New Philadelphia

July 2, 2052

It wasn't about the war for me, or even all those issues. My sister died on the terraforming project. Picking up a gun isn't going to bring her back, but the moment I find Jensen I know I'll make art: backsplash of brain matter all over that flag.

Sometimes I see things on the flag that aren't there, when he's on the network, talking. It's oil splotches or the shit they put in food that kills you. Sometimes when I'm feeling bad, all I see is that flag covered with blood and dirt mixed together. Because Jensen...that man...he'll never get past what happened in New Philadelphia.

Those news people...it's hard to know who to trust now. The corporations own the politicians and the politicians own the news networks. First it was a terrorist event and then it was sanctioned by the Chinese government. Now they're blaming Martians. Martians!

I think it was irresponsibility. How many times does this have to happen?

July 3, 2052

I completed my training today. I'm good with the guns but I like using knives and bayonets when I think about killing Jensen. It's more personal that way. It's not about seeing the whites of his eyes, but the blood infiltrating his vision. It has become my duty to take him down for what he's done.

I keep Rachel's photograph in my pocket. No one will report on it, but someone will know why I did it.

I start my grunt work tomorrow. Can't write the details down til after it's done.

July 4, 2052

We did it. Guy Fawkes and Michael Collins are my heroes and they're smiling down on me now, from a heaven I don't believe in. At 1400 we rallied at Corporation Hall. The building is small and mock-historic, completed just a few weeks ago.

We took the building by 1500. with two casualties and seven injuries.

I was posted on the clock tower. The glorious digital clock tower. Its ambient green attempts to pacify the city, but above its pervasive light I was able to catch glimpses of the city's designated Bank Zones over the red landscape. All territories, gangs with badges. There's no green here, no grass. Even the money is red with blood and the dust of this godforsaken landscape.

I keep my money in a mattress somewhere but Goddess knows I don't keep that shit here.

At 1617 I was compelled to look down at the bricks on the ground. On them are the names of the corporate sponsors who furnished the finances to build Corporation Hall. The politicians couldn't hide what we'd done.

The corporations couldn't jail people in their cubicles.

One by one they came out, some with tools and others with nothing but manicures.

They removed the blocks and smashed them in the street. Soon they smashed them against the corporate police cars. Since there aren't many city police here, only a few responded and people mostly left them alone.

I hear the helicopters. They won't want to bomb the building. There are too many civilians nearby still and it would mean destroying their own symbol of oppression. They won't do it. It will be a special forces maneuver and I sadly won't be able to kill Jensen.

...Here they come. I hear their boots and guns, All-Mart manufactured.

I won't see Rachel again, but glory be to my end.