Hello Forever

by Jerian

Reliable Excavation Demolition and the Builders' League United are notorious for stripping their mercenaries of all character, turning them into pieces of a machine. After one BLU sniper falls in love with a girl, he realizes how much more there is to life than just fighting.

PROLOGUE

I am a mercenary for the Builder's League United. I was born in Montréal, Canada, in 1935, and lived there for the first ten years of my life. I had to leave, because in 1945, my dad was suspected of being a German spy. If he was convicted, I would likewise be in trouble. So I left. I sought passage on an ocean liner, the RMS Aquitania, to Europe, where I applied for a mercenary job with both Reliable Excavation and Demolition, and the Builders' League United. The former immediately turned me down because of my age, while the latter offered me a definite future job, but I'd have to train on my own time.

I could not find a job to support myself anywhere for the next two years. I spent just about all my free time trying to come up with the basic necessities to survive, which left me very little time to train. At times I had no choice but to resort to petty theft. BLU allowed me to train on their grounds, a gracious permission. I borrowed some sniper rifles (sniping seeming to be my preference), and perfected my aim.

By the age of twelve, I was fully knowledgeable and skilled in my field, though BLU army was still hesitant to send me to the field, still insisting I was too young. However, I was nonetheless able to get a job operating the cash register at a bakery in London. This made my life significantly easier, as I could now support myself in an apartment. I bought a bow and arrow, which I used frequently in my spare time, aside from continuing my official training for the Builders' League United.

The job at the bakery, though the pay was alright, was frustrating. The baker had little respect for me, and easily let it show. He frequently accused me of stealing money from the cash register, and forced me to empty my pockets to show I hadn't taken anything.

Thank demons, though, I only had to work there for another two years of my life before BLU finally allowed me onto the field at age fourteen. I was sent to USA aboard a chartered ocean liner, along with a few hundred other mercenaries. I operated in the Midwest, defending several of the league's copper mines Occasionally, I went up to British Columbia for a few weeks at a time. There were a few close calls with death, though I was lucky in that regard. I avidly used both the Machina, an extremely powerful sniper rifle, for picking off enemies approaching from a long distance away, as well as my bow and arrow, which turned out to be useful for taking down targets that happened to get close. It was calm, slow paced work most of the time save for the occasional skirmish, and very infrequent actual battles. I was deployed there for just over a year, before I got my first leave, two months in length.

I would have liked to spend that time in Canada, though the Builder's League United warned me to get off the continent in case the Reliable Excavation Demolition still tried to hunt me down. I settled in Belgium. It was a beautiful place. I got a job delivering newspapers, to give me something to do. It was low key work, and I met many of the locals. Belgium was still in the process of cleaning up from World War II, but it was still nice. Shame such a beautiful country got so damaged. I immersed myself in the local community, where I was welcomed and accepted.

My second call of duty was in Siberia. The league was setting up a logging operation in the area, and an outpost along the train tracks was being harassed by the Reliable Excavation Demolition. The next four months was, I easily admit, the worst part of my life. It was freezing cold, for starters. As much as I would've loved to seek the warmth of human companionship, I would often spend weeks at a time alone, in watchtowers, underground bunkers, trade posts, dormitories, and the like. The work was insanely slow. I started writing a journal, and frequently read it aloud to myself, so I would not forget how to read or write.

We did suffer many heavy losses there. In fact, the core outpost we were supposed to defend was held by RED for almost a month, stopping all train action in and out, as long as they held it. Of course, many of us starved to death during that time; nobody could get food to us.

One one occasion, I was lying on my stomach, on the tip of a peak, a kilometer from the outpost, as a RED logging train went by. As it passed over top of the viaduct, I shot one of the chains holding the lumber in place. It was a one in a million shot. Consequentially, an entire train car of lumber emptied over the central square of the outpost, pulling the train car, and then the rest of the train, with it. As tens of workers rushed to the site, I probably picked off at least half of them before they ducked for cover.

Such was a success, giving us an opportunity to retake the outpost, which we did. Unfortunately while I was making my way down from the peak, a RED scout traced the shooting, and assaulted me. I was captured, and sent to a prison camp, where I was released back to England. I was classed a hero, and given a medal, as well as several more months of paid leave.

My next call of duty was to the Australian outback. RED had set up several gold mines in the area, and a small army of BLU mercenaries (including me) were sent there to take some of the gold mines for BLU. Once again, by ocean liner, we were shipped to Sydney, and then trucked inland, through Canberra, to the middle of nowhere. The area consisted of a large network of small villages, usually consisting of a few houses, a water tower, barn, and diner.

CH1

My sniper rifle, a Machina, sits on a small tripod on the window sill in the loft of a barn in one of the many small villages in the area. I am sitting in a chair, looking through the scope. It is hot, very hot. A haze covers the horizon, obscuring my view of the next village. I am bored. It is around noon. I am sweating, though I have done nothing at all today, but stare through the scope, at the street ahead of me, waiting for action, of which there is none. I am beginning to lose concentration.

My uniform feels heavy on me. I have rolled the sleeves up, though a bit too far; it is constricting my upper arms slightly. My brown vest is lying on the floor. I play with the tiny red dot my sniper rifle emits, against the pavement of the road ahead. I weave it in and out of the dotted yellow line. I yawn. I am so bored. I see some movement to the side of the road. I follow it. A critter. A lizard of some sort. It moves gingerly across the dried sand, stopping occasionally. I position the small red dot over top of it. It seems to make no notice. I could shoot it. That would add some excitement. But I cannot. It would attract everyone for kilometers in every direction. Even with a silencer, this damn thing lets off a hell of a bang.

I love this gun, though. I can shoot so accurately, so far away. If it weren't for this haze, I could pick off RED mercenaries all the way at the next village. If they were there, though. We may even be stationed here to keep guard against a ghost town. There is a scout here, he could go see who's at the next village. But he doesn't want to. I guess it's just the sun and the heat, that makes us all a bit lazy. Either way, we need to be subtle. We don't want enemies in the next village (if they are there) to know about us here, either.

After yawning again, I give up on my post here. I switch off my gun, and carefully unhook it from its tripod. Such a powerful machine, though at the same time, so delicate. I reverently place it on a thick cloth inside the chest where I keep my stuff. I grab a pair of binoculars, and depart from the barn. I climb the watchtower. It gives an amazing view. It almost reaches out of the haze. Almost. I peer through the binoculars. I can get a better view of the next village from here, though not perfect. There's absolutely no movement. The sun is bright, and I have to squint to see. I forgot my sunglasses inside the barn.

If they are doing the same thing as me, they might be able to see me. I don't care. I should care; our lives are on the line; but I don't.

I see movement. I observe a narrow alleyway in between two buildings at the next village. It is nothing more than tumbleweed. A lame piece of tumbleweed, caught in the tiny drifts of wind, rolling over itself.

I decide to climb back down. It is far. The ladder on the side is sturdy, a somewhat comforting thing. I return the binoculars to the loft of the barn, and then head to the diner to grab something to eat. I enter the diner, to see our medic there, at a table, observing a T-bone steak, completely raw, on the table. I watch him for a brief minute. He seems deep in though. He is German, and somewhat old. He is an odd fellow, sadistic, even. He seems obsessed with flesh; all kinds, including, and especially, human. I've only heard brief stories of his 'experiments', which I believe to just be him carrying out his morbid fetishes. I walk through the diner, into the kitchen. He has taken no notice of me. I enter the pantry, where there are several crates of supplies. I grab a can of beans, and open it. It is uncooked; but I don't care. It's still food. I eat it silently, and leave.

I head to the living room of one of the few houses here. They are all long since abandoned, but still furnished. I wonder what happened to the original residents. The scout, as well as the spy, and a couple of soldiers are sitting, playing cards. I wait for the round to finish, and they deal me in. The room is slightly smoky from cigarette fumes. Everyone here has a cigarette. I ask for a cigarette. The spy laughs, and insults my age. I throw back some heavy insults in french. He laughs harder, but tosses me a cigarette and lighter anyways.

I win the round. The scout wins the next, followed by me again. One of the soldiers accuses me of cheating. I responds by throwing my cigarette butt at him.

I return to my post after an hour, and set up my Machina again. I grab a chair, and lean back in it, watching the scope.

CH2

It is just past lunch. I had played cards the entire morning, so I decide it to watch the road to the next village for at least a few hours today. I set up my Machina, and hook it onto the tripod on the window sill. I switch it on, and begin to look through the scope. My life is dull right now. Nothing has happened in weeks. This mission sucks. I can't wait to go somewhere else.

Apart form the wavy haze of dryness and the dust, all is perfectly still. An hour passed, and I begin to hear the sound of faint crackling. Gravel being upturned. It's coming from the road running perpendicular to the next village (this village is located along a pair of crossroads).

I look out the window at the back of the barn, to see an RV. It crosses the intersection to the same block this barn is on. It pulls to the side of the road and stops. Is this a commander showing up to relieve us of duty? Are we done? Can we go home? No. I'm having fantasies again. It's some local, of course. I can't see inside. I unhook my Machina from its tripod, and position it over my shoulder. I look through the scope to the front seat. I'm careful not to let the red dot sit against the hood, or enter through the windshield.

A female exits the vehicle. She is gorgeous. I carefully follow her around with the scope, while keeping the dot well away from her, to avoid her noticing. She is young, maybe slightly older than me. She has long, wavy ginger hair, coming down to far below her shoulders. She is wearing a tank top, and skinny jeans with a few rips, and a brown belt. She is also wearing somewhat dirty running shoes. Her face is narrow, and so perfect. She begins walking away from her RV.

She leaves my view from this window. I can get a faint view of her through cracks in the boards in the wall. The scout runs up to her. No! He cannot have her! I want her; I want her for myself. She has to be mine. I can make out the conversation between her and the scout; he's trying to act cool around her. He asks her name, and then says his own. He asks her why she's here, and where she's from. She's from Canberra, touring the near area. Her camper broke down, she's stranded here.

I carefully set down my gun, and quickly, but carefully descend the steep steps, and walk out of the barn. The girl, Chelsea is her name, turns to look at me as I walk over. I announce my name, and offer my hand, which she and shakes. I ask her if she needs or wants anything, and point out the diner to her. She declines, claiming her camper is stocked well enough. I nod, then inquire about what brought her here. Oh hell her accent is so beautiful. Australian English has got to be the polar opposite to French, my native language, but I don't care. I love listening to her. For now, I could easily tolerate her accent.

The scout offers to help her with her engine problems. I know scout, he knows nil about mechanics. A slight wave of anger washes over me. I don't argue with him, that'll make me look bad. Instead I nod, say bye to both of them, and head to the diner myself.

