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Forward: It has been a very long time since I wrote anything, so cut me a break. This should be interesting.
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A.D. 1987
Under the orange hood of his Hazmat suit, Samuel Burns smiled, his reflection bouncing off the protective faceplate only made him chuckle.
The land was sheet glass, fused together in the infinite heat of the latest war.
He wanted to spit, spit on Rome, spit on their God, they couldn’t do a damned thing about it, he had beaten them all. He threw his fist in the air instead, some imagined referee awarding him the victory in this great match between him and this fallen nation.
In fact, he was so wrapped up in his imaginings that he never heard the hammer of the gun click behind his head.
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A.D. 1208
The Domestic Advisor had been alive for thousands of years already, Elizabeth had granted him and the other advisors that.
They were locked in this Roman prison awaiting trial. The trials would be a sham, they all knew that, Elizabeth had already been found guilty of defying Roman Law by fighting for her kingdom, violating both the laws of Rome and their God by not surrendering her part of the Promised Land, as the Romans called it, some of the other advisors were worried that with Elizabeth they might all die, he wasn’t, he had accepted death at this point.
And so he was almost disappointed when he saw the body stop twitching from the noose, staring through his cell’s window. Some shouted in jubilation as they watched their queen die and they still lived, he was not so grim.
Footsteps in the hall, he turned away from the window.
“Sir,” the man was dressed as a Roman guard and he turned the key in the lock, though he was pale and blonde, which the Romans never were, “We need to get you out of here.”
-
A.D. 1987
Under the orange hood of his Hazmat suit, Samuel Burns smiled, his reflection bouncing off the protective faceplate only made him chuckle.
The land was sheet glass, fused together in the infinite heat of the latest war.
He wanted to spit, spit on Rome, spit on their God, they couldn’t do a damned thing about it, he had beaten them all. He threw his fist in the air instead, some imagined referee awarding him the victory in this great match between him and this fallen nation.
In fact, he was so wrapped up in his imaginings that he never heard the hammer of the gun click behind his head.
-
A.D. 1208
The Domestic Advisor had been alive for thousands of years already, Elizabeth had granted him and the other advisors that.
They were locked in this Roman prison awaiting trial. The trials would be a sham, they all knew that, Elizabeth had already been found guilty of defying Roman Law by fighting for her kingdom, violating both the laws of Rome and their God by not surrendering her part of the Promised Land, as the Romans called it, some of the other advisors were worried that with Elizabeth they might all die, he wasn’t, he had accepted death at this point.
And so he was almost disappointed when he saw the body stop twitching from the noose, staring through his cell’s window. Some shouted in jubilation as they watched their queen die and they still lived, he was not so grim.
Footsteps in the hall, he turned away from the window.
“Sir,” the man was dressed as a Roman guard and he turned the key in the lock, though he was pale and blonde, which the Romans never were, “We need to get you out of here.”
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