AH Publishing Contest Entry – Rough Draft

Below we see the rough draft of my Antelope Hill Publishing entry. I would greatly appreciate if you could leave a comment as to what you think works, or does not work, so I can rework it before the deadline. In particular, if you could tell me what you think should be cut out that would be best, as the piece is already five hundred words over the limit.

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The never ending refrain of “this is a song that never ends,” was repeatedly belted at the unfortunate driver of the flying schoolbus by a pack of children far louder than one might believe possible. Not all of them were singing, with Marcus in particular trying to squirm his way out of the overly tight seatbelt and get a glimpse of New Alexandria. The best he could do was a sort of bounce just over the lip of the window, straining his eyes down in the hopes of getting a tiny glimpse of something.

He was not much rewarded for his efforts. A hint of a towering capital in the distance, residential areas passing by in a blur, lush green lawns, forested areas or perhaps parks, statues, or maybe people, blue ponds, or maybe pools. His short, six year old body made it hopeless to discern what was what, even though the dampeners made the journey from Low Earth Orbit through the atmosphere so silky smooth that one could be forgiven for forgetting that their schoolbus was traveling at nearly a hundred times the speed of sound. The only reminder was the view outside, impractical though it was.

The view of the inside of the cabin told him that he was the only one interested in sightseeing. Most of the rest of the kids were singing, and two troublemaking fellow classmates were licking their window for some reason known only to them. Madeline, his fallback crush, was peaking at him, but Marcus’ heart belonged to someone else, someone at the front of the bus, someone who he was convinced could learn to love him as he loved her, despite their almost twenty year age gap.

Marcus turned back, ready to renew his sightseeing efforts, only to have it announced that the schoolbus had landed, the dampeners removing any sense of inertia from the journey.

With that their teacher, Amanda Williams, object of Marcus’ affection, quieted the children down in that sing songy voice of hers that he loved so much. Soon she had them disembarking the craft, and forming a line on a cobbled road out in front of The Museum Of Past Heroes. While they waited, the children turned to watch the schoolbus rapidly accelerate away, the blue glow of the engines underneath propelling it out of their vision in just a few seconds. They remained looking in its direction until a deep male voice addressed them all from the other direction. 

“By a show of hands, who would like to meet the engineers who designed that ship?” It was the first words out of the tour guide’s smiling mouth, and responded to with mostly genuine enthusiasm by the majority of the first graders. The ship’s engineering team, the last of them dead for well over half a millenia, greeted them with waves and smiles as they came in, and most of the kids soon rushed over. 

It was not the first time the children had interacted with AI recreations before, but they were still young enough to be excited and totally distracted by the facsimiles. Marcus’ six year old eyes were instead transfixed with worry as his pretty teacher being chatted up by the tour guide. 

“It’s really amazing how realistic they manage to make them,” Marcus heard her saying to him.

“They go in and tweak them a little,” he said with a wink,”patience and agreeableness and all that. Dealing with prying children all day can be impossibly trying.”

“Oh no, it’s always pure joy,” she said, as they both shared a small chuckle. Marcus was disturbed to see this behaviour from his beloved Amanda, but was happy to observe that the conversation between the tour guide and his beloved teacher appeared to be dying. Unfortunately, just as the guide went to turn away his teacher moved slightly towards him. “So, are all of the guests fake then?” she asked.

“That’s a negative way of saying it. Enhanced more like.” Marcus noticed that same annoying grin was back on the tour guide’s very handsome, yet punchable face.

“Right, that’s still a bit disappointing though,” he heard Ms. Williams say in her lovely voice, “it would be interesting to actually meet the real people, as best as they can be recreated, of course.”

“Well,” said the guide, moving towards Ms. Williams, the first grade teacher and love of Marcus’ life, as if to share in a conspiracy, “we have more accurate versions kept in the back. There’s something of an ongoing debate as to how realistic a version the kids should be exposed to. Turns out a lot of past heroes cursed more than might be appropriate, even in the company of children.”