I watch the two of them from the loft of the barn. He is trying to seem knowledgeable about combustion engines. She watches him, calmly, bored. She yawns, and goes inside the vehicle. The scout almost immediately stops, and walks away. He doesn't care about the wellbeing of Chelsea. He just wants her attention. I find it pathetic, that he is so infatuated he would not even spend a single minute legitimately trying to help her. I am smug now; scout has failed, and embarrassed himself in the process.

I turn towards my Machina. It is still on. I curse at my stupidity, as I walk over, and turn it off. I carefully wrap it in its special cloth, and put it away. Seriously, with her around, I doubt I will be able to do much more work. I walk over to the sink, and wash my face. Water feels good against my skin, it has been rather dry and uncomfortable from the heat, sun, and dust. I look at my reflection in the mirror in front. My hair is greasy, and there is dry dirt stained on my face. I splash more water on my face, then rub it around. I do not have soap present, but just water is fine for now; I'm not going to a dinner party or formal dance. Oh demons, I feel so depressed at the realization that I've never done anything normal or cultural in my life. I've lived my entire life running from the law, and fighting battles as an outcast. I need to live. And I know just how to do that.

I force my head under the sink, and run water through it. The warm, stale, tapwater. I do not have any way to actually clean my hair, which leaves me disappointed. The only things I have here to wear are my blue uniforms. I have two of them. Identical. I realize I've been wearing this one for several days now. I pull my other uniform out of this empty, dusty closet. It is complete with the blue shirt, brown vest, and brown pants. I lay it down on top of my storage chest, and then begin undress. I drop my current vest on the floor. It has a few tools in the pockets; extra bullets, swiss army knife, and the like. I don't bother to transfer those. I continue to unbutton my blue shirt. It has two emblems, one on each shoulder, sewn on, indicating my role as a sniper. My chest is still sweaty, and the shirt uncomfortably peels off of my back. I need to wash myself properly. One of the houses should probably have a shower.

I put on my clean set of clothes. After observing myself in the mirror briefly, I comb my hair to the side, frowning at my increased acne. I didn't have acne in Siberia or USA. So why now? Leaning close to the mirror, I carefully reach up, and squeeze one of the zits; the biggest one, on my forehead. I apply some pressure with my fingernail on the side of it, until a small chunk of pale grey grease pops out. I cringe at the pain briefly, and then begin to wash my face, waiting for the faint trickle of blood to stop. Satisfied with my appearance, I turn to leave.

I leave the barn, and head over to the RV. I find the door closed, so I knock. A few moments later, the door is opened. I say hello to Chelsea. She points out that I've cleaned up; I say that how there's a girl here now, I should probably act and look more gentlemanly. She seems pleased at the comment. She asks if she can help me, a cliché comment: a polite way of asking what I'm doing here. I ask if she has any idea how she's going to get bad to Canberra. She shakes her head. I offer to look for a ride from some of my neighbouring colleagues. She thinks for a moment, then turns my offer down. I then point out the diner, which she also declines. I then invite her to come find me if she needs anything; which she thanks me for. I turn to leave, but after a few steps she calls me back. She says some human company shouldn't hurt. She grabs a pair of sneakers from inside the vehicle, and slips her bare feet into them.

We arrive at the diner to find it empty. She seats herself at the bar, while I search the pantry for an appropriate meal. I can't think of anything present that would be suitable for this occasion. I eventually just take a chunk of beef and some biscuits. The meat is precooked, but cold. I grab a pan from somewhere else in the kitchen, and place it on the stove, while she watches. As I cook, she asks me about my life. I don't go into too much detail. I mention I'm French Canadian, and she uses that to compliment me on my cooking skills. I try and ask a question back about her, but she points out my life is more interesting than hers. I'm not supposed to discuss too much about my work as a mercenary, but after she presses me, I begin opening up. I tell her about my previous two missions, in depth. I conclude by talking about the basics of this current mission, and the gold mines we are after. I explain how we've been dormant for several weeks, and how her showing up was a blessing sent by Hades. She inquires as to my selection of deities, and I point out that Hades is the god of the underworld, and how Australia is 'down under'. She laughs at my joke, as I tilt the pan above her plate, and let some of the beef slip onto her plate. I do the same with mine, before passing her a canteen of water, and one for myself. We sit at the bar for the better part of two hours.

CH3

I wake up from my sleep, comfortably, serenely. It is early dawn. I sit up, and peer out the window. The sun is rising. I lean back, and try to fall asleep again. I offered Chelsea last night to spend the night with me, which she turned down, slightly blushing. As she was walking away, I called out after her, telling her that we play cards in the evenings, and I invited her. She thought for a moment, then told me she would look forward to it.

I met up with the group in one of the houses at eight in the evening last night. Chelsea arrived a few minutes later. The room was hazy with cigarette smoke, as all the others were smoking. I asked the spy for a cigarette, who refused to give me one, pointing out my age. I told him to go fuck himself, in French. He tossed me one, as well as a lighter. I offered one to Chelsea, who also accepted one from the spy. The spy constantly pestered me to conversation about Chelsea in French, his choice of conversation frequently taking a sexual path. When Chelsea inquired about the topics of our conversation, I explained that the spy was being immature about losing, as he had lost most of the matches.

Chelsea retired for the night first. Immediately after she left, the conversation topic turned to intercourse with her. The scout was clearly pissed off that she was spending more time with me than him. I politely pointed out what he did wrong, though he seemed to just take offense to it. After some insulting jokes by multiple people aimed at him, he folded, and left. The medic thought that the scout was going to go have intercourse with Chelsea, and that I should go stop him. It was met by laughter.

I stayed a few more hours, into the earlier hours of the morning, before I returned to the loft, and went straight to sleep. I forced myself to change out of my uniform, to at least keep it clean. I fell asleep in my shorts, almost immediately after I lay down. I did dream that night. It was a long, detailed, and somewhat incomprehensible dream, with a whole bunch of details. It was very thematic of my previous missions however, despite the interesting incidents of yesterday.

I stare out the window, once again sitting up.. I turn myself sideways, so I am leaning against the wall beside my bed. The sun rises just to the side of my view of the window, so it does not blind me. There is still a nice pink ribbon along the horizon, though of course it is dulled by the ceaseless haze present here in the outback. I yawn. I can never get the energy necessary in the mornings. I force myself to stand up, and stumble to my sink. My vision is blurry; I rub my eyes, though it does not help. I splash warm water on my face. It does nothing to invigorate me, though it does feel good. I pick up the dirty cloth hanging above the sink. I soak it in water, wring it out, and repeat that a few times, then rub it all over my upper body. I am already overheating in the desert here; the warmth of the water is unpleasant in that regard, though I force myself to remain clean.

After breakfast, I contemplate saying hello to Chelsea. I decide to leave her in peace, and instead I decide to guard my post for a while. I set up my Machina, hook it up to the tripod, and set it on the window sill. I continue the dull, ceaseless job of observing the oncoming road. Once again, I yawn. Of course, this is dull work. I force myself to persist with it, though. I shift in my chair. I am hot. I sit here for nearly an hour, before my mind begins to wander. I am still peering through the scope here, but I'm not thinking about it. I'm thinking about- Footsteps. Below. Instinct kicks in. I drop my grip on my sniper rifle, and lunge for my knife on the nearby chest. The tripod, luckily, holds the gun in place, so it does not fall.

I creep, absolutely soundlessly, towards the steps down to the main floor of the barn. I see Chelsea, curiously wandering inside. Cursing at myself for my paranoia, I turn, and throw the knife precisely against the wall, so it jabs a plank, and sticks. I turn, and descend the stairs at a normal pace, my feet making light thumping against the steps, as I step on each one. Chelsea turns to see me and nods. When I reach the bottom and approach her, she greets me, and I her. She is wearing the same tank top as yesterday, with a pair of jean shorts, and again, the pair of running shoes, without socks. I ask her what brings her here. She says she just wants company. I feel slightly heartwarmed she came specifically to me. I ask if she's hungry. She declines, saying she wants to see what I do. I say it's uninteresting, because that's currently how I am experiencing it. After she insists, I give in, and lead her back up to the loft. She points out it is not a bad place for living: it has running water, a proper bed, a closet, mirror. I nod. I realize I have been taking these for granted since I arrived here.

She notices the sniper rifle balancing on a tripod on the window sill. She compliments it, slightly aghast at how large it is. It is long, roughly one and a half metres in length, almost as tall as me. It is navy blue, and looks like something out of science fiction. I nod, and claim it could see, and shoot accurately to around ten kilometres. She observes it for nearly a minute. She asks what else I use; I kneel down next to the large storage chest, and pull it open.

The chest contains various melee weapons near the bottom, as well as a few small submachine guns. There are also various replacement parts. She seems to immediately notice the bow and arrow, and inquires about it. I explain how the Machina, because of how powerful it is, makes it unfeasible for close combat, because it requires plenty of time to set up, turn on, focus the scope, and so on. Instead, I use a bow and arrow for closer combat. I claim that I have enough skill that accuracy is not a concern. I add how the bow and arrow allows me to be much more agile, while still having the ability to deliver deadly force with significant accuracy. She asks if I can teach her how to use a bow.

I'm not allowed to use these weapons, provided by BLU, for recreational purposes, which is exactly what she's asking for. Though I can use the excuse it was practice. Plus, they never really nail anyone for that rule, anyways. Hell, some of the heavy weapons soldiers use their mini guns for fun, sometimes cutting down trees with them, or cutting holes in wooden buildings. I look at Chelsea. She is sitting on my bed, looking hopeful. To her excitement, I nod, and pick up the bow carefully. I grab the quiver, counting the arrows, then toss it over my shoulder. I beckon, and she follows me downstairs, grinning.

I lead her to behind the diner, and wait a few moments. She watches intently. I knock an arrow, and pull it back. I point out a knot in the planking of the building, and promptly loose the arrow, which impales the knot right in the very middle. I quickly repeat the task, firing at other knots in the planking. I never take more than two seconds per arrow. After I empty my quiver, I look at Chelsea. She is covering her mouth with her hand, her eyes are wide.

She asks how I did that, her voice incredulous. I walk over, and, with trouble, pull the arrows loose, while explaining that I had spent probably thousands of hours training completely alone. She nods, seeming to accept this. It is the truth. I would sometimes spend up to twelve hours a day at BLU's training facilities, on my own, firing arrows constantly. I return with the full quiver. She asks to try now. I hand her the bow, and then quiver. She passes the quiver over her shoulder easily enough. After some confusion, I help her hold the bow properly. She knocks an arrow, fumbling to hook it properly on to the bowstring.

