Year 14, Month 12

The two teenagers laid on the grass, staring at the clouds that floated above them. They were both silent, smiling and not looking at each other. She was a couple of inches taller than him, with long legs that wouldn’t look as skinny in a few years, probably drawing looks from guys. Although he was shorter, he was just starting his growth spurts, as well as the gain in muscle mass. There were already pimples on his face, but the acne would get worse before it got better.

“What do you want to do, after you graduate?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to stay here.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Just feels like… like being stuck, or trapped. Yeah, ‘trapped’.”

“You don’t like it here?”

“I do, I really do. But it just feels like there’s so much more out there, you know? Not just in other cities, but all over the world. I want to visit other countries and stuff.”

“Well, it’s one thing to travel once or twice a year, but I think I’d be homesick pretty fast if I was away for more than a month.”

They were quiet for some minutes more. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of the grass and the trees around them. He heard her inhale and turned to look at her face, simply staring at her without thinking of anything in particular. Reluctantly, he moved his hand towards hers and grasped it gently. She smiled, and squeezed his hand in return.

“I would miss you.”

“Hm?”

“If I left, I mean. That’s probably the only reason I could think of staying.” He admitted, shyly.

“What about your dad? Wouldn’t you miss him too? Doesn’t he want you to work in the shop with him?”

“Yeah but… I don’t want to be a mechanic. I don’t really like cars and engines and all that.”

“You think he’s going to be mad about that?”

“I don’t know.”

She opened her eyes and stared back at him, smiling. Though no one really paid attention to them, she was embarrassed about her retainer and had developed the habit of smiling with her lips closed. He really liked her smile, however she chose to do it.

“You could go with me. Don’t you want to see the world?”

“I guess. But at the end of the day I still want to sleep in my bed, and sit on my couch and watch my TV.”

The boy didn’t answer, not really knowing what to say. The idea of not being with her in the future hadn’t even crossed his mind at this point. She was his first girlfriend, and he was her first boyfriend; the relationship blossoming as much from an interest in the idea of a relationship as from an interest in one another. They shared everything with each other: fears, dreams, regrets, hopes, and idle thoughts that didn’t seem to matter at all. This was the kind of relationship that was only possible at that stage in life, when they were reckless enough to throw themselves into it with no second thoughts, but mature enough to care about their partner’s feelings as much as their own.

The young man moved closer to her so that their shoulders were touching.
“Do you think we’re too young to know what love is?” he asked, not really sure if he knew his own thoughts on the matter.

“No. Some stuff you just know, like, you’re born knowing. You know if you’re afraid, or hungry, or happy. You just know. Nobody says people are too young to know if they’re happy.”

He thought about what she said for a moment.

“I think I love you, Daria.”

“I think I love you too” she answered. Neither of them looked away.



Year 18, Month 4

Shooting the rifle was very different from any shooting he had done before. He had fired a shotgun, a hunting rifle and an air pistol when he went on trips to his uncle’s farm, but the weapon on his hands was very different from those. Perhaps it was because of the formality of it all, the paper targets and set spacing instead of cans sitting on a fence some distance away. It could be the instructions he had received, the careful exposition of the inner workings of the mechanism, the correct way to place one’s hands, set the stock against the shoulder and look down the sights. Most likely, it was the fact that this weapon was designed specifically for killing human beings.

The assault rifle was heavier than it looked. Black metal and plastic making up a peculiar shape and containing a somewhat complex collection of mechanical components, working in unison to allow the shooter to launch projectiles down the rage with a small movement of the finger. As Karlow performed this simple movement, he did as his instructors said and visualized the target as a living, breathing human being, falling down as it was hit. There was a thunderous cacophony as all of the recruits fired their weapons, each at their own pace. Many had previous military experience, while others had never even seen a gun in real life before.

