The Director, 6 years on.
Quiet in the House.
Simon dropped his Lewis gun, with it a weight he'd been carrying for years. The weapon clattered against the cold concrete. He doubled over, hands on his knees, propping his body up.
This was it. It should be it. One last push against the Hiss. Against the invaders. Every last person capable of still carrying a weapon from Security of the Rangers were here.
How long had it been? Five? Six years, at least.
But now it was about to be over. He watched as the Director approached the last Hiss.
It was wounded, babbling the same Dadaist nonsense they had since the lockdown started.
Just plastic,
So, safe and nothing to worry about.
Ha ha, funny.
The last egg breaks now.
It didn't try to fight, it didn't try to run.
It just stared at her from where it lay on the ground.
The Director raised her Service Weapon, its amorphous, geometric form finding its shape. She trained the barrel on the head of the Hiss. She paused.
Simon knew what she was doing. A final farewell to a person it once was. One she never had the opportunity to meet. It was her ritual, and rituals held power here.
Some of the assembled Security Officers and Rangers bowed their heads in silence with her. Others silently wept; in relief, in anger, in all of the emotions they’d held back these last few years.
Simon didn't bother with farewells. Not for them. Not anymore.
