I was assigned to “bury the uprising.” With subtlety, they had added – that was to be key. It was nasty business, subtlety, the kind of work that freed the client of all adversity but left grief in its wake. Those close to the target would be the ones to suffer with few answers and no closure to set their minds at ease. And if the contractor had even a fraction of a soul left, and took pride in the art of her craft, and followed her orders to a tittle, she too would suffer and carry her own twisted and perverse version of grief.
I walked along with the procession amongst the snow-swept crowd, diverse yet notably divided. The deceased was a prominent figure, a glocal hero whose efforts pushed toward freedom and equality for the bio-engineered, the Saiyadorei whom were designed to be servants, warriors and aids; subordinate in every way. He had surrounded himself with these people, given them homes and jobs and treated them like family, and his efforts had begun to trickle down unto the masses and reached beyond the city and even Beyond The Sea. The Ministry was not pleased.
The Saiyadorei were tools. I was a tool. We needed to, and were meant to, be controlled, and the populace needed to be reminded of that – of our dangerous nature. So I snaked my way in, first as a helpless soul, then as a friend, then as a partner, his partner, whom would spend most waking hours with him. I studied him, and his acquaintances, and learned his patterns and his vices. Until eventually I led him to the end that The Ministry desired.
I was called to the head of the procession, to the podium at the fore, and bid to stand along-side his mother and father and sisters and brother who bid me to speak. I could not fake the tears that ran down my cheeks.
“Arthur was a saint living in a repulsive world…”
Daily Prompt: Bury
Word of the Day: glocal