Kelsea Mason
Block 7
Eye of the Hurricane
The President of the United States (If it could be called that anymore) strode down the dim corridor, her worn-down sneakers echoing against the tiles. The sound rang in her ears as did the echoing screams of her fallen family. And in the echoes of the echoes she could practically hear the sounds of the thousands of Americans wiped off this earth. Lights flickered on and off and her emergency knife was heavy on her hip. Memories danced behind her eyes but she did not feel. She was numb.
World War IX. Fear, Desperation, and Greed had brought them to this. Humans, she decided, were terrible creatures. A doorway opened to her left and the Prime Minister of France joined her in the endless walk down the endless hallway. They had been opponents in this War but neither cared. They didn't speak. Both weighted with so much infinite grief that speech was impossible. They left each other to their thoughts.
The twin sounds of shoes on tiles were joined by a third. Japan's leader was barley acknowledged. The young man no longer was tall or proud, with streaks of grey in his hair that shouldn't be. All three wore civilian clothing dotted with hidden weapons and stained with mud, soot and blood not their own.
Then the never-ending hallway wasn't so endless because of a doorway. Like the light at the end of a dark tunnel; this is what with hopefully solve their problems. This meeting will heal the world. She led the way and opened the door.
It was a meeting room. It seemed larger than what it really was because of the emptiness. It was quiet, devoid of life except for the few world leaders already there and others soon arriving. She sat in her chair and noticed just how much the room was like a vacuum that sucks up all the joy, love, misery and sorrow. It wasn't a place for emotions. It was a place of action.
The last few leaders arrived taking their seats. It was silent. No one knew how to start. It's almost funny. She thought. We, the Gods that fought stupidly for power didn't learn how to clean up their mess. In all the stories it was the same. It was the Gods that ended up bitter, angry and alone. She looked around at the once-great leaders of once-great Nations, clothes and souls stained with blood, grime and grief. She closed her eyes. No. It wasn't funny at all.
The Translator, a young man who was fluent in over 50 languages nervously adjusted his glasses (which were slightly cracked in one lens) and fidgeted in his seat, a victim to the profound silence.
A woman in a sweater than might once have been white stirred and declared something in Swedish. The Translator jumped then typed it into his slim laptop projecting it onto the table in front of each leader in their own language.
"Would there really need to be a Treaty when no person can afford to fight when there is nothing to fight over anymore?"
A man frustrated, ranted in Spanish. The sound of typing echoed in the room while Mexico's representative muttered an agreement to the first man, the leader of Ecuador. The speech appeared seconds later. "Because it has to be official. We have to agree with no more War. It doesn't solve anything. It's our mistake and we have to admit that. Too many have died."
The Representative of Australia barked out a cynical laugh in a very un-ladylike manner. She didn't particularly care at the moment. "Tell me just how we declare no war. It will never work. We know what it causes and what's left of the world knows but what happens when we rebuild? Hundreds of years from now something will go wrong and it won't be one nuclear-radiation bomb it might be hundreds. The human race will be just like the dinosaurs with nothing left but the cockroaches. We didn't care enough about the past to learn so, why should they?"
The President leaned back in her chair. Should I tell them my idea now? She studied the faces of the people.
A man hung his head and sighed in Arabic. "She is right. What could we possibly do?" The Russian leader banged her fist on the table. "Why do you think we are here? We think of ideas to promote peace!" He glared at her. "What's the point of rebuilding if we just destroy again?"
The atmosphere in the room had changed drastically. Grief had given away to hostility and frustration; to themselves, to each other, to their country, to the whole world. When you've already blamed yourself and tried blaming others the least you can do is blame the world.
France's ruler practically growled. "Our forests are bomb shelters! Our oceans are toxic sludge! Even if we try it will take us long past our lifetime and our descendants would just blow it up again!"
India's superior spat at him, "We are survivors! We rebuild for the future generation!"
