ONC 2021 Ambassador's Pick
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Lav Sciarra's accomplishments are many: He is one of the Tower's best soldiers. He founded the Gemma Special Forces. He killed the terrorist who nearly destroyed the Tower. Lav Sciarra, they say, is a hero.
Lav knows oth...
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Someone had spray-painted the gravestone. In this shadowed corner of the graveyard, far from the other graves, the bright blue lettering spelled out a single word: Murderer.
Isla thought it was rather fitting. After all, the man buried here had killed hundreds. She didn't know why the Lieutenant General had come here, nor why he'd chosen to arrive mere minutes before the cemetery closed, but she intended to find out. She stood behind the Lieutenant General and the graffitied grave, fiddling with her reporter badge as she waited for an opportune moment to approach him.
It was a late autumn afternoon, that time of year when color leached out of the landscape and the canvas of earth and sky turned monochrome. Here on the outskirts, beyond the reach of the city's bright lights, lone streetlamps flickered in a feeble attempt to keep the approaching dark at bay. The Tower shone in the background, a tall spike in the city skyline that dwarfed the other buildings. The sun's red-gold rays cast long shadows beside the two figures in the graveyard, dyeing the scene in a rusty iron tint. Adrift on the air was the rustling sound of leaves on barebones branches and the distant croaking of a raven.
The Lieutenant General was a tall, clean-shaven man with impeccable posture. Isla supposed he was handsome, but there was a sharpness to his features that lent him an intimidating severity. He couldn't have been over forty, but as he gazed down at the gravestone, he seemed to grow older with each passing second. Isla watched as he lifted a gloved hand and swept it rightwards in a deliberate motion. The blue graffiti vanished and the name Kel Wolff emerged from beneath.
It was such a simple display of power but Isla couldn't help but stare in awe. Most Gemma could perform telekinesis, but controlling it was the tricky part. It was a difficult task to separate stone and spray paint particles, keeping one intact while destroying the other. It was even more complicated to perform, a feat that took years of practice in creating and executing intricate programs in one's head. If any other Gemma had been asked to clean graffiti, they'd take a brush and a bucket of soap water with them. Isla included.
This was what Isla was after: to record and hear the story of the strongest Gemma soldier. The same hero who stood mere meters away from her.
Yet as Isla watched the Lieutenant General crouch down, she thought she'd never seen a hero look so worn. The pressed white uniform, the cap with its Gemma Special Forces insignia, the trailing cape, the medals decorating his lapel — they all seemed to add to the weight on his shoulders and the tired lines on his face. He set down a single crimson rose atop the gravestone and stood, taking off his cap. After a moment of silence he replaced it, covering his blond hair.
"To the little miss busybody behind me — what do you want to ask?"
Isla startled, her reporter's badge falling out of her hands. It fell until it stopped inches from the ground, caught by an invisible hand, then hovered to her waist and clipped itself to the trim of her blouse. Isla glanced at the Lieutenant General, knowing he'd caught the badge when she'd failed to with her own powers. His blue eyes were pale and cold, nearly colorless, and his expression unnervingly blank as he gazed at her. It was not unlike being watched by one of the dunehawks that rested on the highest perches of the city, searching for its next meal.
