The man named Connor roamed across the plains, heading toward that place that was a fabled land in the hearts and minds of the survivors- The Sanctuary. It was the last city that hadn't been affected. All the other cities in the land had been struck down by the terrible disaster that the survivors called simply The Cataclysm. There in the sanctuary, or so it was said, peace and health still reigned supreme, and the cataclysm held no power. It was a lovely thought, and one Connor held safe in his head, his own personal sanctuary.

He was one of the Mercans. The Mercans had stood as the most strong and powerful of the people in the world, until the Cataclysm. After, they were scattered. Some banded together, becoming vigilante groups that roamed to and fro, back and forth, engaging in skirmishes with the Alkadens, for reasons that had been long forgotten. They only knew that the Alkadens, and others, the Laudenites, Terists, and Balitan, to name a few, were the enemies. They had been since time out of mind, since even before the cataclysm.

History was spotty on what had happened, and the only really hard facts were these: a long time ago, the Alkadens had done something to the Mercans, and the Mercans had struck back. Then, in what became a slope that the world slid down, until they were all embroiled, there were a series of counterattacks, until, finally, the Cataclysm destroyed most of them, along with the records that held the truth of what had happened on that fateful day.

The world now was different then what it had been. The old one, the one who the nomadic survivors said lived at the Sanctuary, was said to have memories that stretched back to before the Cataclysm, and knew the truth of the matter. The nomadic people furthermore said that the old one never ever spoke on what life had been like before.

Still, Connor was going to see the old man, and to hear what he would have to say, if anything. He had not ever known anything besides this life. His only companion in his long lonely life had been the AK-47 looped across his shoulder. It was a gift, given to him from someone who had claimed to be his father, on a day that the man claimed to be his (Connor's) birthday.

As he had wandered the land, he had met other men his age, just under two decades of age. They had also been given guns similar to his, and they had used them. They were always traveling in a different direction from him, away from the Sanctuary. Connor didn't know why anyone would want to leave the Sanctuary. According to the stories he had heard, it was a place of wonder, and safety, where some of the old machines still worked, and defended the city. Where airplanes still patrolled the skies.

The old machines had not protected against the destructive force of the Cataclysm, but the Alkadens had thus far not been able to breach any of those defenses, to destroy the last Mercan city.

Connor had begun his journey several years earlier, just after he was given his gun. He didn't know why he was gong to the Sanctuary, but he had an idea it was for only one reason.

The old one knew the truth, and he would have it in one form or another.

As he walked, the long stalks of grass- the new grass that had grown over, under, around, and through the black burned out ground of the city that had stood here- these stalks of grass bowed in the wind. The wind that very possibly still carried the Cataclysm around with it.

He didn't have anyway of knowing if it did or not. All the people that could work the sensing equipment that detected such things had died along time ago, just before the firestorm had taken most of the Mercans down.

Once, several months before, he had met a man named Mikel. They became traveling companions for a while, sharing stories, and bits of news. It was from Mikel that Connor first learned that the land upon which he was now walking (this land was far in the south when Connor had this conversation), was once a Mercan city, the one where everything had started.

Mikel said that this city was once huge, a thriving metropolis full of people from every land in the world. And then, one day, something had happened, and the city had changed, the whole world with it.

The old one would know, Connor told Mikel, and Mikel shrugged. "Maybe. I came from there, though, and no one had ever heard him speak of it."

Connor didn't reply to that.

He walked south from that point, and now, here he was. Moving through a long stretch of flat land, that used to be a bustling metropolis. Now, though, no hint of it remained. Except the blackened ground, and bits of rubble here and there.

He stopped as a glint of light caught his eye. He bent down, and picked it up. It was a tiny section of a sign that had before been large. Connor didn't know what to make of it, except that it was probably a sign that had the name of the city. It was burned, and melted, and the only letters recognizable on it were "W Yor," and below that "Op 7,32." The rest of the sign was unreadable, melted into slag.

He dropped it, and walked on. At the horizon, he could see shapes of what used to be buildings, before the cataclysm, before the civil wars.

Several days later, he met a group of Alkadens. They were camping on the road, and they saw him coming. There were only three of them, but three Alkadens against one lone Mercan was a completely unfair battle.

They should have brought more friends with them.

