Grojan sat at the back of the room, staring down at the table in front of him. He looked up, drank the last of his pint and went back to his brooding. It had been nearly ten years since he had last downed a drink, but now seemed like the perfect time to start. The recent purging of society's last commentators would leave the world in ruins. The people were already without the freedom to voice themselves, but it would only get worse when the capitalist nuts were left to run the show. His blood began to boil.
“But I can't react,” he thought, “that is what they want. They want assassins to fight, to show themselves.To betray the positions of their brethren. A fighting assassin is as good as dead.”
He pushed himself up against the back wall and looked out upon the other assassins that were in hiding. They had taken refuge in an old Jazz-club turned tavern under the streets of the city. It had been built many years ago, back when things were "better"... Back before the assassins. It seemed a foreign concept to him. He could only remember times where the assassins were prevalent. The owner of the place was an ex-assassin who had retired fifteen years before "honourable" King Bradley had declared his murderous intentions, putting him well out of the reach of possible persecution. Grojan was always envious of that fact.
It was a nice place Grojan was thankful to the owner of the tavern, but wished that he would throw out all the 'youngers' who plagued the area with their vain talk of rebellion and determination to get them all killed.
Just as he began to plot the forcible removal of the youngers without revealing their location, a young assassin barged his way into the booth next to him and forced a conversation:
"Do you think an assassin'll pop the bastard?" he stammered, obviously drunk.
"An assassin will get himself killed, yes."
"Can you imagine, we'll finally be free!"
That was all Grojan could take, he had had enough of all these idiots who thought that killing Bradley was the solution to all the world’s problems. He got up and wandered over to the front of the room, where the speech was being televised. Blocking it with his face, he switched it off. A commotion ran out through the tavern. Insults were hurled and a bottle or two barely missed his head. Familiar with the antics of the young and foolish, Grojan casually cleared his throat and addressed them:
"Fellow assassins, killing our ignoble King will do nothing for our cause. There are a million people like King Bradley, and every one of them wishes to kill us all. If we dare to try and stop them, we would only invite the wrath of all the people on this earth. It is for this reason that we are hiding here: so that when this blows over, we can integrate with our new society. Do not, under any circumstances, blow our cover! If anyone dares to betray us, I will personally make sure that you die a sickening, horrible death. That is, if the King's regime doesn't first. Kapiche?"
His speech had obviously made its point, for the crowd was silent. Grojan turned around and turned on the television. He knew that he could never truly change the young assassins, only time could do that, but he could stop them getting themselves killed long enough for them to give time a chance. He stopped by the bar and poured himself another drink before returning to his place at the back of the room. Finally, the young man had left him alone to his brooding.