The streets are busy. Everyone is moving. Some have a destination in mind. Some don't. But that's okay. As long as you don't stop moving, the unimaginably thick flow of people won't crush you.
The buildings tower over the people. They look down on the humans like gods, despairing the waste of potential and harshly judging the lower than dirt beings. The sky is grey and rain falls down. It hits the pavement in a repetitive motion. The noise drives some of the people who are moving slowly to quicken there pace and find shelter. Others love the feel of the cool liquid on their skin and dawdle.
The heavens are weeping for the souls lost in today's events.
Today, the revolution tried again. Today, the revolution failed again. Today, no one really cares about the people foolish enough to fight against the power of the world. Only nature and the omnipotent care for the needless waste of lives. Lives that could have had some potential. But people are inherently bad, so the likelihood of any of the lost lives ever truly doing anything good and helpful is extremely unlikely. So, maybe it was just best that they died before they did more bad than good.
Or that is at least what Desmond Miles, the resident cynic and only still body in an ever-moving world, thinks.
"Fucking idiots," he had muttered when the sirens filled the air.
The fires had illuminated through the moth eaten curtains of his tiny apartment. He heard the screams of the revolutionaries. It did not affect him. Desmond has long become numb. The thought that the people burning could have been one of his friends does not cross his mind once. Desmond has no one. He is no one. He believes in nothing.
He is just one, useless shred of DNA adding to the plague that the human race is on the planet.
Desmond usually stays in during the day. Today, however, he leaves his apartment to stand and gaze up at the grey sky.
He sometimes misses the heights. He misses the rush of climbing. Desmond misses seeing his reflection in someone's bright eyes. His cheeks flushed and mouth wide open as he breaths deeply.
Desmond's better off on the ground. Being too high off the ground encourages stupidity and believing in the impossible. Believing in nothing is much easier. Nothing to lose and no disappointment.
"Hello!" a chipper voice catches Desmond's attention.
He tears his gaze from the skyline to look at a boy wrapped up in a grey hoodie. Desmond knows that hoodie too well. Desmond's distracted by the boy's youth. He vaguely tickles Desmond's memory. His brown skin and dark piercing eyes remind Desmond of a figure who once played the part of his voice of reason when Desmond was beginning to realize that everything was lost. Desmond use to hang onto his words, hoping he'd soon rejoin the fight. (Of course, once Desmond realized that believing in something was a waste of a life, his voice of reason no longer seemed to affect him.)
"Can I interest you in a new world?" the boy asks.
He's breathless and so excited to being sharing his beliefs, Desmond notes. The boy is new and impressionable. And above all fucking idiotic for joining a doomed movement.
"No," Desmond responds sharply before walking away.
The boy remains there, shocked for a few seconds before scrambling to catch up to Desmond. He has to push through a few people, but the boy swiftly attaches himself to Desmond's side.
"Why don't you wish for a new world? Where we aren't under the constant fear of our tyrannical ruler?"
"Look, kid –"
"I'm seventeen," the boy protests and Desmond almost chokes on his own tongue.
(Are they really recruiting them this young now? Christ, Desmond thought he had been young – but then again he had been born into this fight.)
"You can't throw your life away with this cause. A new world just isn't possible."
This ignites a light in the boy's eyes and he shoves a bright red paper in Desmond's face.
The words flash through Desmond's mind. Everything flashes through with such intensity and concentration that Desmond almost passes out. It's too much, to remember it all.
"I have hope," the boy tells him. "You just need to find what you believe in."
"I have and I lost it," Desmond grumbles, crumpling the paper. "Actually, it was stolen from me. People aren't good. People are greedy and they take and take. They aren't going to help with the revolution; they aren't going to thank you. They are going to complain and ask what's taking you so long and criticize your methods."
"And yet people join our cause everyday. People willing to make a change, people ready to fight."
"How many stories have you heard on the Burning of the Courts?"
"I've been privy to much information on the story," the boy answers, almost proudly.
Desmond wants to puke. This boy shouldn't be idolizing and looking up to the Burning. He should hate it. Condemning it. Shaming it. Hundreds died. Thousands injured. And it was all one person's fault.
"It was a great exemplar of strong message to our leaders. We aren't afraid."
"No," Desmond corrects tightly. "It was a message to our leaders that the revolutionaries are a bunch of incompetent old people attempting to teach radical and unpredictable youth how to fight a war. A stupid fuck made an irrational, emotion based call that got a lot of people killed."
"What would you know?" the boy demands, pulling his stack of papers protectively into this chest.
Desmond smiles sardonically and cruelly. How cute, the boy seems to look up to the agent who went into the Courts that day. They are still walking down the busy street, their voices steadily rising. No one notices. No one notices those who don't want to be seen.
"How can you even think to defend a man who has the blood of several hundred people with family and loved ones on his hands?"
"He did the best with what he was given," the boy protests. "It was a no-win situation, and sure, he made a poor call but it still sent the necessary message. The government knows that this time around, the revolution it real. The so-called incompetent old people are building a new, stronger group of people ready to fight for the cause."
Desmond laughs. His laugh is cold and mocking. He remembers the days when he was that boy. Eager to fight for the cause. Ready to die for it without knowing anything.
"They are creating an army or brainless youth ready to throw their lives away. You're wasting your time, kid. Nothing is worth throwing your life away. Don't be a pawn in their game."
Desmond turns and walks away. Desmond flattens out the red piece of paper as best he can in his palm. He gently folds it up and puts it away in his pocket.
Because no matter how much he tries, the cynic can't forget the words that once held his entire world.
Until, Desmond had learned the lies in the words. Nothing is true. But nothing is permitted.