He didn’t look at the other’s targets, not wanting to compare himself with them. Not that it would do much good; he was so far away that it was nearly impossible to see the tiny holes that the rounds made. Comparing himself against the others was generally not a very good idea, he learned. Apparently, he was terribly misguided when he thought he was fit enough to join The Legion, and was educated on the size of his misconception as soon as the training began. Exercises of all kinds made him sore in places he didn’t even know it was possible to feel muscle pain. The marches and runs and walks took place over paved or unpaved terrain, sometimes uphill, sometimes with weight on their backs.

Initially, the language had been the greatest challenge. It took him days to pick up on the most basic of instructions, and his trainers did not go easy on him because of that difficulty; if anything, they made it harder. He was finally starting to get the gist of it, how the verbs worked, how the words were supposed to be put together to form coherent sentences. There was a feeling of victory when he was finally able to tell someone where the armory was.

“Karlow! Spread your legs further apart!”

It took him a moment to realize they were talking to him. The name he had chosen, Istvan Karlow, was based on the first name of a teacher he had in high school, and the surname was the name of a brand of watches he saw in an outdoor on the way to the recruiting station.

“Yes sir!” he yelled back, butchering the pronunciation.

The instructor walked towards him and looked at his target with a set of binoculars. “You’re doing well, Karlow. Keep it up.” The comment was barely intelligible, and even then only because of the tone. “I didn’t tell you to stop shooting, Karlow!”

“Yes sir!” He resumed firing.

Later, at the barracks, there was talk among the men about the experience earlier in the day. They were excited for having finally started to do something combat-oriented, doing little more than agreeing with one another as they talked about how fun or how hard it was. Some of the men, the ones who had previous military training, were mostly quiet, some commenting on how this particular weapon compared with the ones they had experience with. Karlow sat quietly on his bed and listened to them, picking up as much information as possible with his broken English and terribly limited French. If he was going to be a good soldier he would need to learn by watching those who knew of soldiering, not just listening to his instructors and following orders but also by observing what actual soldiers did and doing it himself.

“Interesting day, huh?” The man asked. He had blond hair cut short like his, light blue eyes, and somewhat pale skin which had turned red by the scorching sun.

“Yes. Interesting.” He answered, trying not to convey any specific emotion.

“I’m Kristoff” he extended his hand.

“Istvan” he shook it.

“Had you ever fired a rifle before?” he asked, sitting down in front of him.

“Not that one.”

“Me neither. I liked it. Hope we get to do it more soon.”

“Yes.”

Istvan did not ask about the man’s experience with guns, or his nationality, or his reasons for joining The Legion. He did not ask any questions that he himself would be uncomfortable answering. Still, the conversation flowed.



Year 19, Month 1

“Larsson, Karlow, stop blowing each other and get in position!”

“Yes sir!” the two of them answered in unison.

The sergeant was an angry-looking man with a raspy voice and incredibly thick eyebrows. One could learn to like him, if they managed to look past the constant swearing, the uncalled for hostility, the arrogance, the personality in general, the looks… Well, he was good at being a sergeant, at least. Following the order, the men fell into position as they continued to advance down the dirt road. They were moving on, now that the village had been deemed “safe” by the people in charge of making the decisions. The people on the ground, after all, were just in charge of dealing with the consequences.

They walked in silence for an hour and a half, the spacing between them preventing any conversation from taking place. It was out of nowhere that the shots started flying above their heads, and everyone hit the ground before the sergeant gave the order. Frantically, they crawled to the nearest cover available while searching for the place the shots were coming from.

“North-northeast! My eleven o’clock! Two hostiles!” Someone screamed. Probably one of the more experienced soldiers.

The rest of them took their cue to start firing in the general direction indicated, even if they didn’t really see anything. Karlow was one of them, doing his best to follow the instructions when it came to aiming and shooting the gun. In truth, he didn’t see anything resembling a person, but everyone else was firing. Kristoff also had his rifle ready, and popped off a round or two at seemingly random intervals. It took a while, but the shooting died down, and there was a moment of silence.

