KamiJirou-Dreaming

The French Quarter

Janus was seriously starting to question his joining of forces with his current posse. 

These lot, he observed, were rather crass and uncaring of the people they were supposed to protect and champion. What was the use of a revolution if it was no better than the order it had set out to destroy? Janus was a true believer in the philosophies that birthed the governments of the modern era, ideas of self-determination, equal government and societal norms, and an equal opportunity for all, disregarding gender, sexuality, and quirk.

But these men, these ruffians, these barbarians, these ANARCHISTS, could care less about the responsibility they had to the oppressed peoples of the world. For this was not just a movement for the quirk less, but for those which Janus had deemed pinned by the bureaucratic and tyrannical thumb of the governments which had gone astray. For in the grand scheme of the world, much of the population was left unchanged. Famines left unsolved, genocides and petty civil wars still prevalent, poverty still rampant. 

Janus knew he could not do the impossible on his own, and for the longest time, he had justified his time with these organizations as tools for a greater good. And here he was, poised for yet another terrorist action. He stopped and pondered for a minute how he had arrived at this point. 

At first it was a sensible idea to align himself with those he found agreed with his views on overthrowing the world order, people that he found matched his own agenda. He had seen others who were hell-bent on destroying the regimes, but he had found them too brutal, too uncivilized.

Ironic it was that he too was to be considered one of them. 

"Sir, our agents are ready for deployment," one of his aides spoke to his side as Janus stood in the middle of the office.

Janus nodded, "Then I shall address them. Start the broadcast."

Walking around his mahogany desk and sitting in his leather chair, Janus took the moment to sip his favorite whisky and fix his tie. Putting the glass down as his aides pointed a camera at him, Janus exhaled.

An aide raised her hand, 5 fingers up.

Janus nodded.

4.

3.

2.

1.

"My fellow brothers and sisters..."

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Patrice Lacroix sat in his little seat in the van, fingers nervously rubbing and intertwining with each other, each bump in the road worsening the pit in his stomach. Looking around at his comrades, he could not help but feel a comradery with these men and women. All who had banded together in the noble and righteous cause of fighting against the fascist dogs who stood at the top. Together, their sacrifice and commitment would see them through the conflict brewing. 

And yet, these brave few would not see the end of their journey, the end of their glorious struggle. They, along with him and countless others, would not return to whatever families they had. Their prior lives gone, forgotten, discarded. True it was, that each and everyone of these brave and heroic individuals would die for a greater cause. HE would die for a greater cause, the greatest of them all.   

That didn't shake his fear away though.

But Patrice would not betray Janus, he would not betray the man who had given him hope, freedom, and a chance at a better life. His finger played with the trigger of his C4 vest. His leg bounced with nervous energy, spry with apprehension, the clink of metal bullet casings deaf to his ears. Fixing his beanie and pulling up the cloth mask, he shifted in his spot, pulling his carbine into his lap. Never had he felt so cold in his Puma jacket than now.