The woman in the white sweater said something calmly and coldly in Swedish. Just the tone made everyone freeze and wait patiently for it to arrive on the dozens of little screens. "Well I feel bad for them."
It was met by silence as everyone absorbed that. There was determination in the air quickly lapsing into denial and fading into ragged defeat.
The President stood and leaned forward on the table. She held her head high. She was no longer numb. "I have an idea." She said quietly. The Translator stared as if he didn't hear her right then typed it in.
They gaped. The Australian barked out another laugh but no one objected. The room was deathly quiet.
Ms. President took a deep breath and told them her idea. Her eyes were bright as she told them of Communities. Almost chilling places where everyone was the same. Everyone had the same rules. A perfect world where everyone was in their place. There were no choices yet they choose to obey. There was peace. There was Harmony. Overall well-being for everyone. No one knew about War. Diseases were cured. Famine was a myth. Poverty was a fable. Death did not exist in their minds.
The others looked uneasy. Some looked a little green actually which was understandable. She wasn't completely comfortable with the idea herself but it was all they had. "In my religion there was a prophecy that the world will end in a glorious battle between good and evil. It seems that it already happened only there was never any good. War, starvation, disease, pollution; Death as a final outcome. It was us. We the leaders of this Earth destroyed ourselves. It is our duty to the fallen and the future to rebuild, not our cities but we shall rebuild the human race. Rebuild our nature and instincts. There is no other way to truly achieve peace."
They stared at her. Eyes wide and mouths open. They thought. They thought long and hard. The more they thought of their families and the future the more appealing it was. Then one by one, hesitantly, grudgingly, hopelessly, they each nodded their heads. "Excellent."
Then someone laughed. It was a chilling sound, icy and cold and hopeless and just a little bit insane.
It was The Translator.
Everyone stared at him. At their shadow, which was the only one who ever knew just what, went on during their meetings. The nameless one. The faceless one. Sure he had a name at one point like all do, but no one ever bothered to ask; same with his nationality. He was the first one to arrive and the last one to leave. He was nothing. But still he laughed.
He laughed and laughed and laughed. He took off his glasses and laughed some more, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. And when he stopped laughing, he spoke with no accent of any kind staring at the table a small mad smile playing on his lips.
"Do you really think that will work?" He did not type the words yet they appeared on the screens so everyone could understand him who didn't speak English. He raised his head and spoke directly at her, his pale blue eyes almost grey like the eye of a hurricane. "I have studied world history all my life. I know each terrible history of each of your countries better than you do."
His lips barley moved yet she heard him clearly, hanging onto every word. "You are trying to change human nature. Human robots of their own free will. They will know nothing of their ancestors. What it feels to be free. The pain of loss, yes but you can not have one with out the other. You learn to love you learn to hate. Are you really going to let go of love or hope when it's all you have left? Close-minded free will. They will be like dogs willing to please their master without really knowing why."
She shook her head. The large room had shrunk in her mind to just the two of them. "People have to be ignorant for their own safety."
He glared. His eyes so cold and so deep it burned in her soul. "Even if you succeed there will always be one. Always one dog who will know that he doesn't have to roll over or beg but does it anyway because he will know why. And that one will always be the strongest because he will quietly suffer and still beg for a bone like the others. He will be different. He may not know the history but he will know true free will."
She nodded slowly. "You're right." She paused. "We need someone to hold that knowledge of emotion, of difference. Our descendant's one last connection to us. To know free will and to pass it on to others so free will is never lost to us. Our descendants will learn from our mistakes. But only one person shall know that grief. The human race will be comfortable and safe except for one person.
"You will be that person." He looked as if he had been slapped. His eyes seemed to be darkening, like grey storm clouds in a swirling tempest. She stared defiantly into them. "Do you have a better idea?"
He blinked breaking the spell. Then his eyes were pale grey again almost blue; the eye of the storm. He put on his glasses and nodded.
She smiled for the first time in months though it was strained. Warily she asked. "What is your name?"
"Giver. Jonathan A. Giver."