“Damn, that was pretty intense, wasn’t it?” Kristoff said, laying next to him. The blond smiled, looking excited, while Istvan looked for an answer that didn’t sound stupid.

“Yeah. Pretty intense.”

“That’s so cool,” the other continued, mostly talking to himself, “so cool.”

They stayed prone for a few minutes while the sergeant talked on the radio with the base. They were ordered to continue the march. It was right after he stood that Istvan saw a man running away from the place the shots had come from, a weapon visibly in his hand.

“C-c-contact!” he said, not loud enough for the others to hear. He dropped to one knee and sighted the target, ready to fire, but his finger wouldn’t move. He knew he needed to shoot, but something deep inside him was resistant to the idea of killing another human being, locking his hand in the position as he helplessly followed the man’s trajectory with the barrel of his gun.

The sudden noise of three shots broke his trance, and the running man fell to the ground, limp.

“Hey kid.” The other soldier approached him. He wasn’t more than a few years older than Istvan, but he carried himself like someone who had been in that line of business for a long time. “You ok?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“Get up.”

Istvan obeyed as the man got closer.

“You can’t think of them as human, you know? You have to tell yourself they’re just targets. Just moving pictures or something. Then, after you bag a few, it gets a lot easier.”

“I understand.”

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, just a bit startled. First taste of combat.”

“Good.” The soldier approached him more, suddenly slapping Istvan on the head with such strength that he momentarily lost his balance and his helmet turned in a weird angle. Before he could get his footing, the man grabbed his collar and pulled him close to his face. “If I see you not firing at a target again, I’ll slip into your tent at night and slit your throat. You understand that, you little shit?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Good” The man said, letting go of him, “Now get back in position.”



Year 21, Month 4

“Look at that. Can you believe that we were once like them?” Kristoff pointed at the soldier walking somewhat aimlessly down the road. “Hey jerk-off, get off the street!” He yelled at the recruit.

The man looked around for the source of the order before actually following it, almost tripping as he ran in an apparently random direction.

“Enjoying your new rank?” Istvan asked, smiling.

“You bet. I was born for telling other people what to do.”

“Really? How come you’re so bad at it, then?”

“Watch it, I can have you shot for treason for that comment.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Insubordination? Mutiny?”

“Maybe.”

“Doesn’t matter. Go get the guys from team Charlie, the convoy should be arriving soon.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Istvan said, already on his way to follow the order, “You’re not my real mom.”

Things were going well for them. Both were climbing ranks faster than they expected, they had been selected for training with the commando unit, and so far neither had been injured in the line of duty. Having a heavy shell fall on top of a foot didn’t really count as a combat injury after all. Teasing aside, Kristoff really was officer material. He could think fast, act decisively, and inspire confidence in the men under him. Both of them knew that if they continued on the Legion they would not end up as anything less than lieutenants, maybe even major for Kristoff.

Istvan had never forgotten that first taste of combat, the terror he felt as the bullets flew over him, the impotence at realizing that he could not pull the trigger when it really came down to it. Most of all, he remembered the advice he got from the other soldier, the one who slapped him, and he had taken it to heart. You don’t look at them as human beings, you don’t even look at them as animals; you look at them as threats, problems to be solved, targets to be hit. Rationalize it until you really believe it. He did, and it worked. He had shot men, now. Killed them. In the end of the day, it was just a matter of realizing what needed to be done, what obstacles needed to be removed. Karlow didn’t know who the first person he killed was, or when that happened. There were situations where it was impossible to tell who fired the killing shot, or whether or not the person who got hit died later on. By the time he got his first confirmed kill, it didn’t faze him in the least.

He made his way towards the abandoned school where Charlie group was stationed. Radio silence had to be maintained for now, because of orders from above that were kept vague and menacing. He was just a few steps from the front door when someone fired a RPG from around the corner into one of the windows of the building.