She pulls back, and releases. The arrow flies straight, impaling a random point in the side of the diner. She asks me to help her out. I stand behind her, and she knocks another arrow. I placed my left hand over top of hers, holding the middle of the bow. I place my right hand behind hers, and pull back the bow. My head is right next to hers. I can smell her perfume. It is a strong, flowery smell. She has a few strands of her hair loosely hanging over her right ear, the rest of her hair combed back evenly behind her back. I notice the details on the side of her head. Her ear, her skin. I look at each individual strand of her hair. I loose the arrow. It flies straight, and implants into a knot. She grins. I repeat the process with another knot. On the third one, I jerk my left hand lightly at the last moment, and the arrow misses. I politely point out she missed. She laughs, and stomps her foot playfully. I continue again. It is fun, being this close to her. Feeling her hands. Her body against mine. Her hair in my face. I notice she has some subtle freckles on her shoulder. Her breasts protrude a fair distance out from her chest. I glance down at them. She is gorgeous. I want her. I want her body. I want it all for myself. I want to play with it, I want to enjoy it, and explore it.

I loose another arrow, which hits another knot in the tree. A few more times, with the same result, before the quiver is once again, empty. I round up the arrows, and let her try by herself this time. I begin to watch. I feel warm, stale air over my left shoulder. I turn, to see a barely visible silhouette. Chelsea is concentrating on the bow and arrow, so she doesn't notice. I beckon at the Spy to go away. He remains. I cannot tell his facial reaction; I can only see a very faint outline where the light around him is distorted.

I curiously wonder about how cloaking technology works, but push the thoughts aside, and turn back to Chelsea. She is on her last arrow. I look back, and see that the spy's gone. I'm annoyed that he comes to bother me now, when I'm with Chelsea. I can't blame him for creeping up on me like that though; it is insanely dull here.

Chelsea and I eat lunch, then she returns to her camper to read. I ask what she is reading, she blushes, and looks down. I assume it is a girly sort of romance novel then, which I'm indifferent towards.

CH4

After dinner, she drops by the loft in the barn, where I am watching the roadway ahead. I carefully put away the gun. I pick out a knife, and start spinning it in between my fingers. It is a dull, stupid habit, which I got into in Siberia. I used it to keep my fingers moving to avoid frostbite. I don't know why I'm doing it now, though. The sun is lowering in the sky, though not yet setting. Some of its beams are creeping through the window, where they are illuminating a square on the far wall of the room.

Chelsea asks if I would like to go for a walk with her. She is holding her left elbow with her right hand. She looks nervous. I nod, and stand up. I hurl the knife at the wall again, causing it to stick, right next to the earlier one, which is still there. She chuckles at the action. She compliments my aim. I thank her for the compliment. I follow her downstairs, and we begin to walk along the road, perpendicular to the next village, the direction where she came from.

I ask her a few question about her life; she avidly answers them, telling stories about herself. I learn a lot about her. She thinks her life is dull, but I find her interesting, however it could be a cross between infatuation, and just curiosity in general towards Australian culture. She pesters me about my own life. I find my own life boring and sad, though she seems interested in it, most likely for the same reasons as I of her. I don't care about what I'm not allowed to say; I openly tell her everything.

She begins to tell me a story. Something about a trip to USA. I try to listen. I start thinking about how much I want her again. I imagine myself taking off her clothes. I explore her body, caressing her back, as I am against her. We are on the ground, I am on top of her. Her hair is spread out on the ground. My lips are around her own, her tongue exploring my mouth.

She mentions Thunder Mountain, and I snap back to attention. I interrupt her, about the location of this mountain. She declares it's in British Columbia, and I say, gingerly, that I've worked there. She asks what I did. I consider making a joke, telling her I sold flowers there, but decide to be serious, and instead tell her I was defending some copper mines.

I ask her what she was doing at Thunder Mountain. She says it was four years ago. That would have been before I was there. She said she was camping with family. I ask about her family. She goes on to list various family members. She mentions a brother who is studying university in Melbourne, a sister who's studying university in Vancouver, Canada, and a brother who works at a store in Canberra. I ask, and she confirms that she's the youngest in the family. I ask her where she wants to study, and she says she wants to stay in Canberra. I suggest for her to explore the world. She says she doesn't want to, because people talk with funny accents, and laughs. I also laugh, and ask if my accent is weird. My accent is a cross between French and British, as I've lived in both places a significant amount of time. She attempts to imitate a French accent, and we both laugh at her failure at.

After a bit of silence, I attempt an Aussie accent. We both burst out laughing at it failure. She says we should turn back. I look to the left, to see the sun is setting. I agree, and we both turn around. The walk back is a lot more silent. I consider reaching for her hand, but as far as I know, we are still only friends. I don't know how this works. I've never spoken this much to a girl before. I realize that I know nothing about romance except for what was genetically put inside of me.

When we reach her RV, I turn to her. The entire walk back, I was contemplating what to do with her. I explain to her, rather awkwardly, my situation. I tell her, just plain old honestly, that I don't know anything about romance. She offers to teach me. Before I can respond, she steps right in front of me, and places her lips overtop of mine. Her eyes are closed. She wraps her arms around my back, pulling me tighter; I do the same with her. I feel her breasts against my chest. They feel nice. They feel soft, too. I want more. I want to play with them. Those breasts are all I can think about. Her tongue enters my mouth, and begins feeling my teeth. I play with her tongue using my own.

The sun has fully set, and it is completely dark. A cricket chirps somewhere behind me.

I begin probing over her lips with my own, each time trying to reach wider, and grab more of her mouth. Her saliva tastes sweet. I want more of it. I begin to suck more out of her mouth, mixing it with my own, in my mouth. Some of her hair begins mixing with my own. Her back feel nice, even from behind her tank top. I squeeze her hard, trying to pull her closer than she already is. My hand are digging into her back. It is probably uncomfortably tight for her, but she continues nonetheless. My own hair is long, nearly down to my shoulders. The last time I had it cut was before being deployed here in Australia.

The release was slow. She withdrew her tongue, hooking it around my top lip on the way out. I opened my eyes, to see her open as well. I loosened my grip on her back, and she did the same. She pulled away, until we were just standing, looking at each other. I tell her I enjoyed the lesson, and she laughs, biting her lip. Once again, she is holding her left elbow with her right hand. I say goodnight, she does the same, and we part ways. My mouth still tastes of her saliva. After a while, I glance back. The lights are on in her RV, and she is moving around inside.

I ascend the steps, arriving in my loft, and soon begin undressing myself slowly. After taking off my shirt, and dropping it onto my chest of supplies, I lean against the window sill and stare out along the road, still somewhat mesmerized. After sighing solemnly to myself, I walked over to the washroom, and brush my teeth. I walked over to my bed, lay down. I don't fall asleep, however. I'm thinking ahead to tomorrow. I will have Chelsea. It will be so much fun.

I start worrying. I am here for work. What if something happens? What if there's a battle, and one of us dies? I have never wanted to survive more than I do now. What if one of the commanders arrives, and withdraws me? Or moves me? Or anything. I just want her. Just one more day. Please. Please god, give me one more day with her.

I lie in bed another hour. I fall asleep.

I wake up. Walking over, I peer out the window. The moon is still high in the sky. I switch on the light. I read my watch. It's still before 3am. I observe myself in the mirror. I pop another zit on my forehead, and wash the blood off under the tap. I splash water on my face. I put some pants on, as well as one of my uniform shirts, but I do not button it up. I head outside. The entire scene is nearly pitch black. Nobody is still up. I walk around briefly. I look at Chelsea's camper. It's dark. She's asleep. Or otherwise trying to fall asleep. I want to go over there.

I imagine myself going into the vehicle. I open the door, ever so quietly. It's not locked. In fact, it's ajar. I step up. It's a nice interior, though somewhat untidy. There are dirty plates and cups in the sink. Female clothing lies along the floor and on seats. There's quiet breathing. I creep to the back of the vehicle, contorting myself between various articles of furniture. I see Chelsea sleeping, on her side, her head buried in her pillow. Her hair is in a mess, spread out around her. I lift the thin sheet off of her, revealing her almost naked body. She awakes calmly, and looks at me. She smiles ever so slightly. I slip into the small bed, on top of her. I wrap my arms around her chest, and rest my head on top of hers. I wrap a leg around one of hers.

I hear footsteps in the dirt behind me, so I like back, towards the diner. It is the spy. He approaches me, and stands next to me, also watching the vehicle on the side of the road. A minute passes by without anything said. We both just watch the vehicle.

"Elle est bonne, n'est pas?" She is nice, no?

I nod.

"Tu la veux, n'est pas?" You want her, no?

I nod again.

"Alors, va." Then go.

I look at him. He motions towards the vehicle.

"Je ne peux pas," I say. I can't.

"Pourquoi pas?" Why not?

"Elle dort. Ce ne serait pas correct." She is sleeping. It would not be right.

"Nous ne sommes plus ici longtemps. Alors, va" We will not be here much longer. So go.

I nod, and thank him, and walk towards the vehicle. I open the door, ever so quietly. It's not locked. In fact, it's ajar. I step up. It's a nice interior, though somewhat untidy. There are dirty plates and cups in the sink. Female clothing lies along the floor and seat. There's quiet breathing. I creep to the back of the vehicle, contorting myself between various articles of furniture. I see Chelsea sleeping, on her side, her head buried in her pillow. Her hair is in a mess, spread out around her. I lift the thin sheet off of her, revealing her almost naked body. She awakes calmly, and looks at me. She smiles ever so slightly. I slip into the small bed, on top of her. I wrap my arms around her chest, and rest my head on top of hers. I wrap a leg around one of hers.

CH5

I awake. After a brief moment of confusion, I become oriented. I am lying in my bed in my loft. The sun is rising. I roll over. I remember the dream from last night. Observing the moon, the conversation with the spy, going into her camper, lying next to her; all a dream. I laugh at myself. I get ready, dressed, and wash my face, before heading out, and having breakfast. I arrive at the diner to find the spy there, and several others. He has a cigarette, and is cooking breakfast for all of them, all sitting at the bar. When I enter, they greet me normally. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. I will get my chance with Chelsea after all.

I pick a seat next to the medic, at the far end of the bar. He greets me dully. He does not have his glasses on. He looks unusual without them, though that is the case for most people. Eventually, I get my share of bacon and hashbrowns, and eat it uninterestedly. One of the soldiers asks me about Chelsea. Everyone glances towards me. I look up. I acknowledge that she kissed me last night. The medic pats me on the back, and congratulates me in his thick German accent. I can't tell if he's making fun of me, or being legitimate, but either way I thank him.