The Alkadens unshouldered their guns, and pointed them at Connor, telling him in their own foreign language to stop moving. In half a blink, he had assessed their threat potential. They each had a single pistol, and several knives strapped to their waist. In the typical feature of Alkadens, and their close kin the Laudenites, and the Balitan, they had long full beards, and dark eyes and faces. Their hair was dark and straight. He paused, letting his hand hang loosely down by the handle of his gun. Aside from the AK-47, he had a pistol in a back holster where he could reach it quickly, plus two metal knives, and a wooden one.

The Alkadens- one of them he noticed as he got closer, was actually a Balitan, he could see the stripe of black across the chest- ordered him to halt again.

In that moment, his hand wrapped around the handle of his gun, and he whipped it up, firing three quick bursts, as he sidestepped left, firing without sighting. He had been doing it for almost five years now, and it had become second nature.

He had been fully trained in the use of the weapon by a man who called himself Jackson. He wore the uniform of the Army of the Mercans, and from the decorations on his chest, Connor could tell he was highly ranked. Jackson showed him the proper way to hold the gun, how to fire it, how to strip it down, how to reassemble it, how to reload it, and how to use it as a close range weapon.

He had studied with this man, training for days and nights at a time over a period of several months. He had become a master with his weapon, knowing it inside and out, knowing it's quirks, it's weaknesses, and it's strengths.

As he brought the gun up, he felt the angle of the muzzle with his wrist, pointing it at the man on the far right. He fired once, sending out three bullets. As they were in transit, he saw the gun hand of the man in the middle begin to move, but too late. His wrist had already readjusted the aim, and fired again, thup-thup-thup. He readjusted without really thinking about it one more time, and fired three more bullets.

As the first man began to stagger back, and fall, the bullets hit the third man, knocking him back, and down. It was all over in a matter of seconds.

The two Alkadens, and the man of the Balitan, fell in the dust, and lay still. He walked forward, keeping his gun at the ready, in case they were faking. As he got closer, he saw the blood leaking from their body, red like his.

Again, he was struck by the knowledge that these people- The Alkadens, the Laudenites, the Terists, and the Balitan- they were all men. They were all human, just like he was. Their cities had been decimated just as his had. They had suffered the same loss.

Conner walked on, not looking back, deciding to put it behind him, both figuratively, and literally.

A couple of days later, he came across a band of Mercans, who stopped to talk to him for a bit.

"Are you headed toward the Sanctuary?" One of them asked.

"Yes," Connor replied. "I am going to talk to the Old One."

The group of Mercans exchanged glances between them. "The Old One?"

"Yes," Connor said again.

"Well, good luck to you. The Old One doesn't really talk to anyone, you know."

"I know."

That was all the conversation that Connor cared to have, and he walked on. After several minutes, he heard a pair of footsteps behind him. He turned, and saw a boy, almost to the age of manhood. They regarded each other for a moment.

"You carry a gun," he said simply.

"Yes," Connor replied.

"Is it to fight the Alkadens?"

"Yes," Connor said again.

"Why do you fight them?"

"They are our sworn enemies."

"Why are they our sworn enemies?"

"Because of what they did to us."

"What did they do?"

There was a long uncomfortable silence. Connor couldn't think of a reply to that. Indeed, he didn't know what it was they had done either.

"I don't know."

"Is that why you are going to see the old one?"

"Yes, it is. Hopefully, he will tell me what I want... what I need to know."

"Well, I hope you get what you want. And I hope it turns out to be what you needed."

Connor nodded, and turned, walking on. He didn't look back.

Connor did eventually reach the sanctuary. It was several weeks later, and his gun had seen a lot more action then Connor cared to think about, but, on the bright side, the world was a few more Terists short of a full load, and that was good. Perhaps peace would be achieved in his lifetime.

When he finally came to the gates of The Sanctuary, the guard, who also had an AK-47, stopped him.

"Name?"

Connor gave it to him.

"Point of origin?"

Connor gave him that information as well.

"How long will you be staying?"

He would be there as long as he needed to be to get his business done.

"And what is this business, exactly?"

Research. Looking into the history of the world, and if there are any books to be found, they would be found here, wouldn't they?

"Yeah, they'd be here, but don't expect them to be much help. Most of the stuff was lost during the Cataclysm."

Well, he would see wouldn't he?

The guard let him through, and Connor went walking toward the middle of the city.

The city was large. It was the largest city Connor had ever seen in twenty-five or so years of life. To be fair, he had been born in the last few months before the Cataclysm changed everything for the worse, so he hadn't seen that many cities. Enclaves, yes. He had seen several of those. Roving bands of Nomadic Survivors in what they called their Tent Towns, but never a real actual city. This one had buildings. Real actual buildings, from before. The ones that didn't move around at a moment's notice.