“Contact!” he yelled, though the sound of the explosion was obvious enough, and had carried much further than his voice.

He kept his rifle trained on the corner the shot had come from while he ran into the building, but did not get an opportunity to retaliate. The angle was such that the only way to see the man who fired was from inside the building itself, and that’s where he went. The room the RPG hit was on the ground level, and was where most of the men from team Charlie were. There was a leg on the floor close to him, the camouflage pattern of the pants identical to his. On the other side of the room, spread across the wall, there were the remains of whom he assumed was Vasily.  They were keeping two gallons of fuel and some ammo there, it had all ignited with the explosion. Thick smoke was already rising from the flames as they consumed the fuel, whatever pieces of furniture were left and the mangled remains of the bodies. Istvan ran upstairs as the firefight began outside.

“Stick-bug!” he called out, hoping the man was alright. He opened his mouth to yell again, but another rocket hit the building, shaking it violently.

Still, he made his way up the crumbling stairs, calling out for the man. They called him “stick bug” after the insects that are shaped like sticks to hide from predators, with long, skinny limbs and an almost equally skinny body. Bug was laying on the floor at a corner of the room, and Karlow was at the opposite corner. Between them most of the floor had caved in, revealing the room below.

“Bug, are you alive?” he called out, over the sound of the raging firefight outside.

The fallen soldier moved a bit and tried to answer, but only a grunt came out. That meant he probably could not get up by himself, and that Istvan had to go and get him, which was what he set out to do. Carefully, he moved with his back against the wall, stepping on the edge of floor that was still intact, barely as long as his foot. Time was against him, and the equipment he was wearing forced him to stand further from the wall than he would like to. Still, he managed to get close enough to the fallen soldier and to the window he had been standing next to.

“Can you stand?” he asked, shaking the man.

“I don’t think so, I’m… really dizzy and… and…”

“Ok bug, don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here.”

Going back the same way was not an option with the man on the state he was in. Fortunately, there was a huge exit to the room where the floor used to be.

“Listen, I’m going to lower you down the whole and then I’m going to let you go, ok?”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, it’s a short drop and you’re wearing a helmet. I’m going to get you out of here, ok? I promise.”

“Ok Karlow.”

Carefully, Karlow took a hold of the man’s vest and lowered him against a slab of concrete that was hanging from the edge of the hole. It was a good thing the man was as skinny as he was, because the added weight of the equipment certainly didn’t help.

“I am going to let you go now, you hear? Go limp. Ready?”

“Uh…”

The injured soldier slid down some of the way and fell the rest, hitting the floor with a loud noise and a grunt. Istvan followed soon after, managing to land on his feet. He could hear that the shooting outside seemed to have intensified as he placed the man over his shoulders and made his way to the door. Outside, dust and concrete was flung to the air as bullets hit the walls and ground all around, ricocheting in unpredictable directions.

“Shit.” He muttered, looking at how the battle was unfolding. The best thing to do would be to stay inside, but another rocket could be coming in their direction any time now.

“Suppressing fire!” Kristoff ordered, seeing Istvan and the man over his shoulders from across the street.

He took the opportunity and ran, feeling totally exposed as he crossed the dozens of meters between them and the other side. Incredibly, they weren’t hit once. Istvan laid Bug on the ground.

“You saved me.” The skinny man said, “You saved my life.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” He answered, panting.

“I owe you, man. I owe you my life. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, let me know.”



Year 21, Month 11

The two of them sat next to each other at the bench of the laundry room. No one else was there but them, and the only noise was that of the washing machine to their left. Karlow was reading a book, while Larsson was staring intently at his feet.

“I’ve been thinking,” The blond one said.

“Hm?”

“Our contracts are going to expire soon. Do you think about renovating them? Another four years?”

“I suppose,” he said, closing the book and placing it next to him on the bench. “What else would I do?”

