The wooden table in the center of the room held many memories. Years ago, around it men planned the assassination of foreign dignitaries; decades ago, men laid out the plans for the insurrection against their government, which was carried out swiftly and mercilessly. Now, after 30 years, around that table sat three old men, each of whom regarded their roles with little purpose. Ali, sitting at the head of the table, looked to the wall with mournful nostalgia. There hung pictures of his heroes: Karl Marx, Mao Zedong, Ho Chi Minh, and Joseph Stalin. Each portrait seemed to radiate an aura of accomplishment, almost belittling Ali. Ali turned to Mukbar and Sanji, both of whom were staring at the table, as if transfixed by its many imperfections.
“We are no longer popular, my friends. Our times, our causes, they have passed. Do we just…” Ali trailed off. He averted his gaze from his comrades. Mukbar looked up from his point of attention.
“We return to our families and live our lives in ignorance. For too long have we neglected our loved ones. I have never been allowed to see my granddaughter; my son abhors me.” Sanji looked up, his hands clasped in front of his face.
“We are scum.”
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