The Palace Bombing

[Suleiman]

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"When the stars fell, when the seas boiled and the earth burned, my faith didn’t die. That is when I began to believe. God was real, and he hated us."

A progeny of defiance, rebellion and wrath, Suleiman Habiz came to be an unorthodox participant in the struggle against the Combine. Unlike his fellow comrades, and some of his kinsmen before him, Habiz showed no interest in guerilla warfare. The man could barely wield a firearm, let alone use it. Though his cunning wits, charms and charismatic speeches managed to buy what many failed to grasp ahold of. "Trust" within the ranks and hierarchy of the newly established Global Order. Specifically in City 24-- Geneva.

Twisting his fate, Suleiman slowly worked himself up the ladder which he calls chaos, and established a web-network which ran from the very depths of the grim sewers where the rebellion resides, all the way up to the high chambers of the luxurious temples and chambers of the Council's marble palace. Plated in armor of decisiveness, Habiz constructed a weapon of destruction. One that had the construct of a frail, geeky, motherboard skeleton. Attached to a pair of stolen copper wires, engulfed in black bin bags later burnt so they may stick to the iron, like tar ichor.

What was once a campaign, fueled by bloodthirsty and revenge, was now to be orchestrated after the man inserted the device within the shell of his body. A rusty knife cutting through the skin like the hot blade would with a spread of butter. Mean and disfigured stitches leaving behind a nearly gaping wound, slowly dripping out an essence of his life away with each drop.

Stern and dedicated, the march to the palace was a dreadful one. It pained him to breathe, let alone walk. Though the pain was soon to be ceased, for his purpose was singular. And he was not going to survive that day. Not today. It was at that very moment when the terrorist fully embraced his path, his journey, and his purpose. Divine justice no? But retribution? It surely was a fine result. If he did not take down a few with him, he would disfigure them. Leave them behind deaf and blind, with limbs missing. His visage creeping over their tainted mind whenever a short gaze met with their reflection.

Graceful not so much, yet a worthy march to Councilor Jost's chamber soon ensued. Behind every word, was a hidden enigma. A phrase mirroring a thousand others, remarks which had left behind plenty of scars, from the events which occurred during the war and then after. Sweat poured over Suleiman, like a stream collapsing into a pool. A whole-hearted confession came forth next, before Suleiman glared at his watch. Their time had come, for both of them to depart this world.

The seconds felt like decades. All of this build up, calculated attempts to garner enough resources, only to build up to what? An immediate death? No. Suleiman wanted something more. If by whatever little chance... Jost was to survive this incident, he would be forever left scarred and deformed. Gunpowder from grenades, mixed into acidic conjures of the old, accompanied by a stream of bronze pennies. The damage that was due to be inflicted was lethal. The pain? Constantly lingering, like a breeze amidst the blizzard.

And then the watch stopped. The pair met eyes. And before Jost reached for his firearm, the room was set ablaze. Thus ending the story of Suleiman Habiz... Taking with him what he desired most. No longer a dead man walking.