After the Cataclysm, there had been several innovations in constructive engineering. One of them was the new super light metal Triptalium, which was twenty times as light as titanium, and almost three times as strong. It allowed buildings to be picked up and moved at a few moments notice.

When people began to realize that the Cataclysm wasn't going to go away, or burn itself out, they began to flee to all the corners of the globe. they took their buildings with them, and started a new city somewhere they thought would be clean, and safe. It was unfortunate, however, that the firestorm followed them wherever they went, striking them down no matter how fast they moved.

Their buildings, and their new super light materials availed them not. The Cataclysm had destroyed many of their friends and families, and firestorm had raged against them.

Connor surveyed the buildings, looking at their fixtures, and their sets. In the old days, these had to be giants. Some were almost five stories tall. And one, near the center of the city towered over all of them.

It was a white tower, that looked to be maybe six hundred feet high, in Connor's estimation, and covered in white marble. He looked at it for a long time. He had heard tales of this also. It was supposed to be a monument to a man who had lived a long long time ago. Some people said he was a great general who led a small army against a huge worldwide force, and ended up defeating them, and claiming the victory. Others said he was the first of the Mercan kings, and the greatest. Still others claimed that there was a land far to the west and north, where you could see this great man's visage on a mountain.

Connor had never seen it, and had never expected to. That was before his quest took him to see the old one. The old one would know, and the old one would give him the answers he needed.

As he headed toward the center of the city, the Sanctuary, he saw all sorts of things he thought he would never see. There were children playing in the streets, and none of them...

None of them had fear on their faces, or guns in their hands. They were all playing like... well... like children.

He heard a roaring noise above him, and looked up. What he saw filled him with wonder, and a sense of surreality. The object that passed overhead was like something out of legend. he had heard of them, but he had never actually believed that any existed. If they had existed, he wouldn't have believed that any of them worked, or were allowed to fly. But here was one now.

It flew overhead with loud rumble of displaced air, and came down lower, and lower, disappearing behind the buildings.

An airplane. A real actual airplane. he had seen pictures, but thought them faked, or very very old. Surely they wouldn't allow airplanes to fly over the Sanctuary, the last human city. Not after the Cataclysm.

And yet, there it was. And no one had paid it any more attention then they would the sound of gunfire in the field. It was unreal.

Connor closed his mouth- nothing surprised him for very long anymore- and moved on. WIthout any clear direction of where he was to go to find the old one, he walked in the he direction the airplane had landed.

He walked for several minutes, until he came across another building. This one was different, but no less commanding then the tall white obelisk he had seen earlier. It was a building with steps leading up to a landing on which 36 pillars rested, supporting the roof. Under the roof, keeping an eternal watch on the city, sat a statue of a man. He was a tall man, with a great beard.

Connor looked at it, but couldn't place any stories with it, so he didn't pay very much mind to it. He continued walking, as he came around one corner, there it was.

The airplane had touched down on a makeshift runway that led up to another building, this one also white. The men who had just gotten off the plane were just getting to the door of the building, and the plane was turning around.

Connor followed after them. When he got to the door, he was faced with yet another guard, who wanted to know his name, his point of origin, and his reason for coming. Connor gave the same old song and dance (now there was a phrase from a completely different world), and the guard let him in, after making him leave his gun and his pistol. As he walked through the door, a beeping noise went off.

"Are you carrying any other sort of metal?" the guard asked. Connor paused, then reached down to his boot, and pulled out a metal knife from each side. He walked back through, and nothing beeped this time. The guard waved him on, and Connor went. He was on his way to see the old one.

When he stepped in through the door, he was awed by the sight that greeted him. The circular room contained a large painting that dominated one of the walls, and beneath it, a sofa, and two chairs around a small table. There was a man sitting in one of the chairs, looking at a book.

"Excuse me," Connor said. The man looked up, didn't say anything. "I was wondering if you knew where the old one would be found?"

The man looked at Connor, opened his mouth, and let out a belch. It smelled strongly of alcohol.

"Uhh, well... lessee... if you go through tha' door there," he pointed with a wavering hand toward a door on the upper left side of the room, "and then, ummm, there's a coupla other doors, but I don' 'member which ones you go through. But if you just keep going to the left, you should find him somewhere."

"Oh. Thanks." Connor began to walk toward the door.

"I was important once."

Connor paused. "Were you?"

"I was. I was a Senator."

