There were definitely worse ways to go.
      He could have died in the war, for one thing. Or alone in the snow, during the hard times after the divorce. This was best. He would die sitting comfortably, sipping a cup of black coffee and humming a nameless tune.
      He would also take a bus full of heretics with him.
      Jonas yawned and rolled his fingers against the window, leaving ghostly streaks. He imagined they were trapped phantoms, doomed to fade once humidity did its work. He had been very susceptible to fanciful thoughts since his life had been smashed into its component atoms. Jonas thought of it as becoming inspired. Others would call it becoming unhinged.
A man took the empty seat beside him. Jonas pretended not to notice, and continued to stare out the window.
      It was a clear, sun drenched day. A rare sight during the winter in the capital. Jonas smiled. Perhaps the abnormal weather heralded his arrival. Or, more importantly, his upcoming exit. Jonas wondered what The Cleric would tell the others when the deed was done. He wished he could say that martyrdom was his core goal. But no matter how many benedictions he whispered at night, the desire for recognition overshadowed everything. Life before finding The Path had been a series of embarrassing failures.
      But he would exceed at this. Anyone could. All you had to do was pull a string.
      A voice derailed his train of thought.
      “Good morning.”
      The owner of the voice wore a black suit that cost more than everything Jonas earned. He spoke with a forwardness and energy that Jonas simultaneously found irksome and eerily familiar (in the end, he would realize it reminded him of The Cleric). Jonas contemplated spilling his coffee on the man’s jacket. Paying damages wouldn’t exactly be a concern by the end of the day.
      “Did you hear me? I said good morning.”
      “Good morning.” murmured Jonas.
      “That’s a good sport.” said the overdressed passenger, smiling as if he’d taught an uncooperative dog a new trick. “My name is Nichols."
“Why are you talking to me, ‘Nichols’?”
      “People are always dead silent on these buses. That’s a problem. Most of the world’s problems come from people not talking to each other. You see it all the time in my line of work.”
      Jonas found that his curiosity was piqued against his will. “And what do ya work in?”
      “Sales. Now that I’ve answered your question, why don’t you answer mine. What’s your name?”
      Jonas suppressed a laugh. This was the first time someone had shown an honest interest in him in years, and it was right before the end.
      Nichols raised an eyebrow. “Did I miss a joke?”
      “Yes. I’m sorry, no. I mean, I’m Jonas.”
      The response drew another smile from Nichols. “Nice meeting you, Jonas. Now slow down and pick your words. Speaking isn’t a race.”
      “Sorry. Communication isn’t my strong suit.”
      “Don’t talk that way. My father always told me that self-depreciation is the herald of depression. It leads to dark places.” said Nichols, dropping his smile for the first time since the conversation began.
      “You seem to have a lot to say on how I should speak.”
      “Speaking is at the center of everything. It’s the only real tether the individual has to the outside world. Learn to talk the right way, and the world is your oyster. Forget how to talk, and everything inside decays. Or worse, explodes. Do you understand?”
      Jonas scratched the part of his stomach where the hidden vest lay. He’d known that an IED would be heavy, but he never expected it to itch as well.
“Nobody understands my language.”
      Nichols continued his rant undeterred. “Business has its own language. As do computers. The entire legal profession rests on understanding and manipulating a single byzantine language. If you’ve got your own language, that’s the greatest advantage in the world.”
      Jonas stared at the stranger with wide, amazed eyes. It was like meeting The Cleric all over again.
      “But I, um, already tried showing people. My language, I mean. I was a painter.”
      “What happened?” asked Nichols. He ran his fingers through his straight, glossy hair, pushing away some phantom irritant.
      “My wife. I ended up taking a series of ‘real jobs’. I couldn’t hold a single one of them. She left. In the end, I mean.”
      “Well then, she’s not exactly standing in your way anymore, is she?”
      Jonas fumbled for a response. His logic told him he couldn’t just turn around from months of dedication and planning based . But the man’s words reeked of an optimism that unraveled the reasoning he’d constructed
      “That’s true. But I’ve got this…support group. I’m obligated to them.”
      Nichols snorted. “Any support group that says you can’t move forward is worthless. Life is about seizing second chances.”
      Jonas’s eyes were drawn to Nichol’s matching rings. Each had a silver-cast image of an eagle. He’d never seen anything quite like them. Perhaps if he followed the man’s example, he could have rings of his own one day. The Cleric would understand, The Path was always looking for rich benefactors.
      “You…I mean Nichols. You’re right. I don’t have to waste time moping. I can make an explosive impact on the world.
      Jonas had intended his word choice as a small personal irony, but he saw a strange twinge of disappointment in the stranger’s eyes.
      “I see. Au Revoir.” said Nichols, leaving his seat.
      Jonas reflected on the possibilities of the suddenly available future. Immersed in these thoughts, he never saw Nichols flash his badge to the bus driver, nor noticed the unplanned bus stop. He was only pulled back into reality when the men with guns boarded the vehicle. By then it was too late. Before his hands could reach his vest, he heard the telltale whisper of silenced pistol fire.

     Weeks later, he opened his eyes.
      For a moment, he thought he had reached the martyr’s reward. Then, he heard the whirr of machinery. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he fought to make out the shapes around him. The room was spare. There was a bed, a tall machine he couldn’t identify, and tubes protruding from very sensitive and disconcerting areas on his person.
      Eventually, Jonas was able to make out writing upon the side of the machine. ‘Valhalla’s Edge Military Hospital’.
      The conviction for treason was a foregone conclusion.
      There was, of course, a brief puppet trial. During his coma, he had already been convicted by the newspapers and pundits. All that was needed now was a judges stamp. A renewed vigor for living was the only thing that motivated Jonas to not plead guilty. Unfortunately, in his hour of need, the clerics were nowhere to be found. In the end, the only man to speak in his defense was Special Agent Nichols.
      “This man should be treated.” said the agent meekly. Before the crowd, he had little of his earlier charisma. “He wasn’t in a right state of mind. Hell, he still isn’t in a right state of mind.”
      From Jonas’s perspective, his stay on death row was barely longer than the bus ride.
      When they finally took him to the electric chair, there was a panel of twenty-five witnesses waiting behind a glass wall. Countless more watched on the airwaves. He’d never had a crowd this size dedicated to him before. Jonas felt a degree of perverse pride. The ego boost was quickly supplanted by fear.
      He watched the bulbous executioner move toward the switch. He realized his life could be measured in the man’s footsteps. Each step forward annihilated something he could have been. “Do you have any last words?”
      Jonas blinked. He hadn’t thought of this ahead of time. There were several seconds of tense silence before he gave his reply.
“Where’s my second chance?”
      “You probably missed it while you weren’t looking. Adios.”
      The crassness of the comment shocked him. The chair followed suit.