“That’s what I was thinking. See, I like the Legion, and I think they like me…”

“Right.”

“But the pay sucks. If I’m going to be doing this for a living, getting shot at, shooting people, I think we should get paid more, don’t you?”

“We?”

“Think about it. We’re good at this, aren’t we? We’re really good at it. We aren’t just successful in the Foreign Legion, which is an achievement in itself, but we’re damn commandos. We are certified bad-asses, Karlow.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“What if we didn’t renew our contracts?”

“And do what?”

“Go private.”

“Private? You mean join a PMC?”

“No, I mean really private. No companies, no organizations, just the two of us.”

“I’m getting a strong homo vibe, here.”

“Shut up, I’m serious.”

“Why would we be freelancers instead of joining a company?”

“Freedom to choose our assignments, to choose our equipment, to negotiate our pay, zero media coverage.”

“Sounds risky.”

“The risk is as great as the reward,” He said, sitting up. “Think about it, Istvan. Think about the money we could make. Think about the places we could see. Where is your spirit of adventure?”

“I am not rejecting the idea outright, I’m merely pointing out the risks.”

“I know about the risks. I thought about the risks. If we were people who cared about the risks we wouldn’t be here right now. You would be working with your father at the auto shop and I would be getting a degree in some kind of engineering. We are not low-risk people, Istvan. We’re adventurers. We’re trailblazers.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be so different from what we already do.”

“Only in that it would be better. I’m telling you, we can make this work.”

“Do I have to give you an answer now?”

“Take a few days, tell me when you’ve made a decision.”

“Alright.”

Istvan looked back at the book, but both of them knew he had already decided.



Year 23, Month 10

When Istvan first heard of the idea of working in the jungle he did not like it. After a few days doing it, he hated it. Now, almost six months later, he was wondering if agent orange was still in production, and how much he could afford to buy. Probably not enough for what he had in mind. Cheaper to burn the forest down and pay someone to salt the earth. If only he could do it to the entire god-damn continent. It was too hot, too humid, and the bugs seemed guided by sadistic instincts and designed by evil scientists. Worst of all, you couldn’t see anything in any direction for more than a few paces. Every tree or bush could be hiding an enemy, or a booby trap, or a spider the size of your hand. Damn, he sure hated the jungle.

“I love this place” Kristoff said, taking the beer bottle to his lips. It was a cheap local brand, probably made not far from the shitty bar where they were sitting now.

“Is that so?” Istvan asked, annoyed.

“Everything is so damn cheap, and nobody knows how to shoot straight. Coming here was the best idea I’ve had in a long time.”

Istvan didn’t reply, but looked at the man with a tired stare and drank from his own bottle. Another thing to hate about the place: how the drinks tasted. At the end of the day, though, he couldn’t deny that it had been a good idea to go there. He had initially been reluctant with accepting a job where they would be paid in diamonds, but the same people who got them the job had means of converting them into cash, and the local economy was built around them, to accommodate both the miners and mine owners. As it turns out, the price of diamonds is massively inflated by the jewelry companies, and the closer you get to the extraction phase, the less they are worth. It still made for a convenient currency in a place where banks and paper money weren’t always accessible or reliable.

The job was supposed to be focused on training troops, acting as force multipliers and strategy consultants. It didn’t take long for them to realize that they could earn a lot more by leading the men they trained into battle, getting their hands dirty and putting their asses on the line. But Kristoff was right about one thing: everyone seemed to be a terrible shot around those parts. On one hand, it made the training part of it terribly frustrating, on the other, it made the fighting part considerably safer. The ineffectiveness of traditional combat forced the people to rely on “unconventional” methods of violence, ways of attacking the enemy morale indirectly. One side made extensive use of child-soldiers, kidnapping them after their parents had been killed by the enemy, or simply taking them from their homes. What followed was a process of brainwashing based on terror and forced drug consumption, until there was little left but empty husks of the children they had taken. The other side (the one they were working for)  was much more direct, and was characterized by their preference for chopping people’s limbs off, not that the two of them actually took part in that specific task. A foot for deserting, a hand for stealing, a head for fighting with the enemy, and so on and so forth in a convoluted set of rules that no one really understood of abided by.

