I'll See My City Burn

I stood in my throne room, a glass of gin in my hand, looking at the window. I had just appointed a young man to lead a subjugation programme of the city in response to the terrorist attack on one of the pillars of the city.

It had gone disastrously wrong. That man was now dead, the first casualty in a list nearly three hundred long. The sky around my pyramid was black with smoke and the streets below glowed a devilish orange.

I sighed, and looked at my revolver, sitting on the bar table to my right where I had picked up the drink from. People had figured out that everyone was discontent with the regime, not just themselves.

I had spent fifty years before the regime perfecting the craft of suppressing information. I burnt cities, drowned thousands, slaughtered more, all in the name of keeping order. Then my time came, I perished, though apparently, it was not to last, as The Watcher saw in me what he himself did not possess.