The Ace of Hearts: We the People

Prologue

    My eyes open to see a large room, empty save myself, the table in front of me, the familiar man on the other side of the table, and the chair to which the two of us are restrained.
    Restrained. I can't move. No matter how much I struggle I cannot seem to break free of the invisible grip that holds me to the chair with seemingly superhuman strength. Upon examination of my body, I realize that the restraints are not invisible at all. There are three thick steel bands encircling my torso, gripping so tight that I can feel my heart pushing against my sternum. There is one band around each thigh and two around each shin. A seventh band squeezes my forearms to the arms of the chair and an eighth band pinches both of my upper arms to the back of the chair. I can move my eyes, hands, feet, and head. None of these give me any chance of escaping the predicament that I find myself trapped in.
    I begin to calm down and begin to examine the room that I am sitting in. There is a familiarity to it, almost like I'd been there before. A memory lurks in the back of my subconscious that tells me that I have been here before. The memory it brings forth is distant and wispy, as if my brain stored it out of instinct during a time that it was trying not to remember. Unfortunately, my brain did remember the place. And the familiarity it had in my mind did not bring about a sense of comfort.
    Panic again to began to flood me as I noticed the man sitting across from me. I recognized everything about him. I recognized the bright blonde hair that fell to the side of his oval-shaped head. I recognized his tight lips that barely moved through his constant mouth breathing. I recognized his big eyes that complimented his small mouth. I recognized the electric blue color of them as they began to open. This was my best friend, my right hand man.
    "What's happening?" the man whispered. "Where are we?"
    His voice came out soft, like he was trying to keep someone from hearing him. Underneath the quiet tone, I recognized the sheer pain and terror he was feeling. As I contemplated what he must be feeling, I began to understand the situation we were in and the current condition of my own body. My clothes were tattered, burnt around the edges, and blood stained. My only guess was that I was bleeding profusely, but my captors patched the wound so that I could survive a little longer. The only pain that I felt was due to the constricting metal bands that squeezed my body with a force it could barely handle. The adrenaline pumping through my blood made it impossible to feel any other pain. My calm demeanor did little to ensure comfort for my friend. He was panicing.
    "Calm down," I say, my voice raspy and metallic. It feels as if I have not had a drink in years. "We have to think about this. We need to find a solution."
    Memories of the rebellion spring into my mind. I remember the beginning, my arrest, my brother's faked execution instead of my real one. I remember the years that follow. I remember thinking that my brother was dead, I remember the fighting that has ensued. The various speeches I have given, the sticky situations I have escaped from, they all become fresh in my mind, as if it has all happened this week. I remember my brother showing me that he is not dead, and I remember his arrest. I remember the botched trial that lead to his crucifixion a year ago. Suddenly, the realization of where we are hits me. I know why it seems familiar. I have been here. This is where they took me after my arrest. My best friend and I have been arrested again. And my guess is that we aren't both going to walk out alive.
    Our eyes meet and remained locked upon each other as the steel door across from me opens up. I see two men walk in, dressed in orange and black uniforms. One man has his face covered, ashamed to show us who he really is. The other man has no such shame. He has his face exposed, and every bit of it is full of extreme hatred. I recognize him, and I know Travis does too. I know that he can see the new man's reflection in the mirror that covers the entire room. This new man is young, about the age that my friend and I are. He has shiny brown hair that falls flat and uniform around his perfectly circular face. His brown eyes are bland and forgettable, but my friend and I both remember them. This man is the color of vanilla and has as much complexity as a scoop of this ice cream. He is forgettable, bland, and plain. But we remember him. He is a traitor.
    "Well look who it is," I say boldly. "Unashamed to show us who you are now? You think that you finally have us beat, so your'e not afraid to show your true colors. How about you take a tip from your partner and cover up? You're as forgettable and dangerous as the common cold. You don't matter and you won't stop us. Even if both of us die."
    "Shut the hell up, yank," said the traitor. "You mean nothing to me."
    "You're just as American as us," said my right hand man. "We mean everything to you and you know it. Don't give me that nonsense. Spare us some of your decency and stop talking."
    "I will soon enough. But first, a game. Russian Roulette." As the traitor was saying this, he loaded a single bullet into a small revolver and gave the chamber a solid spin. He slammed the gun onto metal table that separated myself and my friend, giving it a strong spin. "Ah. You get to go first." The gun barrel pointed to me. The traitor first undid the restraints holding back my friend's restraints, and then moved to undo mine.
    I picked up the gun, with no hesitation. It was cold, heavy, and bulky. But there was more to this weapon than just its material composition. There was a connotation to this gun that suggested death and despire. Given the grim nature of the game I was about to play, the connotation seemed fitting. l felt the immense weight put on by this weapon. Its shiny design glinted into my eye, and I could see my reflection for the briefest of moments. There was nothing more that I could do to perpetuate the efforts this rebellion has put forth. There is a good chance that all my work is going to come to a screeching halt at this very instance.
    "Stop!" my friend shouted. "You have a choice. You can shoot at yourself or you can give me the gun. I'm asking you to give me the gun. You cannot die. Not now, not like this. We need you. And you're no good to anyone dead. Please."
    "No," I said as I pulled the trigger. The gun clicked harmlessly. The chamber was empty and the choice now moved to my friend.
    "It has to be me. I have to be the one to die here," he picked up the gun slowly, never breaking eye contact with me.
    "You do not," I argued. "You do not need me. You have to know how much more you've provided for this fight than I have. You have to know. There is so much more that you can provide to this fight. It isn't over. Please let me die for you. Too many people have died for me, and I cannot let you join them. Please.
    "No," said my best friend, my right hand man. With a wink of the eye and a final American salute, the trigger was pulled. The deafening sound of the bullet being fired filled the small room with noise.