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March, 2315

Portland, OR

He felt as though he was walking to the gallows. In the pack on his back were the journals, the copies, that he’d made. At his insistence the men back on the peninsula had kept the originals and promised to copy them once again, so that if what he thought might happen came about there would be one copy hidden somewhere that only they would know about. Whether they would rat him out or not was hard to predict, but whether he would make it out of this city alive after he’d been gone for so long was a much more pertinent question.

People, women, had to know what had been done to create the world as it was now. A long, long time ago both they and men had given up on the system that had existed for so long, and over time it had failed, as the women of this day and age were either too severe or too weak of will. There was no real balance, and it was time, he believed, for the balance to return.

He had no faith really that anyone would listen at first, and he had no illusions that his journals wouldn’t be ripped to pieces, set afire, or even defiled in ways that he didn’t want to think about. But he had them memorized, he knew deep in his heart that things in this world were broken, and badly in need of mending. Men weren’t perfect, and neither were women. But together they’d apparently had a world that wasn’t perfect, but it had worked far better than what was left behind.

The women had to know, and he meant to tell them, no matter what they did in return.

The scales had to be balanced once again.

The End

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