“Right, of course,” then she added, “out of curiosity, which one had to be tweaked the most?”

“Pretty much all of the generals, as you might have imagined,” the guide said while Ms. Williams nodded her lovely head, “but some of the scientists are a lot more ornery than you might have predicted.

“I could see that, which ones in particular?”

“Dr. Heidegger and Andreas Keymer are pretty much intolerable to be around. The archetype of genius jerks.”

“The man who invented antimatter engines and the one who,” Ms. Williams paused while thinking, “cured the Andromeda Strain,” she said, that last part as more of a question than an answer.

“Yes to Heidegger, but you’re thinking of Andrew Ketmer. Andreas Keymer was the botanist, Andrew Ketmer died long before recreation technology was invented, sadly.”

“Oh, of course, I always get them confused.”

“Well expectations are low for a first grade teacher.”

It was, Marcus decided, a decidedly cruel “joke” from the very smug tour guide. Unfortunately his beloved Ms. Williams burst out laughing as if he had said the funniest thing in the history of The Imperium Of Man. She even went so far as to put both of her hands on his forearm to steady herself. After letting her regain her composure, the guide continued.

“But you know, everyone’s always on their best behaviour when the capture drones are recording them anyway, so even the realistic versions are a best foot forwards type thing. One could argue that those men were simply more honest than many of the rest. For example, all the politicians we have recreations of would appear to be the consummate well-mannered gentlemen with hearts of gold.”

“I’m sure that’s very historically accurate.”

“For some strange reason all the actors are the same way,” he replied, and they both shared another small laugh.

“The realism is probably a waste anyway,” she said after a slight pause. “I love these kids, but I don’t think they particularly care if Julius Bauer is accurately recreated. They’re barely at the age of remembering things, let alone remembering them accurately with an eye for details like that.” 

“Right,” the guide said, looking away as if contemplating something. “If you’re interested,” he said before turning back to Ms. Williams before leaning in again, even closer this time, and gently placing his right hand almost absent-mindedly on her wrist. “If you’re interested,” he repeated, “and have a moment after the tour, I could show you some of the more honest recreations that we have. Provided you don’t tell anyone of course,” he said with a wink. 

Say no, Ms. Williams, Marcus thought, channeling his willpower towards her. But to his eternal dismay, the lovely Ms. Williams nodded her head and slightly stumbled with her left leg, before her lovely lips parted as she said “I’d like that.”

“Great,” the guide said, returning Ms. Williams’ brilliant white smile with one of his own. He went to turn away before turning back, almost as if he startled himself. “It’s Chris, by the way.”

“Amanda,” she responded, as they shook hands.

You’re not supposed to call her that! Her name is Ms. Williams.

Their hands remained touching for a moment that lasted entirely too long for Marcus’ enjoyment, ending with both of them having dopey grins plastered on their faces. Finally, they tore themselves away from each other, as Chris addressed the rest of the class and told them that it was time to say goodbye to the engineering team and move into the museum itself.

Marcus noticed with a further sinking feeling Ms. Williams staring after Chris, lips still parted, as she threw her long hair back behind her shoulders, and adjusted her blouse. It was only after she turned her head to and fro counting up all the children that she noticed Marcus standing just a few feet behind and to the left of her.

“Marcus!” she said with that same bright white smile she had flashed so treasonously at Chris, the handsome but evil tour guide.

How dare you smile at me like nothing happened, Marcus thought as he looked at her, his joy turned to ash in his mouth. 

“Marcus, are you feeling alright? Are you feeling ill?” she said to him, a concerned look spreading on her face. All Marcus could do was look down at the ground and hide his face from her pretty green prying eyes as he fought back the tears. It was then that she extended her hand down. He placed his small hand in hers, still keeping his head down as one solitary tear streamed down his cheek. Only his iron will preventing more from joining.

