“Drop the pen, and put your hands behind your head!”

This would be my final act of defiance.

The words came thick and fast now, my handwriting turning into an illegible scrawl as I raced to compose the ideas, the motivations and dreams of this entire ordeal, into something that would outlive me. That would outlive us all.

They were banging at the door, with their words and their battering rams, but I was safe. My brothers would spill their blood for this ink. Of that I was certain, so ashamedly certain.

The Government had to stop us now. We had wounded them and their only recourse was to take away our voice. The Internet was dead. Long live the Internet. They thought we’d die. Activists with a keyboard, marionettes strung on a web of ethernet cables.

My hand began to ache as the door began to bow. The gunfire was deafening, the tiny room erupting into strobing flashes of hell but it died down quickly. We couldn’t win, but victory would not be won by the barrel of a gun.

“Drop the pen,” a voice shouted from behind the splintered remnants of the door. “Put your hands on your head!”

Ket crouched in the corner, tears streaming down his young face. I stood, folding the letter like my mother and her grand mother had done for generations before. I passed it to the boy and he looked up at my face. Was he looking for his own mother?

“Go, take it to the others and don’t come back I said. Go now.”

He bolted for the bedroom, the small crawl space there letting him flee to where the police couldn’t chase him. Not that they would be looking. The door creaked and cracked and caved in as the officers rushed in, surrounding me with their rifles and their shouts.

“On your knees.”

I smiled. But I didn’t comply.

Prompt originally posted by Theminonking on reddit and received 3 upvotes.

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