As you climb up onto the makeshift stage and give the audience of tired, frightened people below you your best grin, you can't help but think about how the hell you managed to be the guy running this place. It's a crumbling remnant of a civilisation, with a fragile temper and little to no chance of surviving what's to come - what could be to come.
You never specifically wanted to be a leader. You were fine with the way things were - you, your mother, your older sister and your grown-up brother, who was High Up in the ranks of the Revolution. You always knew your brother was the favourite, from the way your mother talked about him. You could practically hear the capital letters. You were quite happy with the company of your sister, though. at night, when the stars wheeled in the sky, she would tell you stories of the Old Days - and the New Days, too. She told you the legend of the Angel King, the alien who had fallen to earth, long, long before the war. She told you about his twelve legendary servants, twelve lesser angels, each with the aspects of a different legendary element. You memorised the names of Phobos, the angel of fear, Eros, the angel of love, and many more - angels of fire, earth, stone, metal, and water. Your favourite was Ilus, the angel of light. Your sister told you about his great wings, forty feet from tip to tip, which glowed with a blinding light, his eyes, burning with an unnatural fire. and his amazing abilities - to bring light to the darkest of places, to restore sight and knowledge to the blind and the lost. You guess, even at that age, he reminded you of yourself. Bringing hope and optimism to the weary, frightened people in front of you.
Stupid fantasy, really. Like anyone would compare you to an angel!
