Jacques LeBlanc stood atop the roof of his apartment complex, staring out across the rusty cityscape. A world corroded by over a century of pollution, Marne was never a beauty to behold. Smog stained the gray sky, sending a storm of acid rain every so often to gnaw at the collapsing ruins of old factories and abandoned complexes. The scars of battle, a reminder of the rebellion twenty-three years ago, manifested themselves in various forms: scorched metal from a firefight, a crater from an aerial bombardment, a missing wall from an inaccurate missile. The planet was a chaotic jumble of twisted iron, shattered glass, and broken stone.
A retired soldier, Jacques LeBlanc often came to the roof to look out over his home and reflect. Years of exposure to pollution stole his hair away from him long ago, and now was slowly rotting away his teeth and weakening his bones. His body, which carried him through the rebellion and another decade of campaigning with the Council, was beginning to succumb to the erosion of time. The hazardous atmosphere of Marne only increased the tempo of the process. The Council did not have the resources to provide many benefits to veterans, just as it did not have the resources to lift the poor denizens of Marne from the rusty grip of poverty.
“Does it ever change, Monsieur LeBlanc?” questioned a voice behind him. Startled, he turned to find another person, a young man, standing beside the door to the inside of the building.
“Who are you?” asked LeBlanc, sensing danger.
“Local rumor says you are something of a savior to the poor souls of this district,” continued the young man, moving from the door toward LeBlanc. “A knight in shining armor, you could call yourself.”
“I do what I can,” replied a guarded LeBlanc. “Who are you? What concern am I to you?”
“Griffe,” said the young man, coming to a stop a respectable few meters. “And my only concern, monsieur, was that I might never find you in this endless urban jungle.”
“What business do you have with me?” pressed LeBlance with an edge in his voice.
“I apologize for any discomfort my sudden entrance caused you. I did not want to disturb you, yet I knew I could not leave you without delivering a message from your daughter.”
“What? My daughter?” LeBlanc, taken aback, said with wide eyes. “What the hell is going on?” Angry, he took a few steps toward Griffe.
“Only that she is safe and healthy,” replied Griffe, feigning a smile. “Much to my surprise.”
“And why is that a surprise?” growled LeBlanc, his hand moving to a hidden blaster within his jacket.
“Because I was fully prepared to murder her when I found her,” stated Griffe.
LeBlanc pulled forth his weapon, but found himself staring down the barrel of another. LeBlanc cursed under his breath. He was older now, and his draw was much slower than before. “Shoot me and be done with it,” he murmured, sure the young man wanted him dead.
“I do not intend to kill you, monsieur,” said Griffe. “As I said, I only came here to deliver a message.”
“So speak.”
“Your daughter is away from Gallia, hidden away with the other refugees and the scattered remnants of the Council. It took so very long to locate her and infiltrate the place. Security is rather oppressive, you might say,” With a chuckle at the irony, he continued. “But then, monsieur, I found that she was the mother to a baby boy.”
“What?” whispered LeBlanc, flabbergasted.
“Yes, you are a grandfather. It was as much of a shock to me as it is to you now. It changed everything, made me pause and rethink my course of action.” Griffe pulled out a small holodisk from his pocket. “Instead, I showed her this.”
“A hologram?”
“No, only a recording. Perhaps you will recognize it?” Griffe pressed a button.
“No, I refuse! I want no part in this!” shouted one voice.
“There is no neutrality in this war! Either you are with us, or you are against us!” shouted another voice.
Griffe watched with grim satisfaction as LeBlanc paled at the sound of his own voice.
“This war will be the end to us all, Jacques! Look outside! The mobs are out of control!”
“They want justice for decades of suffering and oppression!” roared the LeBlanc. “The Crown has done nothing for these people. The Council will give them the life they deserve!”
“Maybe they can repaint the planet in blood when it is all over. And do you know when that will be, Jacques? A year? A century? How much life will be wasted as Gallia rips herself apart?”
“Creates herself anew! A new Gallia, fear from the tyranny of the Royalists!”
“To be replaced with the tyranny of the Libertarians,” replied the other voice, growing somber instead of shouting. “War makes all sides equal. As murderous, bloodthirsty monsters.”
“If you are not with us, you are against us,” repeated LeBlanc. “And a Royalist like you could tell them exactly who organized these protests.”
“No, please!” yelled the other voice, panicking.
“I am sorry, Renard.”
“No! Stop!” screamed the voice. “I have a son!”
The discharge of a blaster booms through the holodisk, signaling the end to the audio.
“You are his son,” breathed LeBlanc, his mouth agape and eyes terrified.
“I wanted justice,” said Griffe, a small tear rolling down his cheek. “You murdered him. Robbed me of my father. I was an orphan for six years, roaming the streets on this forsaken planet while you pretended to be a hero.”
“I am so sorry,” LeBlanc tried to say, but Griffe refused to stop.
“But then I stared into the frightened eyes of your daughter, clutching her crying son in her arms. And I realized I almost fulfilled the words of my father. Thinking only of how to return the blow, I almost became the monster you are. And I was ashamed,” He paused, breathing irregular. “Torn between justice and mercy.”
“Take my life and make it right!” pleaded LeBlanc, falling to his knees. “Just leave Rose alone!”
Griffe shook his head. “You do not understand, old man. I wanted to kill your daughter so you would have to live with the grief and guilt until your own miserable existence came to an end. I wanted you to suffer every day like I have throughout my entire life.”
He tossed something at LeBlanc, hitting him on the chest and falling to the ground with a metallic ring. LeBlanc picked it up. A signet ring bearing his familial crest. His last gift to his daughter before she escaped Marne for Languedoc.
“So I showed her this recording,” said Griffe quietly. “Showed her what a monster her father is. You are dead to her, LeBlanc. She, like me, is an orphan now.”
LeBlanc said nothing, staring at the signet ring. He was right. Returning it to LeBlanc was a rejection of her roots. Of him.
“A knight in shining armor,” scoffed Griffe. “Nothing you can do will atone for what you did. And now nothing you can do will ever bring your daughter back to you.”
“Renard was a good man!” LeBlanc, overwhelmed by emotion, was crying now. “I regret what I did every day! I am sorry! So, so sorry! And my daughter… oh, my daughter! I deserve this! Oh, Rose!” He turned away from Griffe, still on his knees, and crawled toward the edge.
“Do you mean to slay yourself, monsieur?” asked Griffe with mock politeness
LeBlanc peered over the edge into the ally below. There was no surviving such a fall. “I – I would be a coward to run away from this. This pain. My punishment for what I have done.”
“You will have no peace of mind until death takes you,” reminded Griffe.
“Yes,” murmured LeBlanc, still looking down into the ally. “Just as you wished upon me for years.”
“Justice,” said Griffe.
The impact from the shot carried LeBlanc over the ledge, dead long before he slammed into the ground below.
“And mercy,” finished the young man, hiding away his weapon and turning back towards the door. “Like I said, monsieur, I am no monster.”