It was in this unfocused state that he “enjoyed” the tour. Bits and pieces of words were picked up by him, with much of the context gone. “Slipspace engines,” here, “Dr. Lantis,” there, “the first God-Emperor,” at some other exhibit.

It was an eclectic mix of heroes. At one point the class was even introduced to Elliot Kipling, the creator of “Space Doggies Save the Universe,” a classic children’s show. Even though it was his favourite, Marcus found himself interested only in clutching Ms. Williams’ hand, as deeply unhappy as any six year old can be.

After an hour of the tour the children were beginning to get restless. Normally the would be given hover chairs to move throughout a space like this, but since the tour was about The Heroes Of The Past, it was deemed that the kids would get a greater appreciation of the old heroes by experiencing the world they way they had. Whatever the goal, some of the kids were repeatedly asking for hover chairs, only to be rebuked by Ms. Williams each time. Even the most patient and well behaved of the kids were beginning to tire, and some were occasionally talking over the guide, having to be shushed by Ms. Williams.

While the children were distracted by the “Fascist Party of Virmire,” exhibit Chris, the hated tour guide, used this as another opportunity to slink away and chat up Ms. Williams. She, still holding Marcus’ hand, explained to Chris that Marcus wasn’t feeling so well. “Perhaps something of a stomach bug,” she said.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Chris said, while looking at Marcus, perhaps unprepared for the look of venemous hatred that Marcus shot back at him. “He’s really not feeling well, is he?”

“No,” she responded with an encouraging smile at Marcus. “But,” she turned back to Chris, “I think the other kids might need a quick break for something to eat.”

“I think it would be best if they enjoyed their meal on top of the Hill Of The Faceless Men,” he replied as he gestured to a small hill dotted with statues, and with some wooden benches strewn about. “And don’t worry, they’re allowed to be eating over there. It’s part of the tour, and it’s the first area that has a nice view of the capital.”

Ms. Williams nodded, and Chris announced the scheduled break on The Hill Of The Faceless Men to the rest of the class. With that dragonfly skimmers sprung to action, coming from the direction of the kitchen, their mechanical wings buzzing as they flew readymade wraps gently into the children’s hands.

“No hoverchairs, because they didn’t have them in antiquity, yet skimmers delivering our meals for us so we don’t have to walk.” As Ms. Williams spoke, Marcus looked up to see her, still holding his hand, smiling and looking down at him out of the corner of his eye. To his despair, he found himself unable to control himself from smiling back at the treasonous wench, unable to stop himself from smiling for another few seconds, before fuming at himself for this error all the way up The Hill of the Faceless Men. 

*Rough draft note: his other crush, the one his age, keeps peaking glances at him. But he’s trying to make it work with the woman almost twenty years his senior. This becomes relevant later, when she sticks up for him. Work it in earlier.*

Upon cresting the hill they were greeted with row upon row of figures. Chris explained, while still leading them through the mess of figures, pointing every which way, that they were statues with engravings upon the bottom. Chris took them a fair ways into the elevated square before stopping them.

“This, children, is the Hill Of Faceless Men,” he exclaimed, spreading his arms.  “Later on the tour you’ll see many statues, some from before this time, others from just after. Archimedes, Catharine the Great, Adolf Hitler, Jonathan Bartkiewicz. All who came before the invention of recreation technology little more than a millennia ago have had their personalities and idiosyncracies lost in the sands of time. That The Faceless Men are here as statues is not unusual for men of their time.

“What is unusual is that even our greatest historians do not know who they were. All we know is that when our people were at their most downtrodden, at their most oppressed, when we looked the hardest for rescue, it was The Faceless Men who delivered our salvation. And yet, all we know of any one individual is some tiny fraction of their writings, and the names they chose for themselves.” 

The children looked around, as if seeing the statues for the first time. At the bottom of their statues their chosen names were engraved. Marcus let go of Ms. William’s hand as he wandered through the hedgerow of statues. Then he stopped, and peered more intensely at the one closest to him, the same formless circular face as all the others. His eyes glanced down to the bottom of the statue at the engraving.