I decide to return to my loft, and watch the road for a bit. I contemplate going over to Chelsea, but she might not be up yet. I'll wait for her to come to me. I sit in my chair, and watch the road through the scope, as far down as I can without my vision being obscured by the haze. Tumbleweed occasionally rolls across the street. After kissing Chelsea last night, my work seems different. I can't explain how so, it just feels different.

There is movement. I move the scope around. It is a scout. For the Reliable Excavation Demolition. I curse. Of course, something had to have changed. Of course, I'm going to be pulled away from Chelsea right now. Right as I start to truly live. I flip the safety off, and aim the small red dot over top of the scout. I place it over his chest, so he will notice it. He is young. I would feel slightly bad killing him, but I don't care. I have been desensitized towards killing during my training. I just want to be with Chelsea. The scout does not notice the red dot. He keeps jogging towards this village. I flip a switch, then fire just a tracer round at him. a beam of light appears, then quickly fades out. The scout immediately stops. He now knows I'm here. He knows I am watching him, from an unknown perch. He knows his life hangs in the line. He knows I could kill him at any second. I could do it slowly. I could shoot each of his limbs individually, immobilizing him. I could shoot at his torso, while avoiding his organs. I could shatter his skull, while leaving his brain itself unharmed.

He does not know what to do. He continues to stare down along this path, but now appears nervous. Or scared. Or upset. Or something. He begins to bolt forwards towards me. I curse. I flip another switch on the side, and fire a real round near his feet. It throws up dirt around him, though he continues to sprint. The crack of the gun was horrendously loud. My ears are ringing from the sound. I forgot to put in earplugs before starting this today. Not enough time to do so now. I re-aim at the scout, positioning the small dot over his head. Taking a deep breath, I pull the trigger. Another huge crack. The impact of the bullet causes the scout's head to stop moving forwards. The scout's legs come out from under him, and he collapses backwards, landing first on his back. His other limbs hit the ground and stop moving. Motionless. There is a circular hole in his forehead. His face is perfectly still, and perfectly lifeless, though still shows a hint of emotion. A hollow look. His eyes stare straight up at the sky. A pool of blood slowly grows around him, small streams of it move towards the side of the road.

I hear a call from below. It's one of the soldiers. I invite him up here, and he comes up. He asks what happened. I can barely hear him; my ears are ringing. I explain to him it was a scout, whom I terminated. He tells me I should retrieve the body. I tell him not so. I tell him others will come for it. He leaves shortly after, though slightly hesitantly. I focus the rifle back on the corpse. Soon enough, several RED mercenaries appear. It is a small invasion force, four in total.

I hear Chelsea's voice behind me. She's come up here. She tells me she heard the gunshots, and asks what happened. I tell her we're being invaded, not moving. I do not see her facial reaction; I'm still looking through the scope ahead, I haven't looked away yet. I ask her if she could grab some earplugs for both of us from my storage chest. I do not see her reaction, but she accepts. I can hear the chest opening, and metallic rummaging, so I know she's doing so.

I fire a tracer round at the head of one of the incoming soldiers. Instantly, they all stop. They know I'm there. They know I'm waiting. They, like the scout, know the danger of approaching. I control their lives. I could easily choose to kill all of them, and that would be that. Chelsea must have realized my concentration, she inserts the earplugs into my ears herself. The four RED invaders notice the scout's body. They gather in a circle. They are talking. One soldier turns towards me. he looks straight at my scope. He is signaling with his hands. He wants to collect the fallen scout's body. He removes his rocket launcher, shotgun, and pickaxe, and places all three on the ground. He removes his vest with ammo, and likewise places it on the pile. He also removes his helmet. With his arms raised, he walks forward, towards the scout's body. He scoops the body up, and throws it over his shoulder. The lifeless scout's head lolls against the soldier's back with every step. His cap, with his microphone slides off, and falls to the ground. The soldier turns to look at it, but leaves it. When he reaches his comrades, they each grab some of the soldier's equipment, and turn and walk away.

I watch them leave. I watch the scout's head bounce up and down upon each of the soldier's steps. I can see some are conversing. There is some conversation. I do not know what is said. They cross over the peak of a hill, and disappear from view. I look up from the scope. Chelsea is looking at me worriedly. She asks what happened. I offer no words about the fallen scout. Instead, I merely say that things will likely change in the near future. I say that I want to get her to safety, as we could come under siege within hours. She looks sad. Very sad. I stand up, walk over to her, and put my arms around her. She does the same to me. I tell her how much I like her, and how much I want to be with her. She rests her head on my shoulder, I squeeze her tighter.

There could be RED spies approaching. There could be RED spies already here, but I don't tell her that. I don't know what to do. What to do with her. I step back from her, and sit on the corner of my bed. I look straight across the room, staring at a random point along the wall. After a moment, she asks if I'm okay. I tell her I'm thinking. She sits next to me, looking indirectly at me. I tell her to return to her RV and hide there. I tell her I'll come to get her as soon as I can. She nods, a tear rolls down her cheek. She knows this could be the end, too. She turns, and leaves. She turns back right at the top of the stairs. She sees me looking straight at her. She asks me to promise her I'll survive. I nod. She continues down the stairs.

I gather everyone in the diner, and begin explaining the situation. I warn about snipers there that may make it dangerous to get close to the village. I ask the spy if he can get inside the village; he seems confident. I also ask the scout if he'd be willing to get a closer look at the village. He refuses briskly. I flip out, and begin yelling at him. I call him lazy, I call him worthless, and I call him several other things as well. He cowers in fear. His eyes wide, he apologizes profusely, accepting my orders. I also ask for one of the soldiers to protect me. One immediately accepts.

I return to my post, and continue watching the road, a soldier sitting near the stairs. But nothing happens. It becomes late. The sun has completed setting. Another hour or so go by before the scout returns.

The scout climbs the steps of the loft. I look up from the sniper rifle. The scout walks slowly over without speaking. I call his name, as if it were a question. The soldier asks him about his scouting. He shrugs. The soldier stands up, and turns towards me as if to speak to me.

In barely a second, the scout shimmers, and becomes a red spy. Before I can comprehend what's happening, a knife shoots out from his sleeve, impaling the soldier right through the heart. Blood pours out from the wound. The blue of the soldier's shirt soon becomes a dark red, spreading outwards. It pours downwards, spilling over his belt, and along his pants. It begins to accumulate on the floor, before slipping through the floorboards. The soldier's head falls forward, and his body slips forward, off of the knife. He collapses with a thud against the floor, propelling outwards small splatters of blood. A single drop of blood falls from the smeared red knife. The instant of terror passes, and I become filled with adrenaline. I lunge towards the chest, grabbing the first knife I can see. I turn, and hurl it at the spy, advancing towards me. He ducks, and the knife ricochets of a wall, clattering to the ground. I grab another, and lunge at him with it. He steps back, then slashes with his, which I block. We both stand tall, with knees bent, circling each other.

I feint, which he falls for, then lunge in the other direction. I slice at his mask, drawing a small amount of blood. He reassesses me as a threat, us circling each other once more. He viciously lunges straight at me. I easily jump to the side, then insert my knife straight into his back as he moves past me. It was too easy.

The spy collapses onto the ground unmoving. I look at my knife; it is devoid of blood. It had to have been a deadringer: a weapon which will project your corpse, while you can escape, invisible. I scream at the top of my lungs that there is a spy. I throw myself over the railing at the side of the loft, and land on the ground with a tight roll, ending up on my feet. I glance around the barn. Nothing. I run outside. There is a trail of fresh footprints, which I follow, all the way to behind a house. I glance around, and the spy soon materializes. I hurl my knife at him, which he barely ducks under. I withdraw another knife from my vest, also hurling it at him. He attempts to step to the side, but the knife lands in his shoulder. Cursing, he grabs at the shoulder with his other hand, dropping his own knife. I dive, picking up that knife, and lunge at him. The knife digs deep into his neck, tearing through his throat. He collapses straight downwards to the ground. I look at his lifeless body, crumpled in a heap. Blood is spewing from his neck. His eyes have rolled back in his sockets. His limp hand slowly slides off of him, to his side. I pick up the hand, and pinch the wrist, looking for the exact spot. There is a very faint pulse, though within seconds, it fades to nothing.

I watch his body briefly. I look into the gash in his neck. I can see the inside of his neck. I watch the blood as it spews, slightly slower now, out of the wound, some soon bubbling up around his mouth. I watch his neck, completely red now. There is a small amount of blood splattered on his shirt and tie. There is also a pool of blood on the ground. I look at the dead body, satisfied.

I call out. No response. I call out again, still nothing. Worried, I jog towards the diner. There are pools of blood. I begin to panic. What happened? I run into the kitchen. A trail of blood. I follow it. I stop motionless at the sight. Four bodies. Three soldiers and a medic. My allies, all of them. All clearly dead. I can't take it in. I don't yet comprehend it. I can't breathe anymore. My head is light. My vision is going fuzzy. I step back, though it is more of a stumble than a conscious step. I grab onto the wall to steady myself.

After another minute, I regain control. I swiftly leave the building, not bothering checking the pulse. Our base has been decimated. I need to find the spy.

I scream. This is one of the worst situations I have ever been in. I am all alone. I have a friendly spy still alive, though he is unreachable. I look behind my back. I am terrified. I am scared that a RED mercenary will jump out at any second and shoot or stab me. I have one knife in my vest. I return to my loft. Carefully, I observe everything. Nothing has moved. I turn off my sniper rifle, wrap it, and place it in my chest. I withdraw my bow and quiver, as well as a submachine gun and several more knives, all which I sheath in my vest, or behind my back. I grab a pair of sunglasses, and some other supplies, before leaving the barn. My first stop is Chelsea. I knock on the door. She calls out, I respond with my name. She allows me to enter. I step in. It is cleaner than I perceived it in my dream. Clothes lie on the ground, though in a small quantity. There are no unclean dishes.

Chelsea asks why I'm here. I explain everything. She asks what's going to happen. I tell her I don't know. She offers for me to sit down. I do so, placing my weapons on a table. She asks if I want food; I tell her that I don't. She appears temporarily disappointed, but does not appear hurt. She asks if I have been in a situation like this before. I tell her the truth; that I have not. A tear rolls down my cheek. Chelsea sees this, and immediately slides herself next to me, and puts her arm around me. She asks what's wrong. I tell her I don't want to have to leave her after knowing her for such a short time. That is, actually, the truth. For the time being, I'm not concerned about my well being here. She rests her head against mine.

