The President is dead.
The end came, swift, like black wings at midnight, leaving him nailed to his desk with a sword. There is a hole in the stretch of scarlet that cannot be stitched; there is a spreading stain, dripping to the floor, that cannot be scrubbed.
Below me, Midgar holds its breath. I cannot hold mine. The window of the helicopter is white with it and my stomach is turning with a sickening excitement, anticipation throbbing through my veins and pride clawing like a demon at my throat. Yet under it, dancing on the misty edge of my consciousness, are tiny black bubbles of apprehension and regret and anxiousness, and they threaten to pull me down into their dark waves. My eyes prickle. My heart hammers. My handprint on the window pane seems too small. And, suddenly, I am drowning; sinking in awe at the grandness of this towering moment, spiralling into shadowy depths of hesitation. But this cannot control me; shot gun in gloved hand, I watch the lights of my world below and I burst my fears with promises of a grander tomorrow.
His bloody end is my long-awaited beginning. At last, my father is dead.