A calloused finger swipes the dirty screen, scrolling to a rather eye-catching news article: First Steps Towards the Future! Deep Space Colonization Project Takes Off! There is Still Hope for the Children of Earth! After scrolling through the article, the finger swipes again, growing bored of the constant speculation and guessing. The man next to him lets out a tired yawn as he leans back in his chair, lazily staring at the monitors in front of him. The haggard faces of thin men in uniform outfits reflect in his eyes, the high definition screens emitting a blue light. Setting down the tablet, the officer calls out to his partner.

“Hey, you hear about how the city might be getting a dome? It’s about damn time don’t you think?”

“Ah? Yeah yeah, apparently most of the other cities already have them up and running. I hear the air is a lot more fresh… Wonder what that’s like…”

Before the man can reply, there’s movement on one of the cameras facing the entrance of the prison. A sleek black car slows to a stop, and a young man jumps out from the driver's seat and hurriedly opens the passenger door. Dressed in a stark black suit, with spotless shoes, a middle aged man exits the vehicle. The face that’s plastered front and center on the monitor is scarred and cold, with a silent aura observation and inhuman indifference. Even through the screen the two officers shudder just by looking at his face. One of them speaks up, his voice a mixture of respect and suspicion.

“So that’s him, huh? I wonder how that old feller got his attention.”

“Yeah, it really was quite the shock, huh? Who would have guessed that the greatest lawyer of the century would be interested in picking up a long dead case.”

“Well, you can’t really say it’s dead, per say, but after so many years it might as well be.”

The lawyer goes through the security checks. In one hand he carries a thick briefcase and in the other, a rather long and strangely shaped box. Inside is an odd wooden object, which normally would be confiscated, but due to the man’s reputation and terrifying ability, security allows it through without batting an eye. This breach in etiquette is of no surprise to the two guards watching through the cameras, in fact they barely even pay attention to such events.

Seeing the man approach, the guard with the tablet stands up, tossing the glowing screen on the table in front of him. He gives a charming smile as he extends his hand and welcomes the visitor, his tone overly respectful.

“Welcome, Mister --”

Before he can continue, however, he’s immediately interrupted by a slow and calm voice.

“Just call me Elijah.”

In no position to refuse, the guard nods, swept away by the other man’s rhythm as his hand is firmly shaken. The mechanical voice drills into his ears, not the slightest hint of human emotion present, as if the noise originates from an AI system and is simply following its programming.

“I’d like to meet my client, if you don’t mind, Mr. Hathaway.”

Hathaway trembles as his name flows freely from Elijah’s lips. He makes no attempt to investigate how the man knows him, simply accepting it as fact without further question, forcibly shutting down any suspicion that threatens to creep out. He’s long heard of the man’s eccentric nature. In his curiosity, he’s studied the lawyer's past, and learned of his ruthless rise to fame as he repeatedly reduced criminals to their base instinct in the court of law, and brought down the indisputable hammer of truth again and again without rest. He’s heard the rumors of his true character: that he’s actually a secret weapon raised by the royal family to infiltrate the court of law; that he’s an unparalleled genius, the kind said to only appear once a millennia; that he's a machine created by some secret organization in the shadows. Hathaway, simple minded as he is, typically chooses to ignore such rumors. Now, however, he can’t help but recall the quagmire of information and mystery that surrounds this man, and feel as though there could perhaps be some truth to the rumors.

“Right this way, Elijah, your client is already waiting for you.”

Such a matter is truly unprecedented. The fact that a lawyer of such renown reached out personally to a specific prisoner in such a small, out of the way prison, is highly suspicious. The folks at the top had suspected something nefarious, thinking that perhaps Elijah had a history with the man, but after apparently coming up with nothing, his actions went unhindered and the prisoner in question didn’t refuse. This all leads, naturally, to today's meeting.

After a series of security checks and a long period of walking, the two arrive at a room. Standing outside of the door is a young guard, his expression tense and serious, as though this is the most important moment of his life. Just a few minutes ago, however, he had been chatting away with the prisoner inside, acting like best buddies as the two of them talked about the troubles of life. Elijah says nothing as he walks past the guard, entering the room. Before he steps completely inside, he pivots and speaks to his chaperone in an utterly calm voice.

“There’s no reason to follow me. My client will speak to me alone. Confidentiality and all that.”

Not wanting to argue, Hathaway nods, choosing to stand by the young guard as Elijah shuts the door firmly behind him with a heavy thud. Turning around, he looks inside. The room is cold and cramped, with a small metal desk in the corner and two opposing chairs on either side. Sitting in the chair closest to the wall is a senior. His thin wrists are without handcuffs, and his hair is neatly slicked back and styled very formally. His dim eyes watch as the middle aged gentleman sets his briefcase next to the desk, before lifting the strangely shaped case, nodding towards the senior.

“I believe you know what this is, Sir.”

A flash of recognition flickers through the man’s eyes, followed by a look of doubt and worry. His wrinkled face scrunches up as he scans the aged case with a suspicious glare, neither confirming nor denying the statement. In no hurry, Elijah sets the case down on the table. Then, with familiar movements, unbuckles it and flips it open. With deliberate movements, he spins the case around, so that the contents are right in front of the seated elder.

It’s as if lightning has stuck him. The man’s eyes are frozen, wide and hazy, locked onto the wooden guitar placed securely within. The wood is polished, not a nick nor dent to be seen. The strings are clean and new, maintained in perfect condition even after all these years. The piece looks brand new, and yet, it reeks of a life of history and trouble, of endless struggles and lost hope. The aged wood contains a story within its very atoms, a story only the old man can seemingly see. It’s not a cohesive story. The wood has been imbued with emotions, not thoughts. But it’s a story nonetheless. As he stares dumbstruck at his old friend, a voice suddenly caresses his ears. It’s heavy and soft and restrained and cold. It’s aged and young and filled with boldness. A hint of melancholy seeps out from his words, like the thawing earth after a century long winter.

“A long, long time ago, I made a promise. It was a rather silly promise, one entirely lacking in common sense and feasibility. It was a dream with no chance of succeeding. A lofty goal with no foundation in reality… Still, I tried my best… I’m now here because of that dream, but in all honesty, I’m not the one that wished to stand before you. The young woman, who so desperately wanted to be here, is no longer able to achieve her dreams… Despite that… I felt it was my duty to... to do everything in my power, to fulfill what I could of that absurd dream…”

The elder looks up, staring teary eyed at the hollow eyed man before him. The man’s expression is heavy, giving the impression that everything in his life has led up to this moment. He constantly wets his lips in apparent agitation. A lump has formed in his throat, causing his words to break apart in emotion. He seems to be looking into the distance, staring at something, or someone, that only remains as a distant memory. His rigid expression grows soft, a faint pain welling up within his emotionless eyes. Despite that, he forces himself to speak, letting the words flow from his chest like wind rushing across an endless plane of grass.

“It’s been, so long… There were plenty of times where I thought I might as well quit… But, somehow…”

He trails off, staring past the man he's worked so hard to see.

“We’ve finally reached Tomorrow.”

FIN.