The tie around my wrists linger as I trek away from the scene.

I am no longer gagged, with a bag over my head or strapped to the post (obviously), but I still feel like a hostage. Even worse, a criminal.

Brad and Gunnar are escorting me back to the Village, their firm grips on either of my arms, while a few other rangers rally behind us, arrows pointed at my back, as they grumble accusations about me. Alexander and Clifford—one of them with his brows lowered and furrowed while the other one with eyes not bothering to look anywhere but his feet—join us as we pass through the entrance to the Village, its stickwork gates decked and unraveled from the forced entry of the Ante raiders a while ago.

As it appears, I'm being brought in for questioning in front of the council.

Not to hear my victim's account on what these bastards did to me, but to stand accused for what I did to Gabriel. For what they think I did to him.

He isn't dead, no, but he accordingly has been battered so much he is unable to move. He has bruises and cuts all over his limbs and face, and ligature marks on his lower neck. He may also have a few broken bones from the fall and, possibly, some minor head trauma.

What happened to him was brutal, but I had nothing to do with that.

How could I possibly be involved when I was hitched to the pole the whole time? How could I be able to walk over to him, give him some punches and strangle him when I was unable to move my body, much less my hands?

I'm not going to lie; I wanted to, and, for a moment, I even wanted to give him more, to make him suffer worse. Far worse.

But I didn't.

A guilty mind alone does not make a person criminally liable; legal thrillers have been very particular about that. There has to be a guilty act, the actus reus, stemming from the mens rea or the guilty mind, and that burden of proof rests on the prosecution.

If those elements have to be proven first before convicting the accused, during a time when there is a working criminal justice system that's restrictive of our liberties, there's no reason why that idea should be thrown out the window, especially now that there's none—nothing to bind real criminals into paying for their sins.

When I tried to prove my innocence before they picked me up by telling them this, Alexander was quick to retort, "Except if a guilty mind like yours can kill people at will."

I didn't know what he was suggesting, and I really don't care.

I am innocent, and that's all there is to be said about it.

I refuse to be punished for a crime I did not commit.

We enter the training site where the council and pretty much the rest of the Villagers are waiting for me. Brad and Gunnar assist me as I climb up the commander's stage, and they sit me down on a bench in front of everyone.

As soon as I'm seated, everybody's murmurs cultivate into an uproar, with some of them calling me a traitor, a delinquent, a murderer, a monster, an Ante. A few of them even throw things at me: pieces of soiled fabric, twigs, stones, even shit, I suppose. Most of them are demanding my execution, either by beheading or an arrow to the heart or both.

It's darkly funny how my high school trajectory recreates itself in my present life, how one minute I was being regarded as one of the heroes who saved the Village from the true monsters to becoming one of those monsters the next.

I look at the people gathered in front of me with my head upright, controlling myself from showing any signs of fear or intimidation in my facial expression. There's nothing to fear or be intimidated about, after all.

Because I did not do it.

The rangers line up by the left side of the crowd, their bows loaded with arrows ready to shoot at me at the order of Commander Horton, who happens to be the father of the victim.

Great.

Really no reason for me to fear or be intimidated.

Assembled in a semi-circle are the members of the council, each of them wearing a plain black robe. President Moore, the overall figurehead and the chief of medicine, sits at the center, with his right-hand man and the chief of arms, Commander Horton, at his right and the chief of sustainability, Engr. Mendelson, at his left. Completing the council are the chief of intelligence, Mrs. Tupper, and the chief of laws, Atty. Price, seated on either edges.

Judgement day!

Who says it happens before the apocalypse?

I guess that's one inconsistency the bible has yet to address.

"Silence, please, everyone," Atty. Price requests, standing up and facing the rest of the Villagers, his voice gentle and unintimidating, different from how lawyers are often portrayed in court room dramas. "We are about to commence trial now. Thank you."

Like a volume control lever being rotated counterclockwise, the noises gradually quiet down to a qualified silence.

"So, how would the accused plead against the charges of assault and frustrated murder to Mr. Gabriel Horton, brought against him by the witness, Mr. Alexander Moore?" Atty. Price asks, sitting back on his chair.