Connor didn't know how to reply to that, so he didn't and walked through the door, not listening to the drunk man in the reception room prattle on about the rest of his family who all died of unnatural causes.

He moved left, into a room with a couple of other tables, sofas, and a large map of some stretch of land that looked vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn't place it. It might have been what the territory of the Mercan's looked like before the Cataclysm.

He studied it for a while wondering, if it was the land of the Mercans, where he was on it. He shook his head. No point in idling fancy. Maybe when all the bad guys were defeated, but Connor didn't know if that would happen in his lifetime.

He walked forward, to another door in front of him, and went through it. He walked through a series of rooms, and then into a long hallway. He followed it for a long time, looking into the different offices that lined the hallway.

There were strange machines sitting on the desks there, and he supposed that these were computers, though they looked kind of outdated, compared to the portable one he had.

He continued to walk, and finally came to another door on the left side. He went through it, and finally came to a door that gave him pause. It looked harder somehow. He knocked on it, and hurt his knuckles, it was so hard.

He felt the door, thinking that it might be made of triptalium. All of a sudden, it opened.

Connor jumped back, grabbing for his gun that wasn't there. he flailed against his hip, before realizing that it was back at the entrance of the house, and then he realized who was standing before him.

The man who had opened the door was tall, maybe six feet tall. His hair was grayish white, and long, tied back in a ponytail. His skin was very dark, like the skin of a Laudenite, or a Alkaden. He wore a camouflage jacket, and a white scarf.

Connor watched him warily, and the man watched him back. Finally, he stepped back, and gestured for Connor to come in with an outstretched arm. Connor stepped forward slowly, and moved past the old man into the room.

There was an emblem on the floor. An eagle, holding an olive branch in one talon, and a clutch of arrows in the other. He crossed it as he walked to a chair that sat in front of a large desk. The desk had a plaque with one word carved onto it. He studied that word, and then the man.

The old man walked around the room, and sat down behind the desk. He folded his arms, and regarded Connor.

Connor refused to be wavered by the old man's strange dark eyes. "I'm looking for the old one. I need answers."

The old man didn't reply.

"Do you know where he is?"

The old man nodded.

"Are you him? Are you the old one?"

The old one nodded.

Connor let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, and sagged back in his chair. His journey was over. "I need answers," he told the old one.

"I need to know about the time before The Cataclysm."

"Do you know who I am?" The old one asked. He had a strange accent, and it was one that put Connor on his guard. He felt his muscles tense.

"No," Connor said, "I don't. I've heard that no one knows who you are."

"Indeed, no one does. But you shall."

"Why are you going to tell me?"

"Because, I can see that you are someone looking for answers. I shall give them to you."

"Then tell me... what happened? What led to the cataclysm?"

The old one leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers.

"A long time ago, more then twenty years ago, I was a man in a position of power. I was the head of a large and wealthy corporation. Shortly after the turn of the century, less then a year, in fact, a terrible tragedy occurred, in a city north of here. On the eleventh day of the ninth month, airplanes crashed into the two largest buildings in that city.

"The buildings were utterly destroyed, totally and completely. thousands of people died. Some of them were never found. Well over a thousand of them. Crushed, and completely obliterated by thousands of tons of debris.

"Investigators determined that a man in a far distant country, a man named Osama bin Laden, was responsible for the terrible disaster, and in less then a month, the man who occupied this desk at the time, a man named Bush, gave the order to fire missiles.

"Those missiles destroyed the country. The country was a poor, one, just struggling to get along as best it can in a hard world. The government there was called Taliban."

"No," Connor interrupted, "You said it wrong, it's Balitan. They are the Balitan."

"No, you are the mistaken one, I'm afraid. They are called the Balitan now, but then, they were called the Taliban. That was their proper name.

"The Taliban were very strict, but it was a beneficent strict. Then, the Americans, those you now call the Mercans, began their attack, and decimated the country."

There was a quiet pause. Connor waited silently.

"Bin Laden disappeared during the attacks, and was never seen again. His followers, those called the Laudenites, believe him dead, and they are on a continual jihad to destroy every Mercan, in vengeance."

"Is he dead?" Connor heard himself ask, quite unexpectedly.

The old one shrugged a noncommittal shrug.

"Others that followed bin Laden believe him to be alive, and somewhere in this country. They were called Al-Qaedans. They search for him even now.

"Then a disease broke out in America. It was called Anthrax. It affected only a few at first, and then more and more. It wasn't contagious, but enough people got exposed to it to cause a serious lapse in attention, and one single man, a Laudenite, got through a security net, and onto an airplane. A crop-duster airplane, to be exact. He dropped in a certain chemical, and then took off.

