All The Kings Pen

Philip Nawala pressed the thin tip of his weapon against the palm of his hand. It pierced his skin, and although pain flooded his chest, Philip held his stony expression in place. The last time Philip winced at the touch of a pen tip, he had endured punishment far more lasting than a scarred hand. Philip's eyes flicked up to the beetle-shell lenses of the cameras, perched in each corner of his cell. They would not tolerate error much longer, Philip knew. They would allow for hesitation. Philip withdrew the fountain pen from his throbbing vein. The blood that did not adhere to the reddened tip slid down his pale arm like an angry tear, but Philip did not see it. He was looking at the papers, sitting before him at the aluminum table. One page, typed in harsh black print, was The Plan. The rest of the sheets were blank, but they wouldn't be for long. Philip selected one white page and slid it towards himself and, curling his shoulders over the desk, began to write. Deliberately, Philip copied the steele black printing; writing it over again in messy, crimson cursive. Pen in hand, he used the blood of his body to draw out the blood of thousands. The Plans dictated the movement of armies, the capture of cities and the destruction of lives. The magic of Philip's blood turned the brutal plans into a violent reality.

Philip wrote and his blood screamed.

---

President Allan Chilcott stood next to his polished oak desk, twenty-seven floors above anyone who mattered. The only light in the room radiated from a small laptop computer. The pale glow of the screen cast deep shadows into the face of the world’s most powerful man. Over the past three years, Alan's eyes had grown weak from late nights of low light and little sleep. For the past hour, Allan Chilcott’s computer had displayed a live recording of a dank, subterranean cell. Nawala, or as his file labeled him, Asset #357, had been writing for that whole period, and he was still only half way finished transcribing the document. Pathetic. It had taken Allan half that time to type the official copy, and that included the time it took to run the spell checker and affix the official wax seal. Allan began to pace irritably across his massive, pristine office. What was this man trying do? Bleed out? Stall the proceedings? That would never do... You’d assume a man with such a grand purpose would take his duties seriously.

Allan resolved that the job would be done by the stroke of midnight, even if he had personally speed up the process. That was only a few minutes away, but Allan fretted that this might still be too late. The enemy forces were creeping slowly into position --impassioned, but still weak from their most recent defeat-- and his investors were set to conference with him the next morning. Even after months of undefeated campaigns, these investors still asked for more. They wanted the war to be wrapped up neatly and tied in a bow. Some of them even called for lower body counts, and less emphasis on the use of Writers in tactical areas. Allan did not appreciate being at the beck and call of these investors. It seemed archaic, now that they were on the verge of a new social order. How would capitalism fair in totalitarian regime spanning the entire globe?

Allan glanced back at the broken man on his computer screen. Who needs money when you have power like this? He knew the real world was at the peak of it’s rebellion-fueled chaos, and it would go out with a bang, not a whimper. All the kindling was in place, Chilcott knew. All the writer had to do was strike the match.

In that moment, the Writer put down his pen. His mouth creased, his face a blank slate.

Allan Chilcott smiled, and the world was engulfed in flames.