Frustrated murder, really? I'd take it if it's attempted murder instead, since whatever happened to Gabriel isn't even remotely fatal.

Clearly, these people should've watched more How to Get Away with Murder.

"Guilty!" a few members of the audience yell in succession, answering on my behalf without authority.

Hypocrites.

Some of them were just thanking me for saving their lives a few hours ago, even claiming that they are happy that I remained with them.

I snort.

"Quiet, please! Let the man speak," Peyton exclaims from her seat at the row behind the council, the look on her face indistinguishable whether angry or sad.

Thank you, I mouth to her, but she averts her eyes away to Cora who is sitting beside her and babbling something.

Ouch.

"How would you plead, Mr. Ross Thomas?"

"Not guilty," I reply, my tone assured as before.

"Liar!" Alexander shouts through his megaphone hands, leaning forward from his seat behind his father's. "Nobody believes you anymore, killer!"

President Moore looks back to shush him.

Alexander leans back, his face pissed but smug nonetheless.

Atty. Price stands up once more, his right hand pointing towards me, palms up. "Okay, let's hear it first from the accused."

"No, this is bullshit!" Alexander cries, standing up. "We're on borrowed time here. Aren't we supposed to be on the road by now? Didn't Gallant say—"

"That's true," Cora interrupts, her arms crossed, "but I believe we still have to follow due process, Ace. That's how we do things here. I'm sorry."

"She's right." Johann, sitting between Alexander and Cora, tosses his head to face the former. "We're not like some uncivilized, barbaric, pre-historic society who would ignore a person's rights altogether and just make him carry some heavy-ass cross across town and then crucify him, based on the accounts of one man—one who happens to have some unfounded grudge with the accused, I might add."

Alexander glares at them both. "Again, bullshit!" He looks back to the council and to the crowd. "He's only going to make up stories to save his ass. Let's get this over and done with, and just give him the fucking sentence."

Peyton snaps back, her face blank, "And we will get there, if you can, for once, just keep your mouth shut!"

Alexander glances at Peyton shortly, before rushing out of his seat all the way to the front of the council. "There's no point in going through all of this charade. We all know what happened out there, and we know what this monster is: one of those Antes!"

With a mere mention of the word, the audience is roused, descending back into madness, as if it's some magic spell.

"He is just waiting for the perfect timing to kill us all!" Alexander continues with his speech like how an aspiring politician, whose version of a campaign propaganda contains nothing but allegations defaming the good name of the opponent, would. "Can't you see the fact that ever since he woke up, we've been terrorized by these monsters almost every single day?"

Everybody settles down, as if keen on listening to what lies he has to say next.

"Why do you think that?" Alexander starts walking around, learning a thing or two from how his father would do a speech during his senatorial and presidential bids. "It's because he's the one who's been giving intel regarding our whereabouts. We've been living in the Village for almost eight months now undetected, correct?"

"Correct!" a group of lads from the back of the assembly answers.

"Now, we have to leave behind everything that we have worked so hard to establish—our orchard, our community, everything—and again start from scratch, just because we made the biggest mistake of adopting an enemy."

"Hear, hear!" the same people respond in unison.

Pumping his fist in the air, one of them chants, "Off with the head!"

The rest, doing the same with their fists, follow. "Off with the head!"

Now, I suddenly feel like Ned Stark from the penultimate episode of season one.

Hopefully, this rendition strays away from closely depicting the concluding sequence of that episode, where all the clamor shifts into just the scrunch of the sword hitting on flesh and bone, followed by the flaps of birds hovering overhead, before heading into the unusually unscored end credits. Not a good ending.

If I'm to be executed, I would prefer to have my head intact.

I'm just a little unlucky that these people are adamant that I lose it; as the chants continue, "Off with the head!"

And I can see that the Joffrey Baratheon clone is enjoying all of this, considering how he even encourages the chanting to go louder with his hands.