After several minutes of silence, she asks if there will be an attack against the base here. I go through the events leading up to now, before telling her no. I explain that they'd give several hours more of waiting before assuming their spy is dead. She asks if we should evacuate, and retreat backwards. She said we. She included herself. She thinks we're a team now. She thinks we should stay together. I feel touched. A warmth goes through me. I tell her yes, but that we need to wait for the spy to return. I tell her I'd like to discuss the situation with him. She wonders if he's dead. I acknowledge the possibility.

My mind is empty. No, empty is not the right word. Hollow. That's a better word. I can't think right now, and I tell Chelsea so. She apologizes to me. I am just distraught. I have seen people die before, it doesn't bother me. Death doesn't bother me. I have never valued my own life until now. I guess I have the Builders' League United to thank for that. For desensitizing its soldiers. For reducing them to useless, replaceable parts of a machine. I become angry. I don't want to be a mercenary anymore. I want to start a normal life. With a job. With a house. Not, not a house: a home. With friends. With Chelsea.

I scold myself. I will look forward to my next mission when the time arrives. I will be eager for deployment.

If I make it.

I don't want to leave Chelsea.

I am ridiculous. I cannot take Chelsea with me everywhere I go. I cannot take her with me back to England, then to my next mission.

I met her, I am having fun with her, and then I will leave.

I begin to cry. She does too.

We cry together, next to each other, against each other.

CH6

I awake. Chelsea is next to me. Leaning on me. In her RV. I had fallen asleep. She is against me. It is uncomfortable. I shuffle, and she awakes. I begin to panic. I look at my watch, to see a few hours have passed. She notices my panic. I tell her I'll return momentarily, and promptly leave the RV.

I enter the diner, to find the spy there. We notice each other. My first instinct is that he's a red spy. He grabs for his knife, he must think the same as me. Disguised spies will flicker if physical shock is delivered to them. That is the best way to tell one apart. Unarmed, I walk up to him, and strike him across the face, he doesn't flicker. He does the same to me. We shake hands, I welcome him back. I ask him what happened.

He claims there are at least twenty mercenaries there. He goes into detail about their defense systems, the layout of the village, and other details. I interrupt him, and tell him about the deaths and extinction of this base. He tells me he already knows and that he's been waiting here an hour. I apologize to him. I tell him my desire to retreat. He agrees. I tell him we have to do so on foot, he tells me he knows. We collaborate on the direction to go in. There are three options; this village is located on crossroads.

I pull out a roadmap from under the bar, where we are sitting. I had placed it there, soon after arriving, hoping it would be useful. Now it is. We agree to head laterally to the next village, the direction where Chelsea came from. I stand up, and begin to fold the map. I insert it into a vest pocket. I reach out my hand, and shake it with the spy's. After holding it a while, I pull him closer, and we embrace.

I do not feel like a mercenary right now. I feel like a refugee. I feel like a pawn, about to be demolished by a rook. I feel like a human. I tell this to the spy. He tells me I'm too young for this work. I feel offended, and let is show. He apologizes for the comment. I nod.

After delivering the news to Chelsea, she spends around ten minutes preparing, and we begin walking. I don't say anything. Neither Chelsea nor the spy do, either. Chelsea glances at me a few times. I glance at her occasionally as well. The spy is walking a ways to the side. My head is down. I am watching the ground. I watch my own feet move forward incrementally. I can see hers out of the corner of my eyes. She is wearing her running shoes again. She seems to realize how I feel, and grabs my hand with her own. I look at her, and we make eye contact for a few moments. I smile faintly. She does too. Our fingers are intertwined. It feels goods. Her hand is slightly sweaty, but I don't mind. Mine is too. It feels good. Contact with her feels bettering, even slightly.

Chelsea asks me what will do when it gets dark. I tell her the truth: keep walking. I try to cheer myself up. I don't want to be unhappy right now. I want to cherish these potentially last minutes with Chelsea. I do not yet worry about it getting dark; it is mid afternoon. The next village is more than sixty kilometers. It will take the majority of the night, and into the next morning. I do not know what to expect there. RED territory, or BLU? Or neither? I ask Chelsea what was at this upcoming village. She tells me she drove straight through it without running into anyone. That could mean anything.

The sun begins to set. Occasionally I hear a cricket chirp. I ask Chelsea how she's doing. She tells me she can keep walking for now. We are still holding hands. My hand is uncomfortable, though I leave it intertwined with hers. It makes me feel good. I begin to feel a strong desire for her once again. I realize how lucky I am to have escaped from that massacre. I don't feel lucky, however. I still feel like crap. I still want to start a new, proper life, with a proper job. I ask her if this place is dangerous at night. She begins to list various creatures, and the way they kill humans. I stop her after I realize she is beginning to make up creatures. She laughs.

I want to stop. I am so very tired. I was not unfit. I trained well. I was very in shape at one point. But after sitting and doing nothing but watching a scope for nearly a month, I feel my body giving way at the long, painful, walk. I force myself to bear it, however. I kick a stone on the ground, it leaps ahead, and skitters to a stop. I do the same when I reach it. After the third time, it jumps off the side of the road, well out of range. The sun has completely set, save for a strip of purple light along the horizon. It is dark, however. I can hear the footsteps of all three of us. The spy is behind us. I can barely see the road. I do not have my backpack. I call back to the spy. He jogs up to us, handing me a cigarette and lighter. I offer one to Chelsea, and she also takes one. I light mine, then hers, which I hand to her. I return the lighter to the spy, who lights his own. He is no longer wearing his tie. I assume he tucked it into his jacket pocket. I look forward again. There is a small hill ahead of us.

I hear Chelsea's breathing becoming heavier. I ask if she wants to stop, and she declines. I point out her breathing, and she claims she's fine.

Chelsea soon asks to stop. I am grateful. I point out a rock a ways off the road, which she seems fine to sit on for a while. The spy catches up, and calls for our attention. He says he has a bad feeling the next village is held by RED. He says he will go on there, and then return to us. He says turning back may be the only option if RED is there. Under the moonlight, I can see Chelsea's face. It looks distressed. I assume mine is likewise. I thank the spy, and he turns, and walks off. I watch the dark silhouette of him, as he carries on along the road. When he disappears from sight, Chelsea and I continue to the rock, where we sit down.

I can see a very faint glistening of sweat on Chelsea's face. I wipe it off with my sleeve, and she thanks me. I sit next to her. Our bodies are touching. We put our arms around each other, and she rests her head against my shoulder. Some of her hair creeps down in front of her. With my free arm, it lightly touch a lock of it, which I begin to play with. It is nice hair. The vivid orange of the hair is concealed by the darkness around us. I can only see the silhouette of it, and my own hand. It just feels nice, to touch.

I decide to remove my boots. My feet feel a whole lot lighter when I do so. Chelsea does the same, and wraps her bare feet around mine, curling and uncurling her toes. She yawns. I do too, after a brief period. I remove my arm, and take off my vest, and set it on the ground beside me. I put my arm back around her. I feel significantly better. We both sit in the pitch black in each other's company. She soon falls asleep, still resting against my shoulder. She breathes rhythmically, slowly rising and falling next to me. Her hair dangles down both in front of, and behind her head, some laying on my shoulder. I run my hand down her back, along her somewhat dirty tank top. When I reach her waist, I continue down along her bare leg. Her skin is soft. I want more of it. I want all of it.

I imagine her waking up, and looking at me. She says she wants me. She takes off her shirt, revealing her breasts, which bounce and hang freely. I grab at them, feeling them, playing with them. I lean in closer, and our lips lock. I wrap both of my legs around her hers. I slip my hands down her shorts. I can take whatever from her body I want. It's mine now.

I am hungry. I am also beginning to feel cold. The moon is high in the sky, it is nearly full. Crickets chirp occasionally. It is very pleasant here. It is slightly cold, though completely tolerable. It is quite pleasant here.s

Chelsea awakes with a start. She looks at me. I look at her longingly. She appears sad. She tells me she needs to tell me something. I reply. She tells me she stole the RV. I do not react. She tells me her real story. She tells me of her father, who died serving in the second world war. She tells me of her mother, who killed herself hearing of her husband's death. She tells me about living with her brother. She tells me of her brother's descent into drug addiction. She tells me of her brother's increased hatred and violence towards her, and of her decision to steal the RV and leave.

She thanks me for looking after her. I tell her I'm sorry. She asks me if she can stay with me. She cannot. I am a part of a machine. I cannot enjoy luxuries. I must stay disciplined. I must guard BLU's assets, and attack those of RED. I must abide by all regulations. I must firmly, and persistently follow all orders I receive. I tell her she can. I tell her we can start a life together. She asks where. I tell her anywhere. I tell her I can get us to anywhere in the world. I could get a job. I could become successful. We would become wealthy, and live happily together. I tell her that. It is a fantasy. It is meaningless. We both know it. She begins to shiver; I pull her tighter.

She falls asleep again. I begin to think ahead. The next village needs to be empty. We are cornered otherwise. There is nothing I can do. I wait. I tried to remain awake, though I dozed off a few times.

The spy returns in the early hours of the morning. He delivers us the petrifying news we hoped not to receive. The devastating, world ending news. We're cornered. I take out my map, and lay it out on the rock. I also take out a compass, and place it down on the map. I rotate the map. I point out where we are, and the closest villages around. The results are depressing. The spy reaches into his jacket, and pulls out a canteen of water, which we all share, followed by a few energy bars. He tells us he took them from the next village. I indicate the direction we should go, and there is no argument. I put both objects away, and we begin walking. Away from the road. Into the wilderness. The flat, barren, hazy wilderness of the Australian outback. The sun is rising behind us, and its beams are already uncomfortably hot.

CH7

We walk most of the day. Upon returning to a new road in the mid afternoon, exactly where I had predicted we end up, we stop. We all mutually agree to take a break, in which the spy and I get a few hours of sleep. We carry on, again late into the night. By the morning, we are all very dehydrated. The spy removes his jacket, and drops it on the ground, after taking a few items from it. I decide to do the same with my vest. I look at the map quickly, and point us in the direction of a next village. Chelsea stumbles, and I catch her. She thanks me, and tells me she's lightheaded. We stop. The spy says he'll head to the next place, and see if it's safe. Chelsea and I thank him, and then sit at the side of the road. The ground is hot to the touch. Pebbles and sand lie along the road, and in the small crevices in the concrete. I brush some out from under me.

