"Goodbye Curly Head"

"Boys Don't Cry"

It was that day again. The end of the month. Along with the setting sun came a convoy of armored transporters bringing by a few new recruits and more importantly - supplies. Only the freshest of fruit, the sweetest of delicacies, the most tightly sealed jars and the most mouth-watering canned goods. And, of course, heaps upon heaps of wastepaper in the form of Laterano’s most beloved newspaper, the rather simply named “Nuntium” - The outpost's only way of receiving non military related information from the homeland itself. The earliest monthly issues were usually left unopened, resting in neat cubes held together by a few pieces of string. A whole different story when it came to the latest. The prospect of snatching a fresh one awakened the inner feral animal even within the most shy and reserved Privates. Seeing the ensuing chaos within the cafeteria, Andy couldn’t help but chuckle as the sight brought back memories of a certain newspaper fight of his own. Oh, how time flies.

A scene straight from those Kazimierzan knighting tournaments, with bloodthirsty angels adorned in gray knitwear instead of mighty champions clad in shiny armor. Beating one another senseless, throwing mindless punches and reaching for those sweet yet limited newspaper slips. Teeth would often fly and blood splatter around the hard, wooden floor, as these magazines were worth more than gold out there in the frozen wastes. 

“Gimme!”

“I got it first! Buzz off, freak, I got it f-...”

A guitar flew into the loudmouthed angel’s face, bringing by a beautiful symphony of pain. Teeth shattered and noses snapped. Ah, how the quiet liberi violently flourished in these monthly, chaotic newspaper fights. He’d always let his inner anger out all at once, blindly battering anyone in the vicinity with his cherished instrument. It was a bit primitive and mindless, yes, but could you really blame the guy? After all, he was simply giving them tit for tat.

“Gimme!”

“But you already have two-...”

Clang!

The acoustic smashed against some muscular strapper’s head, turning his halo dim and causing his wings to flicker. With a loud thud, he fell to the floor and dropped his recently acquired issue.

Clutching his three newspapers, huffing and puffing, Isaiah made it out of the battlefield and dived right into the trenches, sprawling himself out next to his buddies. Droz couldn’t contain a long, drawn out whistle of pure awe.

“That was actually impressive, Nuffer.”

“Huff… Impressive enough to make you drop the “fowlboy” stuff?”

“Just about.”

Amidst the ongoing chaos and bloodcurdling screeches, three innocent little souls sat back on a bench, coffee by their side, ready to enjoy a lazy evening of newspaper reading and sports banter. What sports, you may ask? Well, competitive shooting, of course. Eddie Hum, Matti Pfeninger, Daniel “Three Shot” Reitnauer… All the biggest names in the shooting world, the boys’ beloved escape from their bleak reality. All smiles as newspapers rustled and coffee happily stirred in their metal mugs.

This is what life’s all about. It’s not about searching or desperately trying to wish up some fancypants purpose for your poor self. You’ve simply gotta make one. Sure, there’s pain and misery, moments when your frail little head’s filled with nothing but anxiety and despair. Times when you wish a guide would come and take all the bad thoughts away. But there’s no guide. No true answers to fall back on. No rules to life. It’s all just what you make it. Sure, as uncertain as it is, the uncertainty in itself is the only real constant to rely on and that’s fine. Even if it all seems hopeless, you should just…