Epitaph of a Memory

At the Emperor's signal, the guards drag the prisoner forward, his knees scraping silently against the terrace's metal tiles. His feet are bare, I notice. His hands are secured behind his back with a pair of dull magnetic cuffs, the light blinking a solid blue to denote that the cuffs are live and magnetically activated. The guards hoist the man to his feet, pull the hood from his face, and lean him over the railing so the crowd can see him, but more importantly, so that he can see them.

Far below us, on the pavement, is a section of concrete on which no one stands.

Before I see the man fall-or more likely, thrown to his death-I see his face. He turns and makes eye contact with me, his dull grey eyes surprisingly sharp and fearless considering his imminent death. Before he falls, his mouth opens wide. Before he falls, his eyes stare at me, not with terror, but with something else I cannot place. Before he falls, I know he isn't afraid.

The Emperor turns to leave as we hear the man's scream blend in with the others-lamenting, sickly-eager voices blending into one.

I've heard this awful sound a handful of times now, and I know whose voice it is.

It's the voice of Onde's Empire.