An hour later, Chelsea says she is going to lie down. She shuffles, and lies down, her head in my lap, her hair spilling over the sides of my legs. I look down into her eyes, she looks up into mine. I caress her cheek. I lay my other hand across her stomach, she seems to appreciate it. She tells me she's so thirsty. I nod. I tell her I am too. She complains the sun is too bright. I give her my sunglasses, which she takes and puts on. She then rolls over, onto her side. My left arm is still overtop of her midsection, while my right continues to caress her cheek. She buries her head into my stomach.

She soon falls asleep. I soon put my hands behind my back, and lean on them. The sun is horribly bright for me. I can't bear sun like this without sunglasses. I start to feel lightheaded. I feel like I'm going to pass out. I feel like I'm dying I don't want to die here.

Hours begin to pass. I look down the road in the direction the spy has come. I see movement down the road. I a truck. A military truck. I shuffle. Chelsea awakes. She asks what's happening. I scramble to stand up, stumbling in the process, from my fatigue. She stands up, and brushes dust off of her clothes. I point down the road, and she spots the truck. She tells me she's dizzy. I nod, and support her. We begin trudging in the direction of the oncoming vehicle. As it comes closer, I wave out to it. I do not know if it is RED or BLU. Either way it doesn't matter, at least there are people. At least, if it's RED, they'll kill me and let Chelsea go. There is a sharp crack, and a blue tracer round sparks brightly in front of me for a brief moment, before fading out. A blue tracer round. There we go. It is the Builders' League United. Friends.

I grin, and shout out in success. Chelsea smiles lightly, still clinging onto me for support. The military truck stops near us. A soldier gets out. He escorts us to the back of the truck. He asks if we are okay. We both tell him we are. Chelsea gets in. I thank him for saving us. I step in myself. There are two other mercenaries in the back of the truck here. One offers each of us a canteen of water. I offer the first one to Chelsea, then take another one. I sit on the bench on the left side of the truck. Chelsea lies down on the bench, her head again in my lap. Once again, her hair tumbles all around my legs. She has long hair. It reaches as far down as my knees. I lay my left arm down over her stomach. Her tank top has pulled up slightly at the bottom, and I can see her bare stomach. With my right hand, I again caress her face. We continue to look into each others' eyes.

The spy materializes across from me. I am not surprised. Or, I just don't have the energy to be surprised. He greets me. I greet him. Chelsea turns her head, and says a casual hello. I tell him it was a marvelous stroke of luck, and that he saved us. He shrugs. The truck goes over a bump, and bounces violently. Nobody reacts, however.

We arrive at the next base half an hour later. We are greeted by a large group of BLU mercenaries. I introduce Chelsea as a civilian. She has more energy. We are quickly shown around the village. It is decent. It is slightly larger than most of the others; this one has an inn. We are led into the inn, up some stairs, and shown to a room. All the doors are unlocked, though keys are available if we personally want to lock it. We are informed about the food available in the mess hall below, and promptly left alone.

I remove the various objects from my pockets, and drop them in the corner. I still have my bow, and quiver. I forced myself to bring them. I drop them onto the floor. The bow clatters around.

I turn to see Chelsea on the bed, facing me. I step onto the bed, and lie in it, facing her. I grab her with both arms, and pull her closer, right up against me. I wrap my lips around hers. Both our eyes are closed. I wrap my leg around hers. I pull her tightly. Her tongue seeks entry into my mouth. I welcome it, and begin playing with it with my own. I missed the taste of her. I'm happy I can enjoy it once more. My lips move around against her own. I reach with them. I try to pull as much of her mouth into mine as I can. No matter how much I get, I want more. I lower my right hand, and reach under her top. I run my hand up and down her back, feeling her skin, smooth, and slightly sticky from sweat.

I pull at her tank top. I want it off. It is a barrier to me. It is serving no purpose than concealing her. She reaches down, and pulls it off. Slowly, almost reverently, she reaches behind her, and unclips her bra. She tries to do it slowly, almost ritualistically. I don't let her, I'm too aggressive. I pull her bra straight off, and it lands on the floor, next to the bed. I look at her breasts. After waiting so long, they are finally mine. I lean in, and begin kissing them. I'm too aggressive. I can't control myself. I want more. She reaches over to me, and begins unbuttoning my shirt. She does it calmly, watching her hands as she works. I watch her too. She runs her hand along my chest occasionally. As she undoes the last button, I let the shirt slip off of my shoulders. It, also, falls to the ground. I grab onto her again. She arches her head back, revealing more of her neck. I begin kissing it. I push my teeth into her lightly, just enough to cause her to moan. I cup my hands around the back of her neck, like I'm holding a trophy, supporting it, pulling it closer to me.

This isn't enough for me. I want more. I reach down to her shorts, but she's already there, fiddling with the button. She gets the button undone, right as I unzip it, and yank the shorts down, to just above her knees. She slips them farther down, sliding one bare foot out of them at a time. I try to remove the belt from my own pants, but my hands are shaky; I can't get it off. She reaches over, and pushes my hands away, and does it herself. She does it slowly; very slowly, and very calmly. It's too slow; I can't bear it. She's playing with me, mocking me, tempting me. She gets the belt undone, and undoes the button on my grey pants. I watch her hands, as she calmly, playfully, removes the last of my clothes.

CH8

Nothing happens for the next few days. It's as if the Reliable Excavation Demolition has vanished. It is very dull. The company of Chelsea is the only thing I have to enjoy, especially our nights together in bed.

It's is on the fifth day after arriving here when the truck arrives. Foolishly, I don't think much of it. I watch it calmly from the window of the room in the inn. It approaches from the horizon, slowly getting bigger, kicking up a massive cloud of dust from behind it. It drives quickly; very quickly. I've been watching it getting bigger, and closer, for several minutes, before Chelsea enters the room. She asks what I'm looking at. I respond, then realize what my answer means. I suddenly realize the horrible omens that that response will bring.

I step out of the room, alone, and proceed down the stairs. I reach the deserted, dusty lobby, and step into the blinding sun. As my eyes are adjusting, slowly, painfully, someone walks over to me. I try to look up at who it is, but I squint. I can't see. As soon as I realize who it is, by the stripes around the man's sleeves, I step back, and salute, addressing him by his superior title. He salutes me. He asks to speak with me. A feeling of dread runs through my veins. I know what this means. But how? How does he know about her? Still worried, I follow him into a lounge across from the lobby.

He motions for me to sit down. I do so, and he does too. He asks me what happened. I assume he is talking about the events at our previous village base. I go into detail, starting with the moment the enemy scout arrived, and ending with the truck picking me up from the road. I choose to leave out the details about Chelsea. I talk for nearly ten minutes. I try and read his facial expression. I cannot. I have no idea what he's thinking.

After a while, he seems satisfied. He thanks me for the story. I feel completely relieved. It's over. He doesn't know about her.

He then asks about the civilian. Chelsea. No. Please, no. This is it. It's all over. He knows.

I have to tell the story. There's no other way.

I explain briefly how she arrived. I use the original excuse she gave me that she was touring Australia in her RV. The general nods. I explain how she generally stuck to her RV, though frequently interacted with us to kill the boredom. He sighs. He asks me if I'm fond of her. I nod carefully. He reminds me that this is a battlefield. He tells me he is going to drive her back to Canberra first thing tomorrow.

The general here, sitting across from me, is my enemy. I need to kill him. I need to destroy him. I want to. I imagine myself withdrawing the knife from my pocket, and lunging at him. I could kill him, right here, right now, for his decision. I could kill him, and that would be that. But only, it wouldn't be. I would be executed. It would be the end of everything. There's nothing more I can do. I nod. I accept.

He slaps me on the shoulder, thanks me for the meeting, and we depart. I immediately return to my room, where I find Chelsea lying on the bed on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her knees are bent upwards into a triangle. Her right arm is draped over the side of the bed, her left arm is over her stomach.

I sit on the side of the bed, and she awkwardly turns her head towards me, her hair being dragged along. I tell her what's happening. She replies with a single word. A word that's barely even a word. The fifteenth letter of the alphabet, used commonly as an interjection. It means nothing in common language. You use it when you can't think of anything else to say. She turns her head back to look at the ceiling. She points out a crack in the ceiling. Her voice cracks. I look up at the crack she mentioned. It starts at the corner. It branches off after a few centimeters. Like a tree. Like a tree in the winter having lost all of its leaves. I lie down next to Chelsea. I slide my head over so it's touching hers. My entire body is against her. I lift my knees into a triangle like hers. I put my left arm around her. I don't want her to leave. I want to keep her. I still want her.

I awake to a knocking at the door. Chelsea also wakes. I don't know what's happening, I'm still out of it. The knock comes again, and I am fully awake. I get off the bed, and Chelsea turns to regard me. It is a sergeant. He is wearing the BLU uniform like everyone else, except he has a badge on his left breast. I salute. He notices Chelsea, and laughs, telling me to get my life together. I frown. He slaps me on the shoulder, and informs me of a military personnel meeting in the diner. I nod, and tell him I'll get ready. He closes the door. I drop my head against the door, catching it with my lower left arm. I feel gone. Everything in my life is worthless to me now. I turn around, and Chelsea is there, the outsides of her eyebrows curled down. I walk over. She wraps her arms around me. I do so to her too.

We separate. She reached her fingers into my hair, and combs it for me. I smile lightly, and thank her. I turn, and leave the room for the meeting.

I navigate through the building, and out of the front entrance, and outside. It is early afternoon, and my eyes slowly adjust to the bright light. I look at the diner, and slowly begin walking towards it. I open the door, and enter. The sergeant is already talking. He glares at me as I enter, and I take a place standing near the door.

CH9

I lie on a bed in a large, extremely luxurious hotel room in London. I am exhausted. Not physically. I haven't done anything physical in weeks. I am exhausted emotionally. I am still comprehending what happened to me. I lie face down on the king sized bed. The covers are extraordinarily soft, tickling my face as I lie in them. I am wearing an expensive cotton vest, and a loosened tie hanging from my neck. My feet stick off the end of the bed. There is a knock at the door, followed by the request to clean the room. I call back negatively, and there's an apology from the other side of the door.

I keep reliving my last few days in Australia. The meeting was like a stab in the back. What made it hurt the most, was that it came from my own company. It would've been less painful if it had been the knife of an enemy spy. A sudden, piercing pain. Glancing down, to see the tip of a knife poking out in front of you. Your brief moment of cluelessness, followed immediately by the horrific wave of panic. Rapidly fading consciousness, the last thing you will ever know to be your own blood leaving your body.