Strange as it may seem, but I'm happy for him. He has finally achieved what he's been praying for all his life: to be at a crowd where he is obeyed and agreed with.

My only worry is if this form of government would turn out to be a hereditary monarchy in the occasion that President Moore dies—which I hope doesn't happen very soon—then all of humanity's succeeding generations will be doomed to assured extinction.

"Alexander, enough with this insolence!" President Moore interjects, his usually calm demeanor tainted with anger and disappointment. "Get back to your seat, and let the council handle this matter. You have yet to earn your right to even attempt this kind of insurgency extravaganza, you, incompetent disgrace of a son!"

Bowled over by the bleakness of the president's reprimand, whispers of everyone who has gotten to hear accompany the tension in the atmosphere.

Commander Horton stands up and approaches Alexander, resting his hand on the bastard's shoulder. "Son, I know Gabe is a good friend of yours, and I know you're devastated with what happened to him, but we have to respect the proper proceedings. Whether Mr. Thomas is guilty or not, it's for the council to decide."

Alexander shakes off the commander's hand from his shoulder, before walking to the rangers. "I'm sorry, commander, dad, but I have to do this."

We all redirect our focus onto him and watch as he grabs a bow and arrow from one of the rangers and pushes the guy to the floor, earning gasps from everybody.

President Moore warns him, "Alexander, don't you dare—"

Before the president could even finish, Alexander loads the arrow into the bow, aims for my head and releases it.

"Ace, no!"

That is all everyone could say or do.

They all turn their heads slowly to check on me, and what starts as a look of remorse or guilt in their faces morphs into one of surprise and disbelief.

The arrow that Alexander has let loose freezes mid-air.

One critical inch from the bridge of my nose.

One critical inch from puncturing my skull.

One critical inch from certain death.

I gawk at the arrow, its pointy end resembling a dot accidentally drawn by one fine marker onto a piece of clean, white shirt. It's so small, barely visible, but the thought of having it there is pretty upsetting.

Unable to use my hand to seize it, I maintain my gaze onto the weapon as if it's a stare-down contest I simply can't lose, like my life depends on it—which it actually does—and like I can make it give up and just drop to the ground.

Oddly enough, the arrow ricochets, and, like a rocket, it flies back to Alexander, hitting him in the leg, blood oozing from the wound and a scream of pain leaving his mouth.

"Shoot him! Kill the motherfucking monster!" Alexander shrieks.

Agitated, the rangers fire their arrows at me.

What have I done wrong now?

Would this accident also be pinned on me?

Holding my breath, my stare again succeeds in stopping the assault before any of these sharps could come in contact with my skin. As I exhale, all the arrows are back to whoever have sent them, some of them piercing their arms, others through their legs and one hitting just below the collar bone, all wounds bleeding and all men screaming.

As I attempt to comprehend what the hell is happening, I feel a thick liquid trickling down from my nose to my lips. Although I never intend to, I manage to get a taste of it.

It tastes eerily familiar.

Like that taste Wendy's kiss had left on me at the dance.

Like blood.

No shit, I'm Eleven from Stranger Things.

I'm telekinetic.

Looking back around, I realize everyone has gotten up from their roost and begun running in different directions. Some of them have shoved others in panic, while those poor individuals are being trampled upon by the rest. People are screeching and wailing out of fear, desperation and misery, as there's nothing but blood and gore everywhere.

It's a total chaos.

A tragedy of epic proportions.

A replay of the carnage from homecoming night and of the pillaging of the Antes mere hours ago.

Could it somehow be possible? That I'm one of them?

"Stop this outrage at once!" President Moore yells, as he turns around waving both hands in the air. "Everybody, please, calm down."

And yet, nothing.

I remain seated, without a clue on what to do, seeing as nothing seems to stop the turmoil from escalating. Not even the president.

Then, another arrow comes flying my way. It's from (who else?) Alexander, despite being on the ground, tending to his wound.

Before I could use whatever extraordinary ability I have to stop it, someone else does it for me: President Moore.

Except, it's not with superhuman powers; it's with his body.

The arrow, as it appears, has hit him in the gut.