“Kikeslammer88.” He cast his eyes to the one next to it, and saw “AdolfKitler.” The one next to that, “TheGoyimNose.”

Everywhere he looked he saw more of them. “AuschwitzFan,” “PedalPoweredFactCheckingMachines,” “GeorgeFloydsFavouriteMethPill,” “Lampshading,” “TotalSeasoningAmericanDeath,” “Over9000(Genders),” “JewJitsu,” Wasreal,” “TheIronYarmaluke,” “DannyTheTranny,” “HebrewPussyConnoisseur,” “Krav MAGA,” “Dr. Dreidel,” “AppleJuiceAndGelfilteFish,” “CharlesBarkMitzvah,” “StevenCrowderTooHardcore,” “SirCumcized,” “GoTroonSuicideSoon,” “Jignat,” “FutureLampshadesOfAmerica,” “BasedSchizo,” “EpsteinsIslandRetreat,” “GapingAxeWound,” “JonathanGreenblattsGoogleHistory,” “MelGibsonAfterFourBeers,” the statues went on and on near as far as his eye could see.

“Who were they?” he found himself saying before he had meant to. But Chris, the guide, just looked at him with a knowing smile. Then raised his voice so all the class could hear.

“When our people needed direct political action the most, The Faceless Men bravely spent 14 hours posting online per day. When we needed to encourage the masses to support our political parties, these men courageously had unique novelty takes on obscure issues, and repeated them ad naseum in our echo chambers.

“Many of these men understood that there was no political solution, but also that you should constantly post about this online instead of grabbing a gun and killing your local megadonor. Without their wisdom, intellect, and flaky committment to the e-cause, none of this would have happened.” And with that last sentence, he spread his arms again briefly, before gesturing with both hands behind the children. As they turned to look they realized that the elevated platform gave them their first glimpse of New Alexandria, the capital of the empire, off in the distance. 

For a long moment there was complete silence, save for the gentle warm breeze of the New Alexandrian summer. In the distance the children were greeted with the gleaming spires of the capital, manicured gardens visible even from the distance, clean propulsion roads, flying vehicles, and the overpowering white sheen of the Xenonite buildings. It was a site so beautiful that it temporarily overrode the children’s hunger, even the ones who had been complaining just minutes prior.

The tour guide allowed them their peace before slowly standing up from the bench, and walking about to another, much shorter group of faceless men. “There were many factions of The Faceless Men,” he said. “At the turn of the millenia, no not this one, the one before, these factions would have debates together. Sometimes over video, a primitive version of our 3D holograph technology. Sometimes through written communications, mostly in places our historians believe were called “twatter” and “telegram”. 

“Only a few of these debates are preserved, with our historians having access to only a few 10,000 post long “hellthreads,” as they were referred to back in those times. What our historians would give to be a fly on the wall during these titanic intellectual exchanges…” and with that he drifted off.

The children, Marcus included, had one by one drifted over to the tour guide as he started speaking. This group of Faceless Men only went up to roughly the height of the six year old children inspecting them. Again, Marcus’ eyes dropped to the bottom of the statues, where he saw yet more engravings.

“RepublicanPartyPlantruster,” “GoodOpticsCatboiRespecter,” “TuckerCarlsonFan69” “MestizoWhiteNationalist,” “HarveyWeinsteinGudBoi,” “BrownGaypersRUs.” Row upon row of them, it appeared to go on forever. 

Again he found himself speaking before he consciously understood he had made the decision to. “Why are these ones so small?” he asked the tour guide. 

“It’s because of the Great Starvation, you dumber,” said Frank, one of the kids who had been trying to lick the window of the flying school bus earlier. Marcus was going to respond, but was cut off by the tiny female voice of Madeline. 

“He said the turn of the millenia. The Great Starvation happened a hundred years after,” she rebutted.  

