February 2002
Illinois
Castiel Novak
Castiel sighed and heaved his backpack onto the moving walkway of the luggage inspection, almost stumbling over his own feet and knocking painfully against that very same moving walkway with his shin in the attempt to not drop his backpack. Not that his backpack would have been especially heavy or to be treated with care – Castiel just had the tendency to generally make everything ten times worse than it already was.
He almost laughed out loud – out of all people, he wanted to become a soldier. He would probably be dead before he even arrived in Afghanistan.
When the lady at the luggage inspection scanned his luggage and detected nothing but a notebook and a pencil in it, she smiled a charming smile at Castiel. "You need a rucksack for this?"
He shyly smiled back. "No, I need a backpack to look like I'm actually making a journey. And to make myself believe I'm not leaving here with nothing but a pencil and a notebook."
"Where are you going, then?" She took unusual much time for him and the people in the queue behind Castiel started murmuring in irritation.
He took a deep breath before he answered. "I'm going to war."
"Oh." Her voice was about 10 degrees cooler as she handed over Castiel's backpack. "Have a save flight, Mister."
He nodded one last time and set off for the waiting hall. The by the military situated airplane would leave the airport in exactly two hours and Castiel would sit in that plane. He still didn't know what had gotten into him when he signed up to become a soldier.
Maybe it was because he wanted his life to finally mean something. Maybe because nobody would miss him, anyway. Or maybe because, deep inside, he didn't even want to return from war. Sitting on the plastic seats in the waiting hall, he replayed the events of September the eleventh, 2001 in his mind.
He had been in Brazil at the time it happened. Everybody was so flustered and sad, even there. The newsreader had had tears in her eyes when she was reporting on how the terrorists' planes had crashed into the World Trade Center and claimed the lives of almost three thousand people. Back then, Castiel had thought that maybe she had lost a loved person during the attacks. Now he wasn't so sure anymore. Maybe she had just felt with those who had.
Either way, Castiel had felt incredibly sorry for her. And now he was going to war to perhaps fight for justice and revenge.
He doffed the thought again.
Castiel viewed the other people that hasted by or took a seat as well and wondered how many of them would go aboard the same plane as him. Most of them were probably on their way to Easter vacation or business trips.
His thoughts were interrupted by a toddler that crawled towards him and pulled at his shoelaces with his tiny, plump hands. Castiel smiled. "Hey, little man. Where're your parents?"
At this moment, a corpulent woman with a gigantic purple hat and a strong Russian accent screamed on top of her lungs: "Dimitri Tippens Krushnic! You come back here right now!" She was struggling with an enormous baggage cart and the three infants clinging to her coat-tails weren't really helpful, either.
He got up and gently lifted up the boy to his feet. He struggled a little at first but then flung his little arms around Castiel's neck and let himself be carried. "You're a real angel, aren't you?" Castiel said more to himself than to the child. When he reached the stressed out mother, she couldn't even thank him enough. "It's not easy with four children alone at an airport," she said and tried to prohibit her youngest from escaping once again. Castiel had enough decency not to ask where the father of the children was. What he asked instead was: "May I help you with this?" He pointed at the baggage cart and got a grateful look from the woman.
When he returned to the waiting hall, it was almost time for him to board the plane that would take him far, far away from everything he was used to. He thought about that little child and hoped he would know better things to do with his life than Castiel. And out of nowhere it hit him – he would kill people. Real people that were babies once and that could have children on their own – given that they lived this war. What they would probably not.
Castiel sighed deeply. He wasn't a soldier and he wasn't going to war to fight for justice and retribution. Who was he trying to fool? He was a pathetic little author that hadn't published anything but some poems and short stories and could only stay afloat because he had inherited a fortune of his adoptive parents, which he spent on traveling around the world, hoping to find some inspiration. Yes, pathetic was the right word.
It was almost time for him to board the plane. He closed his eyes for a moment, crossed himself and muttered: "Forgive me, father, for I am about to sin."
He was religious, although he knew exactly that he didn't make the perfect Christian, for various reasons.
But faith was the only thing he had left to hold onto, and so he did.
At the check-in of the plane there was a man in a military uniform that looked suspiciously through all the passengers' hand luggage and inspected every single identity card at least three times, which was why Castiel had to wait for over half an hour until he finally was allowed to go aboard the plane.
This waiting time was pure horror for him.
His heart was galloping like a horse, his breath was fast and short and his hands were dripping with sweat.
He did not want to go. Not at all. He did not want to fight and he did not want to kill people. He did not want to become friends with his comrades to later see them die. He did not want to leave here.
And then, it was too late. He sat in his seat on the plane, cramped by his seatbelt and the muscle-bound man next to him. He had never felt this out of place in his life.
The engine started and the plane lifted off with a jolt and Castiel watched the world beneath him slowly getting smaller, like he had hundreds of times before. This time was different, though – this time, there was no going back and no coming home, Castiel was sure of that.
