Justin stood in the middle of the room, the big room on the top floor of 1435 E. 35th. He knew it meant death if he was caught, knew the risks as much as any of them. Still, he came, to remind himself, to remember.

Pamphlets and posters were scattered in one corner of the room, across from the computers. He bent to pick one up and crunched something under his foot as he stepped. The words “Fight Bourge” were broken and mashed under the plastic covering of the button. He laughed bitterly at their naiveté, their belief that such a war, such a person could be beaten with buttons and computers and rallies.

Parts of the computer bank still stood in the corner; what the Guard hadn’t scavenged or broken. Justin ran his fingers over one dusty screen, leaving uneven trails across the unbroken surface, and remembered the man who’d used it, who’d drawn up data and info for their resistance, their fight.

And they almost believed they’d won.

Early reports had come in of his army’s defeat. Bourge’s headquarters had been found in Russia and the Allies bombed the surrounding area until nothing but rubble remained. They’d celebrated that night. Wine, beer, dancing, music. Everything they’d enjoyed at the height of their success, with everyone they held dear. Their parents supported their efforts, though from afar. Chris considered the risk too great to keep them near. Steve stayed, though he was the pessimist, always telling them that they couldn’t win.

Justin smiled grimly to himself. No one minded much when he stopped showing up.

The next few weeks were punctuated with such celebrations, as reports came in of Bourge’s army on the run in the Middle East, Canada, and Brazil. In those last few weeks, the members of N Sync were visible throughout the free world as the leading voice of resistance.

Then Chris had disappeared. They never went anywhere alone, not before when they were making music, not after when they were manufacturing hope. Leon’s body was found in an alley, a block away from their building.

That day was the hardest to face, Justin remembered, sinking to the floor in front of Chris’s monitor. Harder than the initial attacks and harder to bear than their ultimate defeat, that day burned itself in their memory, became as inextricable as knowledge of their own names. They’d prayed, quietly, aloud, in groups, that he was still alive, that he’d only been taken as a demonstration, that they’d be able to rescue him someday. Towards the end, JC was the only one who still clung to that hope.

The voices on their network became fearful as reinforcements came for Bourge’s army. He took Brazil, and in doing so controlled all of South America. Central America came next, and then he invaded the United States.

The voices of resistance were silenced as Bourge boasted of his capture of Chris Kirkpatrick, formerly of N Sync and the leader of the revolutionary band. Bourge claimed that he was dead. They met news of his death with anger, desperation, and an overwhelming feeling of despair. Even JC’s hope died then as the faith in their movement also faded. They stopped making public appearances, participating in rallies, broadcasting radio transmissions.

Justin stood and walked again to the middle of the room. He turned in a slow circle, surveying what was once his domain.

They could only watch as the big screen in their headquarters, across from the computer bank, relayed live footage of the last stand in California. Modern media being what it was, they knew the moment they were defeated and as much as they wanted to, they couldn’t tear their eyes away. They were speakers, singers, not warriors. They’d fought their war with words, and they’d lost.

As quickly as that, it was over. With most of Europe and the Western world conquered, Bourge made quick work of the rest of those that resisted his ultimate rule.

Lights from a passing Guard vehicle on the streets below illuminated the computer bank and Justin crouched to the floor, his reverie interrupted. He moved to the corner to peek out a window, under the cover of the banner still hanging haphazardly on the wall. He watched the Guard move on, unaware of his presence, and waited until they were around the corner to slip out of the window and down onto the street below.