered, catlike, beneath the cohort of police troopers storming to protect him while the chaos reigned. For one fateful second, he had shown his fear, and that would certainly have been enough to get him ‘replaced’ by his Majesty. Although five hundred of his supporters died in the explosion, he has steeled himself not to care. To show remorse over the death of ordinary plebs – commoners, if you will – would forever taint his relations with the Emperor. To be perceived as weak, even by the proverbial man on the street, is an emotion that is not welcomed by a Senator, because his Majesty’s realm is always safe. He recites that little epithet to himself while the troopers approach him, desperate to keep calm. His Majesty’s realm is always safe. Loyal citizens of the Empire, you have nothing to fear. His Greatness will protect you all.

Ten troopers approach him, carrying a violently struggling youth between them. “Sir, we have caught the miscreant who detonated the package.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, my Lord. Would you have us question him?” The Captain gestures to the squat form of the Imperial Police Bureau behind him, where everyone knows the electric chair and sharp white knives lie, hungry for victims. “Questioning” the boy would be a minor formality; you were guilty until proved innocent, and the guilty did not merit a trial.

The politician is about to assent, when something stops him. He is not a superstitious man – quite the opposite, actually – yet something about the boy intrigues him. “No. Take him to my car; I will question him myself on our way to the Palace.”

“The palace, my Lord?”

“Yes.” That would buy them a scant hour at least, an hour to find out why.

Betrayal can hurt even the flintiest of souls … even those that have already previously experienced it.

They are silent for the first few minutes, the boy watching the green fields roll by and morph into tree lines street and well kept roads, the politician picking the immaculate leather seats until the threads fray. It is probably his first time in a car; commoners are banned from driving, a priviledge only extended to Lords and high ranking citizens of the Empire. All is quiet – until –

“You are displeased with our form of government.” It is not a question.

“On the contrary, I am most pleased with the system.”

The politician raises an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

“It is your treatment of the commoners that I fail to understand.”

“We treat them as well as they deserve.” The older man replied irascibly, falling back on the old arguments to bolster his point. “If they cannot comprehend the complicated ways in which our government runs, why should they have a part in it? We all know why commoners are commoners: they all achieved below the required 130 IQ on the standard tests, and are therefore too unintelligent to comprehend the mysteries of the Empire. Why, even, should they have free will, when all it leads to is regrettable incidents like the one that you just caused?”

“You murder thousands of us daily, without a trial-“

“And you just killed five hundred innocents with your little stunt back there, boy. Don't lecture me about innocents.”

He is silent for a moment, watching the scenery pass by. The green trees lining the streets are slowly losing their battle with autumn, and fallen leaves decorate the air. “You know what?” He asks quietly, sitting up just a little bit straighter.

“Tell me.”

“I hate you.” The words fall out of his mouth slowly, slipping into the solid air like drops of cyanide. “I hate all of you.”

“Us?” The politician plays the commoner for a second; he knows perfectly well whom the boy is referring to.

“You. Politicians. Rulers.” He spits out the last words as though they are curses. “You know, you all think we’re stupid, but we’re not.”

“Really now?”

The boy continues as though the other man has not spoken. “Take soap operas, for example. Propaganda aside, you think that we’d only understand life if it’s played out in cheap East End décor with our supposed low class accents and teenage pregnancy and low life love … and even if you allow us a carefully controlled glimpse into the world of power, what with all the expensive silks, posh drinks and costume drama, you know that we’ll lose ourselves in the heady sensation of new-felt glamour and you hope that we forget the cheap plotlines, assumed accents and unreal, mundane situations! It's all a sham to distract us from the fact that it’s not real, much like your military parades and Emperor’s addresses aim to disguise the killing that those men carry out every day in the name of some Empire!” The boy has eloquence, the politician will give him that. “And watch out, ‘cause us real-life politicians are striking back, armed with everything from knives to pitchforks – and we will fight! Oh yes, we will fight …”

It is an empty threat; the politician is sure of it. It must be. “How can you fight, when you know I will terminate you?”

The car swerves almost imperceptibly on the road. “Because you’re so damned shortsighted that you can’t see what future’s ahead of you! If you kill me – which I know you will – I’ll become a martyr, a focal point for the disillusioned to rally around. We all hate you, my Lord, and all we need is some minor excuse, a flag to fly, and before you know it, we’ll be crowding on the Palace doorstep, killing without reason and screaming for blood!”

“Must you make it sound so apocalyptic?” the politician asks with a thin-lipped smile. “A bunch of unarmed farmers will be no match for our police force.”

“If you want to delude yourselves into a false sense of security, by all means, be my guest.” The car pulls into the Palace courtyard, a cohort of armed men rushing out to meet their Senator. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

They step out of the car, the two waiting troopers instantly handcuffing the boy and waiting for the politician’s orders.

He takes a deep breath. “Proceed to the Red Row for immediate termination. He has nothing of use to us.” The words drop like stones out of his mouth; he feels slightly sick.

The boy regards the politician with disdain for one spilt second, before composing his features. It almost makes the politician proud, the way that he is not scared of death. “I guess this is the end.”

“There never was a beginning.”

“Oh, but there was.” His eyes gleam triumphantly, as the troopers escort him away. “There always was …”

The fateful word is left unsaid, and for that the politician is … the man searches his feelings, unable to answer. Unbelievingly, he is not grateful that his secret remains unmasked. He is bitter, he feels hurt, betrayed … and ashamed. Ashamed that after seventeen years, he has still not been acknowledged as what he should be, his rightful title, and that he never will be, now.

If there is one last thing that he can be proud of, he thinks, it is that his son walked to his death with his head held high, without a trace of fear and without turning back. As befits a man of the Empire.

The car door closes, and the father of the rebel sighs, shakes the treasonous thoughts clear from his mind and picks up his mobile phone, making for his life in the city. Behind him, a nightingale bursts into song.

-fin-