The motivations of the conflict were so complex that no one was really sure what they were fighting for. There was the current regime: a totalitarian government led by a megalomaniac who called himself the second coming of Jesus; corrupt, inefficient and heavy-handed. Those were the ones who made use of amputations. There were the left-wing guerrillas, who wanted to install a totalitarian regime led by a megalomaniac who called himself the second coming of Lenin; corrupt, inefficient and heavy-handed. They were the ones with the child soldiers. Finally, there was the fringe group of insane, drug-fueled, self-proclaimed Christians, led by a man who claimed he could hear the voices of God, the Holy spirit, Jesus (completely missing the concept of the Holy Trinity) and a thousand angels. No one really understood what they wanted, did, or thought, but they had to be taken in consideration.

“Nice day, today. Sunny.” Kristoff leaned back on his chair and placed his hands behind his head.

“You know, if you have nothing to say you could just stay quiet.”

“Why do you have to be such a wet blanket, Istvan? It’s our day off, just relax.”

“I’ll relax when we’re done, and I’m not risking death by dehydration of crocodile attack.”

“Shut up and drink your beer of sobriety liberation.” The blond one chuckled.

It was a bad joke they had started after they read about the factions. One side was the Democratic Republican Army, another was the Communist Liberation Fighters, and the third called themselves God’s Warriors of Freedom. The paradoxical nature of the names was undeniably amusing, and soon they started putting pompous and meaningless adjectives onto everything. The television was called the “holy box of entertainment”, the radio was the “people’s mean of democratic communication”, the trucks were the “collective transportation of the masses”, etc. It had stopped being funny a weeks ago, but Istvan wasn’t going to tell Kristoff to knock it off.

Out of nowhere, Kristoff began to laugh. It started small at first, but it grew until he was coughing and folding over himself.

“What?” Istvan asked, curious and worried, “What is it?”

“Oh, oh god… I just… I just realized something.”

“What?”

“The guns… The guns we’re using… They’re FALs.”

“So?”

Kristoff managed to stop laughing for a moment, “Don’t you know what they call it? The FAL?”

“Who? Our people?”

“No, no,” he laughed a bit more, “Everyone. Like, the unofficial title of the gun, do you know it?”

“No.”

“They call it… The ‘right arm of the free world’… hahaha.”

“Oh,” Karlow said, and forced himself to smile, “I get it. Right arm of the FREE world. Funny.”

“No, no. Right ARM of the free world. Get it? Arm!” He chuckled some more.

“Oh Christ…”

“Because they cut… they cut people’s… hahaha.”

“Oh god, that’s… hahaha… that’s terrible.”

“So stop… hahaha… stop laughing.”

“I’m not…” Karlow laughed putting a hand over his eyes, “I’m not laughing… hahaha.”

“You monster, how can you laugh at that?” Kristoff tried to drink but was shaking too much.

“That’s so fucking dark… hahaha.”
[FINISHED]


Year 24, Month 1

The knife moved with a sawing motion, back and forth, while he pushed the blade forwards. The man reached behind his head, trying to grab at Istvan’s face or claw his eyes, but it was ineffective. “Damn,” Karlow thought, irritated, “is this supposed to take so long?”



Year 26, Month 4

“The music is too loud!” Istvan said.

“What?”

“I said the music is too loud!”

“We’ll get another round, but finish your drink first.” Kristoff replied, with a smile.

Karlow rolled his eyes and took another drink from his glass. The cocktail was fruity and colorful, with a slice of orange on the brim of the glass and a pink umbrella sticking out. His friend had ordered them the drinks as a joke, since neither could openly admit to liking them. Carefully, they made their way through the crowd to a less noisy area.