It was at this moment that three things happened. First, Ms. Williams admonished Frank. Second, Marcus decided that he was perhaps not so heartbroken up over Ms. Williams anymore, and he should try making things work with the girl who was only six days older than him, as opposed to almost twenty years. 

Third, Chris congratulated Madeline for her excellent historical knowledge.  “You’re very right young girl. It is tempting to think that these great men were so small because they suffered through the Great Starvation, when the dying state of Israel launched nuclear bombs all throughout the world. However, that happened almost a full hundred years later. In reality, these brave men were born this way.”

“Were they all so small back then?” Marcus asked. 

”No, just these ones, the men who were brave enough to defend Harvey Weinstein when literally no one else in the entire world was, except for his all Jew, all feminist legal team who insisted that wahmens be hoes who be asking for it.”

”Who was Harvey Weinstein?” said Madeline, who had recently moved up quite a few notches in Marcus’ estimation. 

”Harvey Weinstein was a zionist Hollywood producer who raped White Women before destroying their careers and siccing the Mossad on them,” Chris responded, flatly. 

A hush falls over the crowd. “Why was it so important to defend that man?” one of the boys asked.

“That is an excellent question,” Chris said, trailing off as he looked towards Amanda Williams, the teacher.

“Kyle,” she said, answering his unasked question. 

“Excellent question, Kyle. It is reasonable to ask why one should defend a rapist zionist kikel. However, these men’s small bodies belied their galaxy sized brains. They correctly deduced that the real problem was White Women all along. After all, Johnny Depp got divorced by Amber Heard, so there’s no such thing as being alpha enough to keep the hoes in line. Especially if they feel like marking their territory by crapping in your bed.”

The children remained silent as their six year old eyes fell upon these great men, almost up to chin height with most of them. That they could not begin to comprehend their actions only ensured what intellectual behemoths they were. Political genius’ on par with Aristotle, Bismarck, Machiavelli, or perhaps even the God-Emperor himself.

Finally, one of the girls spoke up. “What else were they debating?”

The guide looked at them with a kindly smile. “Well you see children, two thousand years ago there was this thing called the Republican Party. It was an organization that contested elections, and was utterly controlled by zionist heebs from top to bottom. This first group of Faceless Men, yes, the normal sized ones, got it into their heads that there was no point in continuing to waste their time, energy, money, and vote supporting an organization that existed for no purpose but to subvert them.

“Their side of the debate focused on the policies of the Republican Party, their donors, their explicit disavowals of White nationalism, advocacy, or even equality. They focused on the Republican’s explicit statements denouncing any attempts at infiltration. They decided to make their own political parties, in whichever countries they existed, which advocated for our people.

“It appeared from the outside that they had a sure fire, ready made case.” With that the guide paused, anticipating the first graders response, which came after just a short pause.

”But why weren’t they just right on that?” It was unclear who said that, but all the children were nodding their heads in agreement. 

And a faint smile made its way onto the guide’s face as he leaned forward to the children, his eyes glancing from one side to the other before his lips pursed, and he said but one word. “Get a load of this unserious wignat!”

The children sat there, not understanding the significance of this. Finally, the guide spoke once more.

”You see children, people who don’t support totally Jew controlled fake political machines that exists purely to subvert normal people’s political instincts are just wigger nationalists, unlike constantly online cartoon pornography appreciators who make listening to schizophrenic black rappers a strong part of their identity. Listen to mumble rap while referring to normal White People as wiggers at least forty times, and the White Race will soon be saved. That was their mantra.”

”Is that what happened?” Marcus asked.

”In part, but it also took optics. I can see you children are already raising your hands, so let me explain. Optics are when you call yourself a Christian while making fun of the eleven year old White Children murdered by BLM supporting terrorists in Waukesha. Optics are when you aren’t invited to the local church BBQ because you have no friends in real life and everyone thinks you’re an annoying sperg, but you come up with a theory that you can hoodwink the people there to vote for Sheldon Adelson’s GOP by telling them that if too many Mexicans come over the border, you’ll get socialism. Optics are going on dates with catbois while waving around Rosaries.

