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…
Revolt.
Rebel against the bleak grayness. Shove the absurdity of life aside. Smile and laugh in the face of hopelessness. Leave it behind. Come back a year later, ready to start anew.
Andy turned his gaze to the headline news.
“ANTI WAR MOVEMENT ON THE RISE”
“Anti war? Word got out about the bombardments?”
Droz’s derisive cackle was the only response, as Isaiah kept intently scanning the second page. Fast reader, that one.
“Probably. Sissies back home can’t handle a few dead civvies. Devil civvies, may I add. A devil’s a devil and that’s that! Y’know, my family’s probably out there protesting AGAINST the protesters. Good riddance to them, I mean, I can already picture poor ‘nan Adelheid clutching her two tube at the mere sight of these incompetent, soft willed bastards parading out in the streets…”
His ramblings slowly started fading into the background as Andy spotted a tiny photograph of a very familiar building on the page’s corner.
He wasn’t a stranger to nostalgia, oftentimes shedding tears at night when reminiscing about times long gone, but this was different. While the nostalgic feeling of pining for those warm nights with Lemuel and Mostima by his side brought him some miniscule amount of comfort, seeing this tiny picture of his tenement house filled him with pure dread.
“Dwelling place of the movement’s instigator, Raphael Reiff, age 41.”
Every single drop of blood in his veins instantly escaped from his face. Slithering away, flowing down, anywhere but there.
Instigator?
“Protests against the Lawful will of the Pope… Distasteful displays of vandalism… Armed intervention…”
Another loud title.
“KNOW YOUR ENEMY”
“The “Iustitia Pro Omnibus” movement is an organized recidivist group, dead set on spreading misinformation and terror among Lateran citizens. Following the tragic death of a former Notarial Hall employee in the act of self immolation, the criminals have taken it upon themselves to spread the words of the deceased instigator, leading to acts of organized vandalism…”
“... reports of Reiff’s questionable mental stability…”
“... only son in the military…”
“... claims to blame no one but himself...”
“... heinous crime against the Law.”
“Self immolation.”
The newspaper slipped from his hands and dropped to the floor with a soft thud.
There was no sound. No noise. No shouting, no screaming, no brawling. Just constant, static ringing. Even if he tried, he couldn’t move a single muscle. Not even his eyelids would budge. His eyes were locked on his now empty hands, lips trembling with fear. There was no crying. No tears to be shed. No sadness. He felt as if someone just slammed a fist right into stomach, twisting and turning until it reached his inner gut, tearing away anything and everything it could latch onto, leaving him completely empty inside. Empty and powerless. This was not his reality, not the world he was trying to build for himself. This went against everything he had ever managed to achieve. This was not supposed to happen. This, exactly this, has always been just a hellish nightmare he’s woken up from so, so many times before. Why has it come to this? Why? Why now? Why now, right before the finish line?
His heart kept beating out a rapid symphony of pure, unfiltered horror and astonishment. A lump had formed in his throat, preventing him from breathing or speaking. It’s not like he had any words to say, anyway. His skin felt ice cold, yet his entire body was burning.
Just one singular tear formed and seeped from his right eye, embarking on a lazy journey down the pale hill of his cheek. A handful of slender fingers was placed upon his tense shoulder, making his knees bend slightly under this gentle weight. He couldn’t turn his gaze towards the bard. He couldn’t move.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
The words felt distorted. As if they were being yelled out from a mile away and whispered into his ear at the same time. They felt strange. Alien. They had no meaning to them. No words did. He’s already forgotten how the Victorian language functions. How sounds mix and match together to give voice to one’s thoughts. How they’re supposed to help soothe the pain.
What pain?
There was no pain. Just an overwhelming feeling of pure emptiness. Why wasn’t he crying? Why would he so eagerly bawl his eyes out at night, to shed but a single tear in the face of such news? He didn’t understand a thing. Utterly absurd. Without even the slightest hint of sense. There was no silver lining. No chance to revolt. No way out.
He’s had people come and go, offering their condolences. Most of them felt completely alien, with the exception of an unnaturally quiet Droz and Isaiah on the verge of tears. With each “I’m sorry for your loss” came an overbearing feeling of guilt. If so many strangers could feel sorry for someone portrayed as a complete nutjob in the news, why did Andy feel completely nothing for his own father? With each passing hour, each minute and second, the guilt within grew, spreading it’s treacherous tendrils along his very own nervous system, entwining the fibers together into an inseparable, headache inducing mess. Why couldn’t it just stop? Why, just why…
A soft breeze greeted his blank face, as he found himself sitting atop that familiar hill once more. Far, far ahead laid the resting place of the two hanged men, swaying in the wind, locked for eternity in a silent slow dance. There was a phrase for such a sight - Kazdelian wind chimes.
“Hey, buddy.”
