He stood up, nervous and sweating. His name had been announced by the President of World Parliament. His past fifteen years as a diplomat, politician and fugitive had hardened his exterior, and though his brow furrowed and palms leaked, he knew the worst was over; it was the culminating moment of his life's work.
The few, renowned journalists that had gained access tapped furiously at their keyboards and, because of rigorous objectivity training, were only half-conscious that it was to be the peak moment of their professional careers. Armed security, which vastly outnumbered non-military personnel at the event, blocked several bullet proof metal doors that sealed passageways and patrolled the aisles. Outside, more reporters waited impatiently in front of high definition displays, while hundreds of small, tracked machines scurried from table to table, bringing food and drink to the spectators.
In different parts of the world, celebration was underway in plazas and arenas, as though there were a major sport event; hundreds of thousands crowded urban streets, packed densely around the largest screens which focused a close-up shot on the podium's occupant.
He knew it was perhaps the single most important global agreement in the relatively brief history of the World Parliament, and the representatives were ready to cast their votes on him -- on his promise, his vision.