They were burned on Hope Street on a school day. Academics rioted, howling across the view, exampling their dedication and love through own blood spilled abundantly on the pavement. Others failed trunks full of heirloom classics, begging to be shot then, and not see them dumped and stamped on.
Brilliance was never understood. It was mourned only, private or in death.
John Kronin’s army deployed like vultures before the masses, their faces nebulous, averted from the tied exemplary victims and their works of art, smoldering together in a fiery pit in the middle of Hope. The New 1st Parliament members watched wordlessly from behind a wall of the militzia’s forces.
It took less than twenty minutes for flesh and paper to fuse. A posthumous monument of man and art; Opposing heroes immortalized in their charcoal expressions of terror, their forever lost words ash at their feet – that’s how they’ve labeled it, nearly five hundred years later.
There are many visitors to the Moonseum of Human History. Augmented and voiced-over, this visualization means little to the people around me. It’s salvaged data from pictures and memoirs. We left so long ago.
But it is genuine. I was there yesterday. I will go on Hope Street again tomorrow. Maybe this time…