Manhattan. Liberty's capital and prized jewel dedicated to satisfying one's every needs for the right amount of credits. The poor were kept in check by ruthless officers, the regulars were given a thumbs up before the same digit was shoved up their asses until they squealed praises to their bosses, and the rich spent a fortune on sating their most intimate pleasures, extravagant foods, shuttles that looked like magic to filth such as the honest worker keeping industry alive with bleeding hands.
God forbid the most downtrodden of workers ever stood up, or else there would be hell to pay. Too bad "hell" was also a synonym to Manhattan for the poor. And yet one night managed to change that. For one night it was the honest man holding the gun against the big man's head.
A journalist was paid for the correct opinion to have. One that puts criminals in their place with derogatory terms such as "filth", "boxheads" - and who could forget the one word that gave this entire family of misfits their trademark name? Yes, this "crook" lived lavishly in a penthouse at no short expense of his own dignity and reputation. His face was revered by the elite as a bringer of truth and "the right ideals", while the oppressed recoiled at the very concept that such a cockroach indeed exists. Even worse: lives so much better than they do.
He deserved it - or so he told himself. Every credit, every inch of that majestic residence he calls "home". It was a monument to greed gone unchecked. All of this was a fortune that he bled for - in ink. This 'truth', this 'struggle' and all these cheap slogans and enticing catchphrases written in latin to impress his audience could not really predict the future that was to unfold. Too bad: everyone else saw it coming from a mile away.
So what will our "Icon of Truth" do in the face of danger?
It was maybe eight in the evening when our mischievous journalist finally came home after a long day. Door slid open with a suave hiss not unlike an angel's whisper. It made a subtle invitation by presenting what laid inside the sleeping house: a comforting darkness, a marvelous kitchen so clean one could eat off the floor with bare hands and a bottle of bourbon with two ornate tumblers neatly arranged on the freshly waxed surface of a granite table.
He hasn't realized it yet, has he? Oh, no no, no. He did, but refused to acknowledge it. Never pour into the second glass unless one plans to drink with a friend. A good friend, even. Perhaps it was the housewife, but he had none - no woman could kiss someone that spits tar when they speak and emanate a noxious aroma of onions with every word. What about the janitor? Oh, he couldn't possibly "afford" one. The rates were too high, he told himself. Most of them had quit about one month into their contracts anyway. Cowards all.
No, instead it was a long lost friend that has finally found the right address and the right time for an introduction. Our working man clad in a dark brown flight suit with an eerily familiar insignia poorly sewn into the fabric right there on the right side of their chest. But why would someone don a flight suit when there is no ship to be seen? Well. There is, actually. Wings of freedom eclipsed the penthouse's view. Ironic - all these years shunning the devil with no consequence. Eventually the devil must respond one way or another. Every moron knew that.
Our journalist broke in that moment. Shook by the presence of another breathing the same air as himself. Drinking his "vintage" bourbon. Surely that bottle must've been at least 50 Credits. 70 Credits? A hundred? Judging by the wrinkles on his forehead it must've been at least six hundred.
"Who the hell are you?" asked the journalist with fervor. It was a good question. Who would dare break within the confines of an Icon of Truth such as himself? The pilot didn't reply. Their breathing apparatus left out subtle murmurs in the wake of every shallow breath. They were calm, collected and especially dangerous with that fancy laser pistol of theirs resting in their right hand's grip. "Well? Do you want an autograph then? If you're some crazed fan hungry for an autograph then let's just get this over with." continued the loudmouth still unaware of that little peashooter hiding under the table. The pilot, however, played along. With their other hand they pointed at a few pieces of good old paper resting under the tumblers. One empty, the other half full with what might have been lip prints on the rim.
So what does he do? What is the first thing that satisfies this future martyr?
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