The image was seared into the world's consciousness: the Oracle on his knees, the boot of the masked mercenary descending, the screen going dark over the flames of the burning medicine. It was a silent movie with a screaming message. In the internet age, where attention was calibrated in seconds, this horror show held court over the world's attention for days.
The reaction was not the belated, bureaucratic condemnation of governments or the measured speculation of pundits. It was a raw, human tsunami.
It started in Harbor City. The day after the attack, a crowd began to gather outside the blackened husk of the old HON headquarters in the Mudflat. It wasn't a protest, at least not at first. It was a vigil. They arrived with flowers, candles, bearing hand-scrawled placards that said, "WE A