At the meeting, the sergeant acknowledged the loss of two bases within a few days. He droned on and on about how this was a fighting cause. How we would never last forever there. How the Builders' League United should've acknowledged that we never would have been successful there, and never should've gotten involved there. All of this, mockingly about me. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to take my knife, and slit the sergeant's throat. I probably could've succeeded. During a laughing fit by the general mass present, I would've done it. I could've pulled my knife out swiftly, lunged forwards, and inserted the knife into his neck. It would've been so simple. So fast. So satisfying.

But I did not. I would've been killed, right there, on the spot. Others obviously had small arms on them as well. Pistols, knives, everything. I would've gone down in humiliation. I would've satisfied my hatred and embarrassment, I would've gotten my revenge. But I would've been killed instantly after. I would've faced humiliation. I would've gone down as a failure. And so I did nothing. I remained a nobody. A laughing stock.

The sergeant announced how we would be ending the mission here. He mentioned how it lasted so short, and how we would miss the area ever so much. How it was a great time we had here, but how it would end. This was no longer a legitimate military meeting. This was a comedy stance. The sergeant organized the meeting for no other reason than to humiliate me. I left the meeting. Right as a fit of laughter burst out, I turned and left. I was already right beside the door. It was so easy. I just pushed open the door, and slipped out of the room. After I left, I heard a huge roar of laughter behind me. I grabbed at a knife from a sheath in my belt, and hurled it at the ground out of anger. A small cloud of dust and sand shot up. I headed straight to the small room to find Chelsea was not there. I called out her name. There was no response. I called out again. Nothing. I couldn't accept it. I refused to. I fell onto the bed, capitulated, and lay there. The bed where had so much fun together. I longed for the taste of her again.

I missed dinner that night. I did not have the willpower to get up from the bed. I merely remained where I was, mourning. I cried myself to sleep that night, not waking until the late morning. I was awoken to collective talking. People were packing up. I had nothing to pack up, other than my basic equipment, and my bow and quiver. I was stuffed onto a military truck alongside the rest of the base, and we left. I finished getting ready barely in time. The truck was already running, I piled into the back. It was a several hour drive to Canberra, during which I took an inordinate amount of mockery from others. The spy was in the far corner of the truck. He merely looked at me sympathetically. I looked back at him. We made eye contact for a long time.

In Canberra, we met up with several other trucks full of Builders' League United mercenaries. Stories soon spread, and by Sydney Harbour I was well known amongst the soldiers of this mission. There was a single ocean liner waiting for us. It was a very old ship, borderline decrepit. I worried horribly. Sydney to London was a long voyage. It would be very, very long. Especially for me.

And I was right. It was a ten day voyage, and it was awful. It was not very spacious, which was uncomfortable. The Builders' League United obviously could not afford to charter a huge ocean liner like the Olympic or Queen Mary. Instead, they only used a medium sized ship, so between the nearly one thousand of us, we were all stuck in tight quarters.

We arrived in London in the mid morning. I could not have been happier to get off of the ship. The mockery had begun to die down, but they occasional joke still came my way. The spy spoke to me frequently. He had never stood up for me, though he was always in the corner; someone to look at. He was good. I became very close to him.

As much as I would've loved to run away from these people, I had to go through debriefing. Another general, one who I had not met, conducted the debriefing. It was a relief that he did not turn this into a joke. He kept relatively on topic, explaining the causes for the loss, and congratulating all of us on out contribution. Just when I thought the meeting was over, and I was in the clear, I heard him mention my name. I looked up from the floor. I panicked. My heart fell. I braced for more laughing and humiliation.

He began explaining my heroic deeds. I looked him in the eyes, to see him looking back at me. He listed everything I had done in the last couple of weeks, going into detail. There was a brief round of applause. I smiled. I relaxed, marginally. I nodded in approval.

The general also mentioned the name of the spy, and his deeds, as well, met by more applause. After that, there was not much more, other than pay, time off, and the next mission. We were dismissed for now, and I could not have been happier to collect my paycheck, and proceed to leave the grounds of the Builders' League United's headquarters in London. I grabbed a bus, and deposited the cheque in my bank account, withdrawing some cash as well. I continued to a large, luxurious hotel. I decided to treat myself to the most expensive hotel in London. I wanted to try and take my mind off of the past few months. I needed to: I was starting to go insane. I collapsed into the bed of the hotel, and barely moved for an entire day.

CH10

I awake. There's no reason why I awake, I just do. Naturally. After remaining under the covers for a few more minutes, still serenely, I get up from the bed, and pull open the curtains. Bright light pierces through the room. I cower my head, trying to adjust to it. I look at my watch, I've slept through half the day. I do, however, feel better now. Not fulfilled, but just slightly less stressed. And less empty, but though by slightly. I order room service, and proceed to change into my one pair of clothes, a nice white shirt, sports jacket, and grey pants I had purchased yesterday. I wander around the large hotel room, searching for something to do. I sit at the desk in the corner, and stare at the wall, until I am interrupted by a knock at the door quite a long time later. I get up and answer it, to find it is the room service breakfast. The concierge sets it up, announcing the various elements of the meal, then leaves. He hesitates, expecting a tip. I search my pockets, and place a pound piece into his palm.

I finish the meal of omelette, fruit, and orange juice. Satisfied with the quality of food, I lie back on the bed, facing the ceiling. My sport jacket is crumpled beneath me. I wonder about my life, consider where I am going to go from here. I don't want to work for Builders' League United anymore. That job brought me no joy. I gave my life no meaning. It brought me passive satisfaction, nothing more. I want to grow up, if anything. I want to become an active part of society.

I stand up, and walk to the desk. I sit in it, and begin writing a letter of resignation. I haven't written anything in posh cursive for a long time now. Frowning upon my penmanship, I crumple the letter into a ball, and drop it into the rubbish bin. I start again. I include all fields I can think of. Reasons, apologies, thank-you's. I fold the letter into thirds, and slip it into the inside pocket of my jacket. I need an envelope and stamp. I will go to the post office. I take a long, heavy, sustained sigh. My new life begins now. I step out of the hotel room, and take the elevator to the lobby. There is a small queue at the front desk. I wait several minutes before I approach a vacant employee. I hand her my key. After a brief exchange of information, I write a cheque to the hotel. The employee thanks me, I thank her, and I'm on my way.

I step out into the busy, bustling street of London. Cars drive by on the road. People walk briskly along the sidewalks. I feel like I'm sticking out. Nobody looks at me, but I look at everyone. I feel like I'm standing out from the crowd. I don't feel natural here. I force myself to walk. I walk. I don't know where I'm going. I just want to go somewhere, just to get somewhere. The post office. There's something I can do there. I hail a cab as it goes by. It ignores me. and continues to drive off. I look back, to see another one coming I hail it. It stops next to me.

The cab driver asks me where I'm going. I tell him the post office. He nods, and begins to drive. I glance around the city. People, everywhere. I tug at my collar nervously. I don't feel comfortable here in normal society. I try to relax. I try to take my mind off of this. There's nothing to think about. Except Chelsea. I think about her. I think about being with her.

There is a screech of brakes, and the honking of a horn. I look up. The cab driver swears. He turns back to me, and comments on crazy drivers in the city. I didn't see what happened. I smile back at him out of courtesy. He continues driving.

I lose track of time. I'm lost in my own thoughts, until the cap grinds to a halt on the side of the road, and the driver turns to me. He announces the cost. I pull some bills out of my pocket, and push a couple into his hand. Thanking him, I step out of the cab. I look at a tall building, with British flags evenly hanging out from in between the first and second floors. I walk up some concrete stairs, and enter the building. There is a large lineup. I stand at the back of the line, as it progresses slowly. Eventually, the person in front of me takes a couple of steps forward, and so do I. I get to the front after nearly an hour, and hand off the letter. I am asked for the small fee. Ten pence. I have a ten pent piece in my jacket pocket. I don't know how it got there. Maybe it was in this suit for a long time. I've had this suit for a year now. The woman at the desk inserts the letter into an envelope, puts a stamp on it, then hands it off. I nod, and leave.

The fastest way to get off the continent would be by airship. I've never ridden in an airship before. I've never flown before. Seems unnatural to me. I prefer ocean liners. They seem safer and more comfortable. But what the hell, I'll take an airship. I hail a cab, and get in. I don't know where to get an airship ticket from. I ask the cab driver, and he offers to drive me to the relevant location. I nod. It is a short, ten minute drive, even with ridiculous traffic. I could've walked it faster. I drop a couple of pence into the driver's hand.

It is a small, simple place. I walk inside. There is a single booth open. I am greeted. I ask for a ticket to Sydney, Australia. I am asked for ID. My passport? Do I have my passport? Yes. It is next to my wallet, in my pocket. I show it to him. He nods. He asks me what date I'd prefer. I don't care at all, and I tell him so. He tells me the next airship to Sydney is Wednesday. I accept. He requests a large sum of money. I grab the contents of my pocket, and begin counting bills, one by one. I pass them under the glass. A ticket is slid under in return, which I take, along with some change. I thank him, and wander off. I have four days to kill.

I return to the hotel, and book another four days. I proceed to my room. The room is scented heavily of flowers, a welcoming characteristic. I settle into the room, before heading down to the lounge, where I pick out a newspaper.

The next four days pass slowly. I have nothing to do, no friends to talk to, and no interest in sightseeing. Instead, I remain at the hotel, lounging around my room, and wandering up and down the streets. I practice my cursive handwriting. Now that I'm a proper individual, I realize it is a skill I should have.

I finally make it through the four days. Eagerly, I pay the hotel bill, hail a cab, and head to the airship hangars on the far side of the city. I walk into the main bay of the airship fields. I have no idea how any of this works; I've never been on an airship before. I've always used cruddy ocean liners and trains chartered specifically for use by the Builders' League United. Airships are foreign to me, though it ends up being simple enough. After waiting with a croud for an hour, we board. After another hour, the airship takes off. I take a seat in a lounge, on a seat next to a window, watching the ground below, as it grows smaller, and slowly move across my view. I see various manors, and fields, and villages, before the airship crosses over the English Channel into France, but at this point, I become bored, and depart for my room.

It is a tiny, cramped room, shared with another passenger, though they are not present. I am nonetheless comfortable, and excited for what awaits me in Australia.

CH11

I depart the airship in Sydney, Australia. Everything seems so foreign to me, yet I feel more welcome here. Sydney is more spread out than London, very much so. Upon leaving the airship fields, I try walking, but decide, both between the heat, and the size, that I will not be able to get anywhere, nor do I have any idea of where I'm going. Canberra. That's where I want to be. But how do I get there? Sydney will probably have a bussing system, hopefully as far as Canberra.

But where do I get bussing from? Where do I go?

