We're Not Gonna Take It

Chapter XII: Sometimes the person you'd take a bullet for is behind the trigger

The problem with guns, is that you often end up shooting yourself in the foot with them.  In my case, that was a literal statement.

The problem with guns, is that making arms available to citizens creates an entire sociopolitical system that values said guns over the lives of students and the impoverished and oppressed.  The problem with guns, is that regardless of the perception of them, they are murder weapons and when lacking proper training and education, pose an incredible threat to citizens- the middle class and deplorables alike.  The problem with guns, is that "guns" does not inherently mean only hunting rifles- "guns" includes a wide range of weapons, from toys all the way to semi-automatic rifles, and even to guns of tanks.  The problem with allowing citizens to have the right to own arms, is that there is no specification of the line in which citizens absolutely should not be allowed to own a certain gun.  The government can't, and won't, take away semi-automatic rifles because they could plausibly be used for hunting, a legitimate reason for owning a gun in this country with all its food rations, but if you need an AK-47 to shoot a deer, you just suck at hunting.

The other way you foot yourself in the foot with guns, is shooting yourself in the foot.  Actually, physically, putting a hole, in your foot, with the gun, that you bought, to kill the president.  You may have been trying to kill the president, but you've really just ended up killing your foot.

I knew that pain was temporary though; the bullet didn't go through my entire foot so there wasn't much blood, meaning I wouldn't bleed out.  Meaning I had to keep going. 

Having no proper training with a weapon, I pulled the trigger on my AR-15 as fast as I could, until shots stopped flying back at me.  Somehow, in a six-to-one struggle, I managed to make it out with only a shot in the foot.  From myself.

I walked over to the fallen police officers and investigated.  There, lying there, was my old friend, my first love, my now sworn enemy- Ben O'Brien, a bullet through his head.  He was dead. 

Looking at Ben, it didn't feel real- it felt like some sadistic simulation designed by Hoekstra, designed to make me crazy.  But I knew it wasn't.  I knew I had just shot Ben, I knew Ben was a traitor, I knew Ben lead five police officers, two on either side of him, to come kill me. 

I paused.  Ben brought two police officers on either side of him, which means he brought five as two plus two equals five.  However, when I counted Ben's officer minions they totaled and four.  My immediate thought was that an officer has escaped, but there were still two lying next to Ben on either side.  Next to Ben's lifeless corpse.  Confused, I paused, suddenly unhindered by the pain in my foot, to figure out what was going on.  I counted the bodies.  One, two, on the left of Ben.  Three, four, on the right of Ben.  Four minions.  I counted the other direction.  One, two, on the right of Ben.  Three, four, in the left of Ben.  Again, four minions.   Two on each side, but four total.  I mirrored the bodies with my fingers.  Two fingers up of each hand, meaning I should have five fingers up.  I counted my fingers and got four.

That's when the truth hit me like a military-grade armed fighter jet.  I have been lied to my entire life- two plus two, equals four.  Hoekstra has arranged every bit of schooling in math around incorrect addition, and no one had even noticed, not even me.  The very putting together of fingers disproved Hoekstra's so-called "facts," but no one had ever figured out that this "fact" was actually an alternative one.

My world was crashing down; Ben was dead, my adopted family was taken in and would be killed by Hoekstra, I've known math incorrectly my entire life, and within minutes there would be a mass of police officers coming for me, as they undoubtedly have some sort of check to make sure a team of officers doesn't get annihilated by the dissent they're trying to crush.  Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I knew what I had to do- it was time to kill the President.

I abandoned all my carefully crafted schemes, I abandoned all my excessive materials, I abandoned my friends, deplorables, that had helped me and ran.  I ran, gun in hand, hardly feeling the pain in my foot, I ran to Hoekstra's mansion. 

As I ran, all I could think about was Ben.  How I had loved him, how he had betrayed me, how I had killed him.  How he had tried to kill me.  And how I was going to kill Hoekstra in memory of him- out of vengeance for the Ben I loved, and out of spite for the Ben I loathed.

Soon, too soon, I reached Hoekstra's mansion and ran inside.  Just to my luck, luck- for the first time in my life- cameras were pointed at Hoekstra, filming him.  They must have been filming for the mandatory day-before-the-state-of-the-union prep event.  This was the best I could have possibly hoped for on a plan I didn't have- I would shoot Hoekstra on live TV, everyone in the country would see his downfall.

"I am Elizabeth Blair and it's time to die Hokestra, you chauvinistic pig!" I shouted, running in front of the camera and reaching for the trigger of my gun, outstretched and pointed at Hoekstra's face.

"Protocall two!  Phoenix duck!" One of Hoekstra's body guards called out, as the entire mass of guards raised their guns to point at me.

I heard a loud bang, and everything faded to black...

Author's Notes: THE END!!