"Before all that though, the man named Bush took the war to other terrorists, who he suspected were responsible for the Anthrax. They fought back with their own brand of warfare. The Americans sustained heavy losses.

"Then, your cataclysm took place. The single Laudenite in the crop-duster dropped a load of a chemical that caused choking and suffocation in anyone who breathed it. Whole cities died, as the wind carried it around the country.

"People who weren't killed went mad, starting wars with other people, and they fought each other, destroying themselves, and others. Those not killed by the cataclysm were destroyed in the ensuing violence and madness.

"Airplanes were outlawed, records were destroyed in the battles that followed, and still, the Americans, the Mercans, fought against the Balitan, and the Laudenites, and the Terists, and the Alkadens, as they are now known."

The old one lapsed into silence.

"This is all true?" Connor asked.

The old one nodded.

"How do you know?"

"As I said before, I was the head of a large, powerful and wealthy corporation. I had intelligence reports that no one else could have had. I had information that no one else could have had. I knew everything that happened almost before it happened, and I escaped before being killed."

"Before you were killed?" Connor asked, an unpleasant feeling in his stomach.

The old one nodded. "I was the one that Bush was after."

Connor eyes widened, and suddenly, he recognized the man siting in front of him.

"I am Osama bin Laden," the old one said. "The room you are sitting in was once the Oval Office. It was where the man called Bush held power. This building was called the White House. It was here that the government of America was. And now, look who sits in the chair of the President!" He laughed, and Connor shuddered.

"You," he said.

The old one looked at him.

"You are the one who caused this... this... hell on earth!"

The old one- no, Connor thought to himself, not the old one, he didn't deserve that title of respect- bin Laden- regarded him with those strange cold eyes.

He smiled, and held open his arms, as if to say At your service.

"Why would you tell me all that?" He demanded.

"Because, dear boy, you're just one more Mercan, and I'm just one more Laudenite, and you are going to die now."

Bin Laden drew a large evil looking knife from within his jacket, and came around the desk. Connor jumped out of the chair, and backed away. Bin Laden advanced, waving the knife. Suddenly, quick as a snake, he darted forward, leading with the blade.

Connor slid left, and grabbed his wrist. He threw his other arm around bin Laden's back, and gave him a shove. Bin Laden slammed into a wall, and rebounded. Connor gave him a quick kick in the back, but bin Laden was already moving. Connor's kick glanced off his back, and to the right as bin Laden moved left.

The terrorist swung with his knife hand, as he moved, and Connor felt the knife slice against his leg. It dug a line of fire from midway down his thigh to his ankle. He stumbled and fell to the ground.

Bin Laden stood over him, breathing heavily. He brought his knife up, and Connor saw blood- his blood- dripping off of it. Bin Laden smiled, and held the knife in front of him, pointing it at Connor. He began to taunt Connor by poking it close to him, but stopping at the last instant.

Connor backed up, scuttling along the ground. Bin Laden followed him, moving slowly. Connor continued to back away, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. A spasm of pain shot up his leg, and he cried out, and grabbed it.

The Alkaden laughed, clearly enjoying the Mercan's pain. Connor watched him through the haze of pain, holding onto his leg, and to the object that he felt there. He scrunched his face in a rictus of pain, wanting bin Laden to think he couldn't move.

Bin Laden stopped laughing, and looked down at Connor. He folded his hands in front of him. "And now, pitiful Mercan, you, like the rest of your despicable breed, will die."

He raised the knife, and brought it down in an arc that would have hit Connor's chest, had he held still. He rolled to the right, just as the knife thunked into the thick carpet. He grabbed the object that was resting against his left leg, and stabbed backwards with it.

There was a feeling in his hand, a definite thunk, and then a thud as a body hit the ground. A whispered moaning noise, and then Connor turned to look.

He was holding on to the handle of his wooden knife, looking at the body of the former warlord, and master terrorist, now with a knife blade sticking into his lung.

bin Laden laid there, not moving, breathing shallowly. Connor pulled his knife out, and slammed it home in bin Laden's back, directly through the spinal cord. There was a spasming, shuddering movement, and then there was no longer a person. There was simply a corpse.

Connor sat there for several long minutes, looking at the body.

He had always thought it would be more satisfying then that.

He took the scarf that bin Laden had around his neck, and tied it around his leg in a tourniquet. Then he pulled himself up, and left, closing the door behind him.