I Remember You

Prologue

 "You will pay for your crimes! Every single one of you will pay!"

Silence enveloped the chamber inside the ExCel convention center in London, only interrupted from time to time by a few scared whimpers. The armed men, dressed in black, were pointing their AK-54's at the representatives of Earth's dominant nations. The guerrillas' leader, a tall, muscular, dark-haired man, held a pistol to the chairman's head.

"My son-"

"I am not your son!" shouted the man at David Ward, United Kingdom's prime minister and host of the World Order G14's summit of the year 2056. The French president flinched at the angry intensity of his voice, the reaction earning her a mocking chuckle from one of the invaders.

"What are your terms? I am sure we can reach an agreement," said the American president, shooting up from his chair. The commotion was inevitable. All twenty men and women surrounding the representatives gripped their automatic rifles. Shouts, ordering people to stay down and shut up, filled the air, mixed with cries of despair and whispers of prayers in different languages.

The presumed leader of the attackers, with a sardonic smile darkening his handsome face, turned to the trembling United States' president, who was now cowering somewhere on the floor.

"Mr. President... Always so sure of yourself. You thought you'd just pop up and fix everything." He approached the white-haired man, leaning to grab him by the collar of his shirt. "Unfortunately for you, this is not some good, old, Hollywood movie."

He shoved him even further on the ground and rose. His eyes flickered around the room, on his comrades, their faces filled with pride and conviction, their gazes fearless despite the certainty of death. As for the rest? The presidents and the prime ministers responsible for the perishment of billions? The fourteen leaders of Earth's most unscathed countries, who had formed a dictatorship using humankind's survival as an excuse? How pathetic they looked without the heavily armed units that usually protected them.

How small they appeared when Judgment was upon them.

He approached the chairman again, taking a few papers out of a pocket, and threw them on the desk in front of the prime minister. "This is all over the internet as we speak. Everybody will know what you did. I thought I should inform you before we kill you all."

Gasps of terror filled the air after that statement. A high-pitched, shaky voice, belonging to China's president penetrated the man's ears. "You can't kill us! You will die too! You will not get out of here alive if we don't!"

A calm smile settled on his lips in response to the woman's words. It was so strange, so out of place to appear serene under such circumstances, that Chen Huang, China's first female president ever, gazed at him agape, horror written all over her face.

He stared down at her. "You don't say..."

Someone inside the room had the most terrified expression, but not from the threats. David Ward was reading the document, exchanging frantic looks with the Russian president, little droplets of sweat running down his forehead. Dmitri Sokolov, tall, bald, and hawk-like, mouthed something to him. When the British prime minister nodded, all the blood drained from the hawk's face.

The leader of the armed invaders noticed the interaction and chortled. "Da," he said, turning to the Russian president. "It is what you think it is."

Sokolov eyed him with scrutiny, a fact the man found amusing. These few ounces of bravery were more than whatever every other ruler in this room demonstrated.

"We had no choice." The Slavic-accented words left the president's mouth, only to be greeted with waves of hostility streaming from the man's eyes as he brought his face only an inch apart from the Russian.

"I guess I have no choice either then!" he raged. But his attention suddenly shifted to someone else. One of his mates was motioning towards the gates of the chamber.

"They are coming," he said. "Let's get this over with."

The man nodded and returned to the chairman's side, pointing his gun back at the English prime minister. His companions shifted to resume a better position. He considered the irony. The rulers would die the same way thousands had died in demonstrations, under the orders they had issued themselves. Grip the guns firmly. Aim at the crowd. Leave none alive.

His boisterous voice echoed inside the room. "You, leaders of World Order Group 14, have been found guilty of crimes against humanity. The sentence is death."

"Wait!" David Ward cried, drops of sweat and tears mixing on pale cheeks. The armed man tilted his head to the side, a hint of annoyance in his stare. "If this" -the prime minister swayed the papers back and forth- "is out in the open as you say, why kill us? We are dead anyway!"

The man snorted. "Like we have any faith in a justice system controlled by you." But in a matter of seconds, he grew darker, as a torturous remembrance clouded his face. "Besides, this is more than justice," he said. "This is personal revenge."

"Pe- personal?" stammered the British prime minister, eyes widening on meeting with the stranger's gaze. An all-consuming pain was dancing in there. Hand in hand with ravaging remorse.

"You killed the woman I loved," the man said, torment painting every single word.

And he fired the gun.