“See anyone you like?”

“Uhh…” Istvan didn’t really know what to say at that.

“Come on, pick someone. Anyone.”

“The blonde one, over there?”

“No, someone else.”

“But you said…”

“Trust me, not her.”

“I guess… The redhead is kind of cute.”

“Good eye. Okay, I’ll take the redhead and you go for the one with the big tits next to her. Or we just see how it goes. Are they together?”

“I don’t know.”

“Whatever. Just don’t stare at her tits too much. And leave the gay drink behind.”

The pair made their way across the dancefloor to the window where the two women stood. Kristoff had his best smile on, and Istvan was using his “mysterious” look as his friend had called it.

“Hello, ladies.” Kristoff said, with the finesse of a porn star on set.

“Hey” the big-titted one answered, chewing gum loudly.

“I’m Chris, this is my friend Kay. We’re soldiers.”

“That’s cool,” the same woman answered rolling her hair on her finger.

“You’re pretty cute.”

“Thanks. You’re pretty cute yourself.”

Istvan couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the exchange. The redhead seemed equally unimpressed at the sleaziness of the talk.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure!” She smiled wide while still chewing the gum. The two of them made their way to the bar.

“Are you with her?” Karlow asked  the woman who stayed behind with him.

“Nope. You with him?”

“Unfortunately. Can I get you a drink?”

She answered with an expression he could not decipher and raised her glass, showing it was almost totally full.

“Right…” he leaned on the wall by the open window. It was quieter than the rest of the building, and less hot too. He absent-mindedly looked at his watch.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Eleven thirty-eight.”

“Damn, still?”

“Apparently. Long night…” he sighed.

They stayed there in silence for a while more before he stood abruptly. “Screw it, I’m going home.” He announced, not really talking to her.

“You’ve got the right idea.”

“Well, nice meeting you, miss.” He said before making his way to the exit and finally getting to the sidewalk. The relative silence of the street clashed with the chaotic symphony inside. He called for a cab and waited, looking at his watch every two minutes. The redhead walked out of the building and stood on the sidewalk too, a few paces away from him. They exchanged glances until his cab arrived.

“Hey,” he called, “Where are you going?”

“What?”

“I’m going east. If you’re going that way we could share the cab.”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Well, ok. Good night.” He entered the vehicle.

“Wait!”



Year 26, Month 10

There was a loud ringing on his left ear, and he couldn’t hear anything with the right one: the eardrum was ruptured. There were small pieces of glass from the car window embbeded in his right arm and in the same side of his face, but he was otherwise unhurt. The driver was the least hurt, and had already gotten out of the vehicle and taken a position at the side of the road; Karlow was sitting behind the empty seat left by him. The man riding shotgun was obviously dead. To his right, the other fighter was laying with his head back, semi-conscious or in shock. Istvan had his hands on the man’s abdomen, trying to stop anything else from coming out, not really knowing what he was doing. He could not see the right side of the man’s face, but he didn’t really want to look either.

Despite the ringing, he was still able to make out the sound of gunfire and shouting, most of it coming from the people who were in the other vehicles of the convoy. Reluctantly, he looked over his shoulder and noticed that the car behind them was engulfed in fire, having taken the worst of the blast, and now sat in the middle of the road, human silhouettes visible among the flames. His head was pounding and his vision was blurry at the edges. He heard a noise and noticed that it came from the man sitting next to him.

“Kristoff?” He might have shouted, but he wasn’t sure.

The body shook for a moment, and there was a gurgling noise, like Kristoff was trying to clear his throat.



Year 27, Month 2

“I’m sorry” she said, for the sixth time in the past forty minutes. He was actually counting.

She extended a hand towards his, but he pulled it away, not breaking eye contact. It was a somewhat surreal experience, what was happening right now, like finishing a marathon only to find out you have to have you legs amputated. It was a good thing that she had her own room, the conversation would have been awkward –more awkward—if there was another patient with them. Though, knowing her, she would have just postponed it until they were at her place or something. How long had she been postponing this, actually? How long had it been since she had made the decision?