“Optics are no e-girls, except for zionist’s with nosejobs like Laura Loomer, who you must unconditionally support for congress. Optics are bringing retarded congresswomen to your twink festivals and then simping for them after they denounce you as evil.

“Optics are when you laugh at normal sized heterosexuals who get censored for talking about Jews, because srs bzns guys talk about infiltrating the Republican Party out in the open for years before not doing that even one time and never primarying any of them. Then, the real optics move, is when you promote a schizophrenic black rapper named ‘Ye’ who goes on a show with a dick pill salesman and says ‘there’s a lot of things that I looooooooove about Hitlerrrrrrrrrr.’

“Optics are when you call yourself pro-White TradCaths and then bring a weird negro faggot named Scammy Davis Jr into your party to groom and rape underage White boys. Optics are – yes,” Chris said, interrupting himself to point to Frank, who had, mystery of mysteries, managed to raise his hand.

”What’s a faggot?” Frank asked, for once making himself useful by speaking for all the rest of them. 

”A faggot is a man who is sexually attracted to other men, and sometimes boys,” Chris said, and waited for the inevitable chorus of disgust from the children to die down before continuing. “Were it not for the excellent work of the great biochemist and DNA engineer Dr. Lantis, they would still exist. You’ve already met him in this tour, but we’re focusing on these great men right now. The pious Christians who gave catbois love when no one else would.”

The children looked around at each other, then their gaze wandered again through the maze of little statues, so small in comparison to the others. The more they learned about these serious intellectual titans, the more mysterious they became. 

As if reading their minds, Chris continued. “And one more thing children, that might make them more relatable. Those normal sized men over there, who placed themselves in opposition to these men, who referred to themselves as Gaypers,” Chris waited, making sure he had their full attention before continuing. “Those men were sex-havers.”

The children erupted in a chorus of blushing, giggles, and flustered laughs.

Chris smiled as he raised a hand trying to calm the children. “Yes, that’s right, and the brave little men in this group had exactly the same reaction that you children are having to the idea of having sex with a woman. It was basically ‘women have cooties,’ the political movement, but for adult men who enjoy being groomed by pedophiles.

“And it was these men who lead our people through the post-apocalyptic nuclear hellscape that was created when Israel ragequit after the Arabs finally got em back and they started nuking everyone on the planet in revenge. It was tough, but the homosexual Catboi groomers were there to really pull us through the fall of civilization.”

Some murmured giggles permeated throughout the children. Then one of the children looked off to the other side, at another group of faceless statues. “What about those ones,” the girl asked. 

”Ah, yes children. A third faction of faceless men. They were very active during one particular senseless war with lots of murdered White soldiers. No one amongst our people, not even the Catboi Respecters, had the courage to side with our international Zionist occupiers, and alongside all the shitlib NPC propaganda repeaters with pronouns in their social media bios. Those – yes,” the guide once again interrupted himself to point towards Marcus. 

“What’s social media?”

“Oh, it was an extremely productive thing that no one ever wasted time on. You could absolutely change the course of history by ratio’ing sitting congressmen, as one of many examples. In fact, it’s pretty much all these men did. They posted a lot and then basically White Race equalled saved at that point.

“Anyway, this faction of faceless men had the tenacity and courage to break from the echo chamber of people who didn’t want to support George Soros’ foreign policy adventures. They would use facts and logic, deep in the bowels of telegram, to ensure that our people supported the country run entirely by Jews.

“By facts and logic I mean they spammed racial fetishizing homosexual porn and pictures of dead White soldiers. Because to not have done that would have been very anti-White and extremely Dooginist.”

“What’s Dooginist?” Frank blurted out.

Ms. Williams cut in “Frank please raise your hand next time.”

