Oliver Twisted

Medal

On occasion, it would hit Reggie—the sheer absurdity of his luck. Killing Schrader and Hatt and the rest near the crossroads. The doors of the truck being open. The keys being in. The surreal quality of his life would sober him, compel him to reflect.

As he clattered down the open highway, bluecoats to each side. As he veered the wheel, and himself, toward Ed—and the figment barked a hearty "watch it!" As he dodged a rocket strike, that uprooted a sizable portion of pavement behind him. As he grinned inwardly, knowing it would cost the government a pretty penny. Their own men were doing more damage than he ever dared to.

Meanwhile at Vaudeville, Rottie couldn't sleep. He nudged Mouse with his foot. The beds were so close, each boy was in kicking distance of another.

"Whaaa..." Mouse's voice was muffled by his pillow.

"You know that slingshot Reggie has?" Rottie hissed. "He's out tonight but. Wonder if he'd be cool if I borrowed it..."

"Slingshot?"

"Yeah. He lent it to me last week. You shoot bottles with it. It's really fun."

"Eleven at night is a little late to go shooting bottles."

"What else am I gonna do," Rottie huffed. "Lay here and be miserable?"

"I do."

"C'mon. The park's still halfway lit. We can go out to the picnic area."

"Go by yourself," Mouse whined. "I'm tired."

"Oh," Rottie dulled, "whatever." He roused from his covers and plodded the chilly wooden floor, his thin socks offering little protection.

Once leaving their sleeping quarters, he headed to the room Reggie was lodging, a few doors down. When he got there, the door was already ajar. Mindy had been in there earlier, to clean it.

Pushing in, he noticed the sterile minimalism of things. There was a white-sheeted bed, made so tight you could bounce a coin on it. There was nothing on the walls, save for the nature paintings the room had come with. The only thing with any personality was a black duffel, sitting at the foot of the nightstand. It was fairly large.

Rottie neared, a bit of unease kicking up in his mind. He had banked on the sling being out in the open. It would be really uncomfortable, rooting through Reggie's stuff.

He deliberated, deliberated. But something kept spurring him, enticing him. And before he knew it, he was snaking a hand into the bag. Had it belonged to a stranger, guilt would have been a nonfactor. But Reggie was different for two reasons.

One, he respected him.

Two—inexplicably—he feared him.

There was never any rhyme or reason to the latter; the fear came instinctually, and often sat, neglected but unmoved, in the corner of his mind.

The bag was cramped, containing folded blazers and shirts, trousers, underwear—at which point, the discomfort was nigh-intolerable. But beneath it all, something caught a thin shaft of moonlight. The object glittered, and Rottie could've died for the self-loathing he felt. He reached in and took it, lifting it further into the moonlight. It was roundish, and deceptively heavy. Once under the heavier light he found it resembled a medal.

In the gold was inscribed a name.

"Bertrand Roche, for 25 years of service to His Majesty"

Mouse might have been illiterate, but Rottie was just literate enough. At a surface level, he understood. The additional understanding came in pieces, and by the end of it, he was trembling.