The “Lieutenant” sat by his side, his slim tail curling around his own body and resting in his lap. Andy did not utter a word, watching the cadavers’ performance. A certain silence enveloped the two for a moment or two before the man’s words rang out once again.
“Were you two close?”
Andy shook his head. Ricketts nodded in acknowledgement.
“Then, I think I know what you’re feeling. Not much, right?”
A simple nod.
“... I get it. I understand. I… Once felt exactly the same, you know?”
Andy's gaze perked up with curiosity, turning to the Sergeant.
“You have?... Sir?”
“Uh-huh. I… Um…”
…
A beat, before he continued, his usually confident voice faltering.
“I… never had a good relationship with my father either. Not even a bad one, It was just… Disgustingly awful. Drank a lot, liked to have fun by getting violent with, um… With everything around himself, including my mom and… Well, me.”
With each word, his cool, collected act waivered more and more. Andy couldn't help but stare at his sturdy combat boots, completely drawn in by the Sergeant's sudden willingness to open up like this.
“... One day, he… He got himself a new toy. Or stole it, I guess. I don't know.”
He produced a remarkable, glossy revolver from a holster hidden within his winter coat.
“Forty four magnum. Good old six shooter. Not nearly as effective as it should be, while it's in my hands, but…”
A long, drawn out sigh.
“... It was, that day. He burst in, drunk out of his mind, belligerent and waving this thing around. Grabbed mom, shoved a bottle in her hand, barked at her to keep it steady on the top of her head…”
…
“... Clutched me by the scruff, forced the thing in my hands and told me we were gonna do some “aim practice.” I was sixteen at the time. Scared shitless. Mom was crying, begging him to stop, to let me go…”
…
“... He kept yelling. “Shoot that thing, good for nothing waste of air” and such. I still remember that exact look on her face. There was so… So much fear in her eyes.”
…
“I've had enough. Enough of him and his reign of terror, so…”
He tapped the muzzle against his thick, dark horns.
“I turned around and shot him.”
The wind's gentle weeping filled the boy's ears as the Sergeant turned silent. It didn't last long.
“And now I carry this thing with me. It wasn't registered as a patron gun, so I could just… Have it, even after I fell. I carry it around with me as a… A reminder, I guess. A reminder, that… That no matter what… What I'm trying to say here is that… I… I suppose, it's that…”
Words hitched in his throat as the man realized his next statement would be incredibly hypocritical.
“... Sometimes you're just left to fend for yourself, Andy. There's no father figure to look up to, and that's fine. It's just… Important that you learn from their mistakes, okay? That you…”
He couldn't continue this little tirade. This wasn't right. He was the last person who should be talking about doing the right things in life. Andy finally cleared his throat and broke the silence.
“You're more of a father figure to me than he ever was, sir.”
Once again, a guilty ringing in the “Lieutenant's” ears. This wasn't it. He shouldn't be anyone's father figure. Not even his own child's.
“Andy, buddy… I'm… Not a good person. I'm not a good role model."
His leg kept rattling, tapping out a rapid tempo.
“I'm far from it. I've seen children with more courage and maturity than me, it's…”
“But you're our Sergeant, sir?”
“And the only reason I am is because I was too much of a coward to stay by my pregnant wife's side."
A hint of anger stirred within his unnaturally desperate voice. Anger at himself, his cowardice and disgusting choices.
“I ran to hide in these frozen wastes because I couldn't handle my reality, okay? Because I thought I'd end up like him. Because I'm not some dreamt up war hero, but a goddamn stain. A joke, someone who'd rather run off and play drill sergeant with teenagers than be by his wife when she needs it most.”
His breath grew heavy as his hands clutched the gun tightly and his tail kept wagging aggressively. Andy has never seen him this vulnerable, seemingly on the verge of a breakdown.
And then, it all just... Stopped. His eyes closed. His breathing stabilized.
“... But that's done already. That's my problem.”
He shoved the six iron back into his coat.
“I'm sorry for your loss, Andy. Please, don't go down this path.”
A gentle commotion followed as he bid his farewells, giving the boy one last pat on the shoulder. Into the windy, frozen wastes he went, heading towards the outpost and leaving the innocent little soul all by himself, yet again. His mind was a mess as his eyes focused on the distant horizon, the setting sun and the endless birch treeline, stretching for miles on end. A gathering storm threatening the frail, nonexistent peace of his mind. The “Lieutenant's” words have done nothing but stirred something deep within the boy, something akin to a feeling of betrayal. Of discovering something he shouldn't have. Of stains appearing on a spotless image.
…
His wavering gaze focused on the distant clouds.
Red.
Their bellies painted orange by the sun's dying breath, but red nonetheless.
A storm was coming. A heavy one. The heaviest they've ever had up north, in their little oasis of peace.
The sky dimmed. The familiar birch forest turned sinister.
And as they approached, their shadows grew longer.