Someone looks at me. He asks if I'm lost. I nod. He asks where I'm trying to get to. I tell him Canberra. He asks me why. I don't respond. I don't want to tell him I'm chasing a girl I knew for a little over a week. I remain silent. The man frowns. He tells me he drives a truck, and offers to drive me over there. I suddenly don't want to go there. I tell him that it's fine. That I'm fine here. He laughs.

I enter the room of the tiny inn, and collapse onto the small, uncomfortable bed. I'm pathetic. I came halfway across the world to look for a girl I knew for a week and only by first name. I'm so fucking pathetic. I wasted a hundred fucking pounds coming here, and have no business being here. I am an impulsive idiot. I slam my fist against the bedside table. I need my own life. Not Chelsea's life, my own. Why am I in Australia? Why the fuck did I come here? I can't think right now. I can't bear being myself right now. I need to escape. It's late at night, very late. But I am too screwed up to sleep right now. I need alcohol. I need a cigarette. Something. Something to take my mind off of my life.

I look out the window. There is a bar across the street. I go there.

I ask the bartender for a shot. I drink it quickly, in a single go. I ask for another, and drink that one too.

The bartender asks me what a Frenchman is doing in Australia. I look at him. I'm not French. How is my accent French? How in the hell does he think I'm French? Fucking bastard.

I'm French Canadian. I probably sound French to these Aussies.

I down another shot.

Fuck.

I am the only person in the bar. The bartender is wiping off the counter. He tells me he's just trying to make conversation, and that I don't give a shit what he's talking about. I ask him for another shot, and reluctantly, he fills another shot glass, and sets it in front of me. Again, I down it immediately. I look in front of me. There are nine empty shot glasses. What the fuck. How did this fucking happen. I didn't drink all nine of these, and I tell him. He tells me I should go. He places a piece of paper in front me. No. Damn Aussie trying to scam me out of my money. I grab the paper, and crumple it up, and throw it back at him.

I stand up. I'm going to leave. The barstool trips me. I realize I'm on the ground. I use the counter to pull myself up. I'm trying to walk. I'm going to pass out. I take another step. There's a wall right in front of me. I just walked into a wall. Stupid shit architect had to place a wall right where we walk. Fucking bastard. I try to tell the bartender to help me. I'm on the floor again. I can't move. My head is spinning. My face is against the floor. I groan. I can't feel any of my limbs.

I'm moving. Am I asleep? Am I just hallucinating, or am I really moving?

Someone is talking.

I think I said something. I don't know. What am I saying? Why am I talking?

Where am I?

CH12

There is someone standing. Against a window. Looking out the window. This person has long, brown hair, and is wearing a blue dress shirt, a brown vest, and gray pants. He is looking out the window. There is a road outside the window, which stretches endlessly off into the horizon. Bright sunlight comes in through the window, into the dim room. But he is not in a room, it's a hallway. he is walking along a hallway. It's dark. There's a painting along a wall. The canvas is painted entirely yellow, and is framed on a cruddy, unpolished wooden frame.

The person goes through a door. He is in a bright room. The walls are silver. The room is a circle. There's no ceiling. There is someone else in the room. A female, wearing a white robe. She has blonde hair. There are bookshelves along the wall. The entire circumference of the room is lined with bookshelves, stuffed with books, which stretch all the way up to the ceiling. There is a mahogany table in the centre of the room. It is circular. The girl rolls out a map over the table. She jams knives into the map to keep it from rolling together. She points at a location on the map. The brown haired person looks at the location. He says something. There is laughter. He pulls out a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, and sets them down on the corner of the table.

The ground begins shaking. Books are falling off of the bookshelves. The two figures don't seem to notice. They should run. But they keep talking. The windows shatter, and shards of glass explode into the room. There is an explosion. A line of blue dust appears, but fades away quickly.

The girl walks towards the window, and peers out. The ground is far away. Very far away. The tower is located on a hill. The hill stretches out to an ocean. It is an island. It is bright. Very bright.

The tower is round around the outside. And the bottom few meters are yellow.

The universe is black. Everything is gone. All that is left is this massive circular tower, mostly white, with some yellow on the end. There is smoke coming from the top of it. A giant hand reaches out of nowhere. It takes the tower, and pulls it away.

I can see the faint outlines of a room. There is a giant, sitting on a chair. Against a table. There are others.

There is the same figure. With brown hair. Wearing a blue dress shirt, brown vest, and brown pants.

There are others, dressed the same way is he is.

And there's that same girl again. Wearing the white, almost glowing robe, with long, wavy blond hair, reaching well bellow her shoulders.

There is a fit of laughter. Everyone around the table laughs. After the laughter dies down, the girl gets up, and leaves. Many of the others say goodbye to her.

The boy- the one with brown hair, appears sad. He's sitting alone, in a dim room. Looking out a window. The window is at ground level. A road stretches out from the window. Endlessly. A small road. The window is giant, and the figure is giant.

Someone is running. A small, miniature person. Wearing red. A massive fist comes down and crushes him. It is the figure wearing blue. He appears pleased with himself. He just killed someone. he just killed the other person. The one that was approaching. Why? Why did he kill him?

The girl appears. Still dressed in the white robe, though she is different. The robe is dirty, and faded. Her hair is greasy, and wrinkled. The two giants lock in embrace momentarily. The girls turns and walks away. Again, the male figure appears sad. He watches the giant doorway where the girl left through. He drops his head.

He is not that tall. He is about the same size as the small red figure he crushed.

He turns his face. His hair is longer, dirtier. He is noticeable unshaved, and has severe acne. His eyes have bags under them, and are slightly bloodshot.

The girl reappears. She is wearing the white robe again, but it is still faded, and dirty. He is happy to see her. They lock into embrace. He leans his neck to the side. What is she doing? She is biting his neck. There is blood. Lots of blood. Blood dribbles down his neck. She steps back. He seems happy. He is grinning. They hold each others' hands. He is very pale. She appears malevolent. She points at his neck. He nods, happily. She leans in and sinks her teeth into the other side of his neck. He has lost all colour in his face. His eyes are white, completely white, without pupils. So are hers. He is still grinning, as he takes her hand and they run off.

They enter a room. A viewing room of some sort. He seats her in a chair, and sits next to her. They look out a window. Down, below, there is a another figured, dressed in a red blazer, and red pants. He is wearing a full head mask. He is holding a knife, as he runs around, stabbing people. People, civilians. They are running away. There is a burning building. The figure is twice, or three times as large as them. He sweeps his hand across, sending several civilians flying, in a spray of blood. His eyes are completely white. Devoid of colour. He appears menacing.

The girl has her teeth biting into his neck again. He is still happy. He is watching the massacre unfold in front of him, while she toys with him. He is skinny now. Too skinny. And almost perfectly white. He has lost all colour.

CH13

I am lying in a bed. It is the small bed in the inn. I am breathing heavily, and sweating. My head is in pain. Horrible, horrible pain. It hurts more than getting shot in the stomach on Thunder Mountain. Why? Why does my head hurt? The window is bright. Light is sneaking into the room from the crack in between the curtains. It is too much light. I try to turn over, I cannot. My head hurts too much to move. And my stomach. I'm going to throw up. I might. I feel like I might. I don't want to.

I am not wearing my jacket. It is draped over the chair on the other sir of the small inn room. I am wearing my shirt, and my pants. The world around me appears to be spinning.

I need to pee.

I force myself to sit up. It is a small, cruddy room. I signed into this room yesterday. I stand up, and hurriedly grab onto the wall for support. I trudge over to the toilet, the journey across the tiny room takes nearly a full minute. I find myself throwing up into the toilet. I go to rinse my mouth from the tap, but turn back and throw up again.

After ten minutes, I return to the bed, and lie in it again, the taste of vomit still in my mouth.

I awake, remember what happened last evening. My head is spinning with guilt and shame. Physically, however, I am slightly better; decent enough to walk. I need to get out of here. I need fresh air. I grab my jacket, and pull it over me. It is quite dirty. I should buy a new one. I arrive at the front desk. The person is standing there. When he sees me, he begins to laugh. He asks me how I'm doing. I nod. I ask him for the bill, which I pay. I have cash on me. I leave, and cross the street to the bar. I push on the door to find it open. I enter. I don't recognize the bartender, but I assume that is a good thing, as he does not appear to recognize me either.

He asks what he can get for me. I tell him I forgot to pay my tab last night, and that I came here to do so. He frowns. He asks what I ordered. I don't remember. I tell him so. He shrugs. I sit at a barstool. I fell from this barstool last night.

Nine shots. The number jumps out to me. Nine. Fuck.

I tell him the amount, and he laughs quietly. He repeats the amount. He says the number again, as he passes me a tab. I pay it, with an extremely generous tip, and leave.

I arrive at the airship hangar, after taking a taxi across the city. I walk up to the ticket booth, and tell him where I want to go. The cashier frowns, and informs me that direct flights are not available. I offer a waypoint. He nods, and requests a sum of money, which I carefully count out in bills. He hands me two tickets, and informs me that a flight is available for my first destination leaving in a few hours. I thank him, and sit in the lounge.

Passengers for the first flight are called, and I board. I sit in the airship's lounge, looking at the landscape, as the craft takes off. I offer my ticket when a crew member requests it. A waiter offers to take my order, I ask for water. As evening arrives, I head to my room on board. I don't have anything to keep me occupied, so I instead just lie on my bed.

EPILOGUE

The airship lands outside the city of Montreal, Quebec, Canada. I disembark, and immediately scan the crowd for taxis. Spotting one, I erupt into a brisk walk. I call out for the taxi. When I am close enough, the taxi driver opens the door, letting me in. I enter, and he closes it. He gets in, and asks me where I'm going, in English. I respond in French, telling him I need a hotel. He offers a list, but I don't recognize anything on the list. I tell him I need something affordable, but good. He names a hotel, and begins to drive. The streets and environment are covered in snow, a phenomenon I am happy to see again. It reminds my of my real home. We enter forest, and he begins asking me about myself. I tell him I was born in Canada. I tell him I worked for a British company. I tell him how I frequently went to other places for business. I don't tell him what business, and he doesn't ask.

He asks if I saw much of the world. I tell him the places I went to, but point out I was too busy to appreciate where I was much of the time. I tell him I'd like to return to some of those places, to see them again.

He asks me what brings me back to Canada, then asks if it was business with this company. After a brief pause, I tell him that I quit my job with the British company. He seems surprised at hearing that, and asks me about it. I tell him some things, though I leave out most of it.

Finally, he asks me if I met any girls anywhere I went. I acknowledge the large percentage of the world's population being female, and point out that naturally, I would've met many of them. I begin to ask him about his own life.