The word is relocation, the result is chaos.
Elijah Hemingway has a dream of the future, engulfed in fire and flames, the screams of the innocent piercing the air.
A line is drawn, an invisible line dividing the good and the evil in the eyes of the public. The cry of change rings out across a nation, the bell tolling just before midnight. It starts with a word, and it ends in death. And the fire and the end draw ever nearer.
“Elijah Hemingway,” he began, allowing a small smile to break through his façade of composure, “there’s a little café on the corner of Plymouth Street where I was waiting all day for the world to explode because you told me it would. You didn’t disappoint.”
He paused, taking a few extra seconds to catch his breath.
"I dearly hope you'd like to accompany me there now."