2083Charles Elias Walker, President of the United States of America, led a confused group of what he considered to be renegades through the bowels of his nigh impenetrable fortress.
"What's going on here?" Kristogar Velo demanded, following closely behind Walker.
At his words, the eternally young Walker spun on his heels, jamming an index finger into the man's face.
"Listen to me," Walker said, his salt and pepper hair the only evidence of his having aged at all in the last eighty-one years. "I know you're real name. I'm the man that killed you, okay? Don't get smart with me, young man, because, I assure you, I am much, much smarter."
"Right," Velo said, rolling his eyes into his head. "And how, pray tell, did I die?"
"Right after that one," Walker said, pointing to Larry. "And right before that one," he said, pointing to Pete. All three men looked quizzically at one another.
"I ask you again, how did I die?" Velo asked indignantly.
"I killed you with my bare hands," Walker said. "After the 'ghastly' way I killed Mr. Lance, you begged for a fair fight. No weapons. No tricks. Skill against skill."
"And you beat me?" Velo said, his jaw dropping. "Impossible!"
"Not really," said Walker. "Most every fighter slips into a pattern, even the great Kristogar Velo. Finding the pattern proved difficult, granted... but not impossible." Walker smiled and kept walking as Velo stopped cold, the rest of Revolution halting, blocked by his standing.
"Well?" Walker said, turning back to them. "Do you want to get home or should I kill you all again?"