“Thank you Amanda,” Chris said with a smile before turning back to Frank, “But to answer your question yong man, he was the man who controlled Israel alongside Klaus Schwab, and basically everyone who didn’t support the US state department’s zionist foreign policy was a Third World Eurasianist Dooginist.”

With that Marcus raised his hand, “Did these Faceless Men agree on anything?” he said after Chris had pointed towards him.

“Somewhat,” Chris replied. “For instance, they would occasionally post pictures of cute girls in Reddit threads dedicated to trannies in an attempt to get them all to kill themselves. They – oh right, trannies. Trannies were basically like if demons infested people and we can just leave it at that. Yes Marcus?”

“Did they successfully get them to kill themselves?” 

“It’s hard to say,” Chris replied. “Troons had lifespans that were little longer than mayflies, and which inevitably ended in suicide. No one can say for sure if this had any effect, but our historians have uncovered posts where all these men agree that it was at least worth a shot.

”Look, children, I know this is a lot to throw at you, so let me make this simple. You all have lives free from want. I understand if many of you take this for granted. But you have the luxury of doing this, because when times were darkest for our people, these men,” Chris turned towards the last faction, “spammed interracial gay pornography and graphic images of dead White soldiers when no one else would.

“Then these men,” he turned towards the small faction of Faceless Men, “defended Harvey Weinstein when no one else would, and also let negro homosexuals groom White fifteen year old boys. Finally, these men,” he turned towards the original faction, “would occasionally reply to the ADL on twitter, and hit the dislike button on internet videos advertising Hollywood product while leaving snarky comments.

“It is this last group that made the fewest contributions to our people, as they decided collectively that ‘internet activism is gay since there’s so much censorship,’ and instead started forming real political parties and doing real life activism. It is the consensus of modern historians that this was undoubtedly less important than having novelty takes on obscure issues and picking fights in online echo chambers, but there are some historians who believe that actual political action may have made some small contribution to our people’s efforts.” 

His voice trailed off, and for a moment there was nothing but the rustle of the faint breeze meandering through the hall. And then, as if on cue, two messenger skitters flew overhead, their physics defying nimbleness making the machines appear as if propelled by magic. Above the skitters, and behind from the children’s point of view, hovered The Von Braun in low earth orbit, the gargantuan warship hazy through the atmosphere, appearing as a second moon in the sky.

The skitters soon darted off into the distance, leading the children’s eyes once again past the field of wildflowers and clean rodes to the splendour of New Alexandria. Even the most rambunctious of children were silent as they gazed at its splendour, the guide’s next words lent extra gravitas by the grandeur of the vision before them.

“There were many men who lost their lives in the militaries fighting for our people. However, that’s not really that important. What was important was these brave men sacrificing their e-lives and having to constantly start new accounts. Without that,” he paused for just a moment, letting the implications sink in, “none of this would be possible.” 

The buzzing of the skitters overhead soon faded, but the last words of the guide echoed in their tiny minds.  

Without those ten thousand post long telegram e-debates, none of this would have happened.

It was a long minute before the guide sat up. He did so silently, the hem of his robe swaying ever so slightly in the breeze. 

“This is always my favourite part of the tour,” he said, his eyes unfocused staring off into the distance. “What The Faceless Men do is remind us all that we have an obligation to live lives worthy of their approval. The approval of the men who spent 14 hours a day online, and saved all of China.” 

With that he turned to get up, stopping for only a second to lightly place his hand on a statue engraved “BrimstoneAndGelfilteFish,” silently paying his respects, before he walked to the end of the plateau and turned around, waiting for the children. They followed one by one, until only Marcus remained. With one last look at the great men of the past, even he started forward. Emboldened by the greatness around him, Marcus walked up to Madeline, extended his hand, and clutched hers closely. 

“I know that we’ve hit the highlight of the tour already,” said Chris, as he lead them down other side of The Hill Of Faceless Men, “but we can’t ignore the many other great men of the past, even if their accomplishments were lower. For example, here we see Archimedes, an important Greek mathematician, physicist, engineer, and astronomer.”