A shadow slashed across the cityscape, the lone black-clad figure slinking along the cobblestone streets in silence. The young man stalked through familiar territory, and although he knew he had set foot here recently, his last visit felt like a lifetime ago.
The city couldn't be more different from his usual surroundings; his new normal. He had grown accustomed to the red desert terrain, the frozen lakes, the twin moons, the cities of glass.
But now he was back on Earth; back in Brussels. And from what he could see, nothing had changed.
The streets were still quiet, abandoned. Structures were in disrepair, if not reduced to rubble. The city's government and citizens were still rebuilding and cleaning up in the aftermath of the Eve Wars. And that was before the event known as the Mariemaia Incident nearly thrust them all into war all over again. That is, before he put a stop to it, and nearly killed himself and countless others in the process.
Including her.
Not that he took sole credit for quashing the conflict before it spiraled into another full-scale war. The fact was, each of his comrades had been instrumental in fighting to preserve the peace.
He shook his head, struggling to comprehend that had taken place mere months ago. But then, his thoughts were still hazy from the trip he'd taken. It always went like this. Eventually he'd adjust, reacclimate to the atmosphere, get his head squared away.
He raised his left wrist to inspect his watch, the digital face displaying the time and date.
March 13, A.C. 197.
It was not a day of any significance.
Not yet.
Gradually, cobblestones gave way to paved streets and fancy townhouses that had either survived the violence that had descended on the city that past December, or whose owners were wealthy enough to quickly restore the properties to their former glory—without having to trip over any bureaucratic red tape in the process.
He traipsed through Brussels Park, slowing his steps as he neared the gated entrance for the Palace of the Nation. He paused to take in the sight of the sprawling neoclassical structure rising up among manicured trees and statues. Frigid air stung his face as he stood still. It felt like it was going to snow. He almost wanted it to; perhaps it could purify this Earth, if not his soul.
No, it was far too late for that. Too late for him.
He strode up to the iron gate, reaching inside his black peacoat for his I.D., handing it over to one of several guards stationed outside the Palace. The guard gave him a brief once-over followed by a curt nod of approval.
He nodded back at the other man, pocketed his I.D. and headed for the columned entrance. His eyes followed the length of the columns looming above: six of them, comprising the balcony where many royals, heads of state, and various other dignitaries had made appearances and given speeches over the years.
Everything about this place screamed royalty. Prestige. History.
War. Peace. Revolution.
Those three words had become a familiar refrain in his mind.
The three beats of the endless waltz had begun, once again. And he was the drummer.
He stared straight up at the empty balcony, envisioning her standing above him, addressing the crowd that would gather, and those who would tune in on their television and computer screens—earthlings and colonists alike. Undoubtedly, they would all hang on her every word. Because they could sense her sincerity, could tell she was speaking from the heart. And she was. Unlike her more seasoned colleagues, she still had an innocence about her. She still meant every word, from her soul.
She was so good, then.
For a fleeting moment, he wished he could do something to preserve that goodness. To take her somewhere and shield her from the coming storm. But he had already witnessed endless possibilities, and each led to the same outcome.
He had not yet revisited this particular date, this seemingly insignificant moment in time. But this was going to be the time and place when he would finally put an end to all of it.
It had to be.