“Yeah,” he said, annoyance showing on his voice, “I know.”

Her hair was finally growing back, and it had that same red color he remembered seeing that first time in the bar. She was still very thin and frail-looking, of course, but she was gaining weight and finally starting to resemble a human being again. He remembered lifting her from the bed with one arm without much difficulty a couple of months ago, the skin stretched over bones. The skin itself was also visibly better, no longer translucent or colored in a worrying shade of grey. And the eyes, as much as they looked sad right now, were lively and clear.

Cards, flowers and balloons had arrived when the diagnostic was revealed to friends and family, filling the room with color and making it hard to find an available surface for meals. Naturally, they stopped arriving once it was clear that she was going to stay in the hospital for more than a couple of weeks. After a few months, the room was as empty as it had been the moment she first arrived. Social obligations had been fulfilled and there was no point in maintaining the flux of token  gifts. Now, though, the cards and balloons and flowers had returned, congratulating her on her victory instead of hoping for her well-being. A few days after the doctor told them the news they arranged for a cake, a small one, and brought it to her. After weeks of not being able to eat because of the nausea, seeing her voraciously dig in was something that brought smiles to everyone around: Istvan, a couple of friends and her parents. Did her parents know she was planning this? It didn’t seem like it, with the way her father was talking to him the previous day. He was an honest man, always to the point, who hated the idea of being manipulative or beating around the bush. Her mother was very nice and polite, but that could have been a front, a way of easing him into the news. It was best not to think about it, it wasn’t like he was ever going to see them again.

Silently, he stood up and placed the chair back in position at the table. Her eyes followed him while she laid on the bed, hands over her lap and an expression of nervousness and remorse on her face, like a child who knows they are about to be scolded for something they did. He, in turn, did not even look at her as he made his way to the door. Istvan picked his coat from the wall-mounted hanger and left the room; no last words, no goodbyes. Not even an acknowledgement of her presence. A stern look fell on his face as he entered the elevator, angry thoughts crossing his mind. He wanted to swear and punch something, but that wouldn’t really change anything.

At first he was mad because of a sense of entitlement, the idea that she owed him a relationship after all of the effort he had put into making “them” work. It wasn’t just the fact that he paid for more than half of her treatment, and that was a pretty big part of it. If it wasn’t for his money, she probably couldn’t have afforded the surgery, and she would only have gotten better after a much longer, more painful process. But it wasn’t about the money, it was about the effort. The nights he spent with her, the way he helped her move around, how he consoled her when the first strands of hair began falling. But that wasn’t really it. It would have been awfully immature and irrational to assume that she owed him a relationship. As if it was possible to enjoy being together with someone who was only there in order to pay of a debt. The second possibility for his anger was the idea of having been manipulated. Obviously, breaking up wasn’t something she decided suddenly, but she had taken her time thinking it over. When did she have the idea? When did she decided on it? It was entirely possible that she knew that she did not want to be with him before the diagnosis, but as soon as she got the news she realized she needed him for emotional, physical and perhaps financial support. If she had decided it after they found out he could see how she could have struggled with the idea of severing ties with him in a delicate moment. In reality, this factor had some weight in his temperament.

The truth, he realized, was that he was mostly mad at himself. Mad at getting into that situation in the first place, becoming so attached to the point of sticking around when things got tough, spending his savings, turning down jobs to be with her. He was mad that he got so emotionally involved, when he thought she would be just another fling. Mad for being mad, for being bothered by the end of a relationship that he very well knew wasn’t working. He needed to relax, maybe talk to someone about it, maybe talk about something else entirely, maybe just go out for drinks.

He reached for his phone and moved to the contacts list, instinctively going for Kristoff’s number before he caught himself.