Page 192 of Because I Killed Him
The leg brace is padded but still uncomfortable, combining stabilization and regenerative technology. The system syncs with my Bond and sends real-time data to the Pinkies. It helps me walk. It heals me as I move. Still, the Pinkies say that once I finish my exams, I need to return to Belvoir Infirmary for three more days.
By late afternoon, my voice begins to come back. It’s still hoarse, but I can now form complete sentences. Charlotte and I spend a few hours studying for tomorrow’s exams, our Bonds connected as we sit in the corner of my hospital room. We try anything to keep our minds busy, anything to distract ourselves from the looming execution.
Still, no matter how hard I try to focus, the execution hangs over me like a corpse from the ceiling fan. I keep preparing for something to interrupt it: a legal delay, a jurisdictional challenge, a solar flare, a comet. Something will come screaming in at the last second and wipe it all off the board.
Because in the Civilized World, there is no justice. Not when it’s the Blues on the chopping block.
And yet the hours slip by, the minutes, the seconds. Time continues pulling us toward it until, eventually, the lights in the hospital room dim and the holographic television screen floating in front of the wall powers on. Charlotte and I sit together on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a heavy, nauseating silence.
Today is Sunday. Bloody Sunday.
But it doesn’t feel like it.
There’s no live orchestra, no Benjamin Bogart hosting in a velvet suit,no fireworks trailing sparks across the sky. Instead of a real executioner, two Pinkies stand motionless at the center of the execution platform. The robots are modified for this task alone and will be decommissioned and destroyed afterward. President Reeve doesn’t want martyrs on either side.
The broadcast drones glide across the platform, where two guillotines stand side by side beneath a pale wash of light. The curved blades catch reflections from the surrounding amphitheater, tossing back fractured shards of wide-eyed faces.
Businessmen. Politicians. Celebrities. Heads of syndicates. All of them are seated, dressed in their finest, yet their glamour is dulled by dread. No one claps or cheers. Not even a whisper disturbs the air. Everyone sits frozen, as if unsure which expression is safest, because no one thought this day would come: that a Blue, let alone two, would stand trial, that the high-citizens would be held accountable, that the blade, for once, might tilt upward.
The entire Civilized World watches now, waiting to see whether justice appears with a painted smile or, tonight, finally reveals its true face.
The camera pans to the Green level. I sit up taller on the bed, breath catching as I spot my parents in the front row. Mom grips her chair with one hand and tugs at her pearl earring with the other. Dad leans in close, whispering something that makes her release the earring and lace her fingers with his instead. He smiles at her encouragingly, then lifts his gaze off-camera, high enough for me to know exactly where.
He’s looking at President Reeve.
Dad swallows once, yet in that motion I see the weight of decades, the stubborn, unwavering faith of a man who believes that, despite how rotten our world is, there’s still enough good to make it worth fighting for. And tonight, all of Dad’s hope, every last piece of it, rests on Reeve.
The two Blues who tried to assassinate the president are led out unshackled, each flanked by a dozen Coppers. Their skin is pale, but their faces are dry, free of sweat and tears. They walk without resistance, eyes scanning the amphitheater as if still waiting for the hand that was promised, the one meant to pull them from the fire. These two Blues weren’t acting alone. Everyone knows it. They were hired to kill Reeve, given orders by even higher Blues, and promised protection.
Now, they’re wondering where it is.
Still, even in their final, quiet panic, neither gives up a name. Like Hillaire always says, Blues don’t break. They stick together, even to the bloody end.
At the guillotine, both men are asked for their final words.
“I will die on my feet,” says the first.
The second man doesn’t speak. He lifts his hand in a two-finger salute toward Reeve, then slowly lowers the index finger, leaving the middle finger raised.
The cameras cut to Reeve’s reaction.
He stands alone at the railing on the fourth level, nearly seven feet of quiet authority, his face lit by the spotlights like a newborn sun. Beside him, a live double-headed eagle lets out a shrill, keening cry as it ruffles its dark wings on its perch. Reeve rests one hand on the railing and slowly lowers his gaze to the Blue. Reeve’s expression is calm, yet it burns with a resolve deeper than hatred, stronger than vengeance. Tonight, his eyes reveal a man who’s already seen the end of the abyss and will not look away.
The feed shifts to the execution platform, where the two Blues now stand before the guillotines. Their heads and wrists are locked in the lunette, yet both still stand, still proud.
Two Pinkies approach, one to each guillotine, and hold their hands over the release levers.
All at once, the amphitheater rises in a single, soundless wave. Blue, Green, Orange, Purple—every level stands. And so do Charlotte and I. Off the bed, hand in hand, we stare at the screen, our hearts clutched tight.
The cameras refocus on Reeve as they wait for his signal. He pauses, fingers curling lightly on the railing, and for the briefest moment, the sadness I so often see in him breaks through. A flicker of pain crosses his face, revealing a grief that looks as old as it is deep, a longing for peace just beyond reach. And he seems to see it down there, not in the Blues but in the place they’re going.
Reeve nods.
And the blades fall.
The feed pulls back so quickly it stutters, as if the moment is tooblistering to hold. The Pinkies turn away from the guillotines, and as they walk to the edge of the platform, one leaves footprints of blood. The smear is impossible to miss, stark against the pale marble, a trail the whole Civilized World sees.
For the first time in history, justice runs blue.
