1. Planes, trains and old ladies.

How long has she been on this train home? It seemed to be long enough for her to recognize faces as familiar as she made her way through the gangway back to her seat after she had found some privacy to place a phonecall. Trains, she figured, were a bad way to travel. The only thing trains had over planes was that they don't come falling out of the sky if something were to happen.

Sure, airtravel is supposed to be very safe, as airline-companies are all too happy to advertize, but how often do you hear about train-disasters where everybody dies because the train crashed into a mountain and rescue-services couldn't reach them? How often do you hear about trains being rerouted because they can't land on their destination due to bad weather?

So, it takes a day longer to get where you need to be. Fuck it. Read a book.

Her father had a miniature railway set up in a spare room. He was always tinkering with it, building houses, creating landscapes. Come to think of it, she couldn't remember one time in which her father had just been sitting at his railway and letting his trains run. Maybe that was one step too far into a childhood he had left behind, she never had thought of asking her father.

Maybe she should.

It was ironic to her that she had to ride a real train. When she reached her seat, a little hint of a smile was on her lips, something the old lady that occupied a seat next to her and at the window picked up upon.

"My, that's a lot better than that stern face you've been showing. You remind me of my own daughter when she was your age. Always angry. A young lady didn't join the army in those days, but I guess that if she'd had half the chance she would have done just that."

"That's nice, ma'am. I'm sure she'd had made a good marine."

"If you don't mind my asking, I know about black people, white people, yellow people and native red people, but you don't seem to fit any of those-"

"-And you're wondering what inferior race I am, ma'am?"

"My, I just-"

"-Making conversation, ma'am?"

She sighed. She guessed she couldn't really blame the old lady next to her. Old people are like old oaks, set in their ways. Like her father. Retired for years now, still getting up at four AM like he did all his life. Getting ready to work his job at the city's sanitary services.

Still making breakfast for three, for himself, his wife and herself, his daughter. He probably still does that, even though his wife was long gone and his daughter was off going around the world being a marine-sniper.

Then he would clean up and go get the morning-news from the news-stand not too far away and return home. Read that paper from front to back and make lunch.

Spending the afternoon tinkering with his model trainset and have dinner. Then spend the evening watching newsshows on the television.

Just an old oak, set in his ways.

"My parents are from Turkey, ma'am. I was born here."

"I see. I meant no offense, understand. You're wearing the uniform of those that protect us. That makes you a red-blooded american in my book."

"If that's what it takes to be part of the club, I hate to think what kind of initiation the girl-scouts have."

The old lady let go of a dignified lady-like laugh, "My, I think you're being a silly goose now, dear. May I ask what your name is?"

"Gunay, Hakima Gunay. Pleased to make your aquaintance, ma'am."

"Are you taking a vacation, dear? I can't think of a militairy base near Atlanta, but then again, I never had much interest in that. Fighting is for the men. I clip coupons and worry about my children and grandchildren."

Hakima smiled.

Her own mother used to clip coupons. She always was talking about how they had to have her father's salary last five weeks instead of four, because a month is never exactly four weeks. Her mother puzzled and turned over every penny twice, but she left a house in order when she passed away. Hakima enlisted to help with the finances on one hand, and on the other hand to get fighting training for the gang she had been in since her twelfth.

Her parents just thought that the gang were kids she was friends with. But the 'Incountry Terrorists' were anything but a harmless club of friends. Surrounded by bigger gangs that fought for control of the Atlanta city-blocks, the IT-gangbangers were defiantly holding out against pressure from all sides.

Hakima was small and quick on her feet, dexterous and quickwitted. She also was a natural dead-eye. Her instructors would say she could shoot the hairs of a fly flying free.

It was that same nimbleness that had kept her from being arrested nummerous times, always one step ahead of the police. She developed her own version of free running over time, allowing her to stay away from cops weighed down by equipment trying to chase down a small girl who wore nothing but high-tops, capris and a high-cut tanktop. She flowed like water and was swift like the wind.

The best profile the police had on her was that she was probably a girl.

Enlisting with the Marine Corps wasn't difficult at all.

Now her contract was served and she was offered a more permanent tenure with the Marines. But Hakima needed to think things over. Her father wasn't getting any younger and shielded as he had been from the business-end of having a household and despite Hakima's aid, the bills were backing up. And the gang would be happy to learn everything she had learned. They would be getting an edge over the other gangs out there.

And the Marines as a career? It hadn't seriously crossed her mind yet. Hakima had a hard time picturing herself as a career-woman. She saw herself more as an odd-jobs kind a person, the kind of odd-jobs people do on the down-low.

The last four years were good. But you can make money a lot faster without looking at getting checked out in some far away country. As long as you're willing to die for it, Uncle Sam provides. But if you rather stay alive, Uncle Sam slaps you with laws and taxes and bleeds you dry till you can't give anymore. And then you become homeless and drink cheap booze from a bottle hidden in a brown paper bag on the corner of 7th and Main.

Uncle Sam is in it for himself. He grinds meat and calls it necessary. You proudly carry Ol' Glory and fight for liberty and justice for all. You believe that shit. When you're willing to do that, Uncle Sam smiles at you and doesn't cut corners on the details.

Hooyah!

Actually, Hakima was surprised at herself that she even lasted the four years. A dishonorable discharge, in her perspective, would've been more to the point. But she enjoyed it. Amongst all her urban survival skills and her natural nimbleness, her talent for marksman-ship was as much a surprise to her as it had been to her instructors and later on her superiors. The professional praise she had received for it was every bit earned and justified. It gave her a sense of worth and boosted her self-confidence, something which she had in abundance already, but more of it never hurts.

Another talent she discovered and carefully honed during her time with the Marines was being a stone-cold killer. Hakima could turn any battlefield into her personal killzone without her heartrate significantly increasing.

A psychopath in a green uniform is an effective soldier, afterall.

Hakima had the commendations to proof it.

The old lady next to her was talking about how things used to be, but it didn't bother Hakima that much. Somehow, she had the feeling that things were heading to a turning-point. As if she was about to turn a new leaf. Something more than deciding on becoming Uncle Sam's favorite pet or a petty-criminal gangbanger.

"So tell me, dear, are all turkish girls as pretty as you are?"

Hakima sharply turned her head to the old lady, looked at her and bursted out laughing.

When she sobered, she replied, "Only if they work for it, ma'am."

Pretty soon, the train would roll into Atlanta.