"And when the company drenched even the salt red, the people thought, ’no more.’ But when the protests broke out, a thousand gunmen stood in their way. The state had demanded that the violence be kept to a minimum, not knowing how deep the independent thought of the company was entrenched."

Gene Conti watched the close-up of himself on the big screen.

"Hands worn and cracked, used to the labor of harvesting nutmeg and mace, were wrapped around stones and sticks."

A shaky breath escaped his lips.

"But the company demanded loyalty." A sidelong glance seemed to look into the past. "It was said that the order came directly from Heeren XVII."

His fingers twitched, clutching his knees dearly.

"When the flag with those three letters—VOC—flew high, no one questioned the course history was about to take."

He could hear the gunfire as if it were yesterday. He should’ve been used to it, but the screams and the cries didn’t sound human that day.

"Thousands of bloody corpses—men and women alike. Some were fathers, some mothers, and some were about to be."

His trembling voice was rough as it rose sharply.

"It wasn’t like they didn’t know what would happen! It wasn’t like we didn’t! But they would not—" His lips shook. "—listen!"

Tremors travelled across his face, his eyes stressed and watery.

"They had brought their children along to watch." His voice fell to a whisper. "To witness their fate, to ensure that their progeny would be free men and women... To ensure they would be just as foolhardy as their martyr parents."

He breathed in through his mouth.

"But the company didn’t care; they were locked in a battle against the French East India Company. The maritime warfare kept them busy, and Europe was in no shape to care about anything that had no relation to the Nine Years’ War."

His downcast gaze held no sign of vigor.

"No one questioned them, so we didn’t either."

He looked up. The wide shot showed him sitting on a rock with the sea in the background, facing a man whose features couldn’t properly be seen. Something metallic shone in his hand.

The sound of crashing waves was all that could be heard for over half a minute.

A revolver was cocked, its mechanical sound sharp. The tide ebbed, and the screen turned black.

"After all," Gene’s voice echoed in the absolute silence, "what is morality, if not the cost of Odyssey?"

A gunshot rang.

The sound of crashing waves returned, and the credits rolled.

It was January of 1976.

Gene Conti’s End to Odyssey was being shown in theaters throughout the known world.

It had only been a week since its release, yet it had already broken several box office records.

It was highly praised for its realism and questioned for its controversial theme, which the director felt was misunderstood.

The detractors weren’t happy about a film that seemed to criticize colonialism. They complained about how vitriolic Gene’s monologue at the end was.

Gene couldn’t help but find such criticism ridiculous.

’You’re unhappy with our painstakingly researched portrayal of history?’

What he found even more laughable was that these very same people never vehemently denied the horrors portrayed in the film.

They didn’t have an issue with the authenticity of those acts, but rather with the mention of them.

’Cowards.’

In the first place, the film wasn’t explicitly about colonialism.

’It’s more of a warning about corporations growing bigger than their states.’

Gene believed the possibility was very real. Unlike the government, the mega corporations had only one goal—expansion and profit.

’There will be a day when the director of a company will be more influential than the strongest nations on the planet.’

Those who understood the underlying themes held End to Odyssey in high regard.

’How long will it be before financial entities become governing bodies? How long before the worth of a man is measured using the stock he owns? How long before they tell us that the sky is green?’

If trading companies founded in the 17th century could commit massacres across the ocean, subdue kingdoms through gunfires, and shape the basis of the modern era, would a dystopian future heralded by the improved structure and ruthless efficiency of the mega corporations truly be far-fetched?

But it was all meaningless if the common man refused to acknowledge the horrifying past.

’They would rather expose their hairy bellies and beat a man bloody because he supports a sporting organization that happens to be a different one than theirs.’

He smirked, running a hand through his hair.

’They will make great little soldiers if this is all the excuse they need to enact violence.’

The future looked grave.

’Peasants of the past, workers of today, what will they be called in the future? Maybe the idiots don’t deserve any better... Right, why should the intentionally moronic deserve any better?’

It wasn’t as if they were helpful to anyone in the world.

’If it is not wrong for the farmer to compel his cattle to till the field, is it not okay for the companies to exploit the hooligans, the wife beaters, the racists, and the thugs of the world?’

Was it really wrong for the greater evil to suppress the lesser evil?

’The ignorant don’t deserve any better, but the rest do.’

He hoped the film would make them understand the dangers that he was trying to portray, because he had been one of them once—a worker and a peasant, but never ignorant.

It had been decades, but he still remembered the time when he first disembarked from the ship in New York.

Homeless and without a friend in a foreign land, he spent the nights on the cold stone of the streets. Thankfully, before winter arrived, he got a job cleaning chimneys. And the nice family who ran the business provided him with a place to stay.

Gene remembered how keen his boss was on marrying his daughter to him.

It was a difficult yet beautiful time, but when Averie opened his eyes, the memory of that time only left him remorseful.

The water was still warm.

The notification alerts were still going off.

The actor was back to his new reality, and there was no going back to that time.