An Eldian's Journal

by gaujay7

Note: Have you ever wondered what it's like to be an Eldian? My name is Heinrich Steiner (I'm probably dead by the time you're reading this). I'm an 18-something-year-old that lives in the Internment Zone on Marley. Anyway, after a certain declaration of war **cough**cough** I decided to write this novel/memoir to be remembered by. But it's also a journal: An Eldian's Journal.

50. Chapter 46: Respite

Hey guys! It's been two weeks since the last upload. As per my typical habit, I thought I could complete something in one 8000 word chapter but it became one 18000+ chapter. (Sorry).

Anyway, savor this chapter since I don't think we will ever have anything like this again.

And warning ahead of time, there are more sexual references this chapter than usual.

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The nurse's activity caused an awkwardness to invade the room. It waved around and caused drafts. It made sense that Layla wanted us to practice acting those sympathetic words, since it seemed like a valuable skill, but couldn't there have been a better way to practice this? Maybe something that didn't cause everyone to clog their arteries with fake empathy? I guess not.

By the time Viktor, Kurt, and I got out of the classroom, the awkwardness almost manifested itself as a sentient person. It was like that one friend everyone knows that hangs around pitifully because they have no one else to turn to.

This new friend stood between Viktor and me, and both of us avoided acknowledging it. We walked with our hands in our pockets while Kurt stayed attached like a tail, wavering slightly as if walking without a straight direction kept him entertained.

Viktor finally acknowledged the elephant in the room, but I admit there was no elephant. "Well, that was awkward."

I said, trying to feign minimal interest, "Yeah."

Our new friend nodded its head and took its hands off our shoulders. It headed back to other pairs of recruits to ruin the next few minutes of their lives.

The next feeling that sunk its teeth into my forever damned mind was the throb of knowing my training finished. Not a throb in a longing sense, but a throb in knowing that I would be losing a routine no matter how barbaric it happened to be.

I said to the boys, "We are finally combat medics."

No one said anything. I thought our new friend came by to steal the words, but Viktor finally coughed something up, "And soon enough, we are going to test everything we learned in the past months."

"What do you mean?" I asked almost reflexively, even though I already knew the answer.

Kurt squeezed into the conversation. "Remember what Kaslow said to us a few weeks ago? There's a battle coming up."

The routine I mentioned before had structure, but I can't say the same for the battle. That's a story for later, however.

Later as in the next chapter.

For now, let us have a respite from the ever-flowing angst that couples tumultuous times. Let us turn to teenage boys being teenage boys, young men being young men, and stupid Kaslow being stupid Kaslow.

Enjoy this respite that's proudly brought to you by the lovely canvas of these endless journal pages. This very well may be the second to last peace these pages will ever see.

An Eldian's Journal

The Soul of War

Chapter 46: A Respite

When returning to our housing, the boys and I weren't greeted by the stares of our invisible bunkmates. Instead, we received the stares of personal luggage. It looked like the prodigal meatheads we exchanged air within the cramped crate some call barracks finally returned.

"We're back shit stains!" A voice called. It must have been one of the meatheads.

I turned around to see the animated shit stain, our resident bully Milo, waving from the entrance with a chain of stains waiting eagerly behind him.

Milo and the other privates marched in with their towels around their waists like skirts. Some wore undershirts, while others let their non-rippling abs shine through the low candlelight. It appeared they returned from their "vacations" to the internment zone but had to take a shower to remove some of the filth. Kurt, Viktor, and I expected this, but that didn't stop us from feeling annoyed.

Milo and my fellow bunkmates walked to their luggage and unzipped their bags, likely trying to put proper clothing on. Milo approached me as if he wanted to give me a wedgie, but as expected, Kaslow the 'Prince of Tyranny,' broke through the door with some shouting instead of shining armor. "Alright, rugrats! Those of you that had a nice vacation in the internment zone, drop to the floor and give me fifty!"

Everyone looked up from their bags, alarmed by another one of Kaslow's inopportune entrances. The narrator protested. "But Sarge—"

"You give me seventy!"

The bunkmates groaned and dropped to the ground for pushups. Musculature that once carried ruggedness looked more like deflated balloons Kurt would blow for birthday party decorations. I closed my eyes since I didn't want to see the potential disaster of towels unraveling.

The eccentric caws of the Kaslow the crow flickered about the room as he chided the weaker privates with motivational words. "You call that a push up, private?! My armless mother can do a better pushup than you!"

The authenticity of these "motivational" words was questionable at best.

At the end of this surprise attack, Kaslow muttered while staring down privates that couldn't match his standard. "I knew it was a bad idea letting you all go on vacation when we have a planned attack coming up."

Poor Milo's towel must have dropped during the exercise, for he stood bare while sweating in anxious embarrassment. Kaslow ordered everyone to leave for workouts, but Milo covered his...regions with the dropped towel and went to his bag.

Kaslow noticed. "What are you doing, Milo?! I said leave!"

Milo trembled in nervousness while trying to keep his words level. "I'm clothing myself, sergeant."

"I appreciate your consideration, but imagine if this happened on the battlefield. Do you think the mid-east bastards care about your decency?!"

"No, sarge!" A bare Milo thundered out the barracks while the boys and I snickered with hands over our mouths. We needed that kind of comedy.

Before Kaslow headed out, he turned towards us abruptly. "You three—" He fumbled, trying to think of something for us to do. "Don't cause any trouble."

We nodded and resumed our snickering as everyone left. Just like that, we were alone again with the afternoon heat leaking like water into the building.

"What's next?" I asked, feeling aimless.

Viktor and Kurt looked at each other and back at me. "Cards?" Kurt asked.

"No," I said. I didn't want to rummage through someone else's bag to find some.

"Well, what are we supposed to do then?" Viktor asked while walking back to his bed.

Kurt smiled creepily as usual. "How about an intellectual conversation that has depth and meaning?"

I stared blankly for a few seconds until Viktor replied. "I don't think any of us are really capable of that. Maybe talk with that psychologist Heinrich met a while back." He said mockingly, "he could quench your intellectual thirst."

Kurt waved his hand at the fighter, dismissing him, and I returned to my bed. An idea sprang as I sat on the spring-less mattress. 'I have to write that letter.' I scolded myself while remembering the letters that my parents had written to me a few months before in expectation of my birthday.

"Heinrich, why do you look so constipated?" Viktor mocked.

"That word is too big for you, and I'm not constipated." I pulled a loose leaf of paper. I was running on fumes after all the writing I had to complete. "I still haven't written my parents back. It's been so long."

The mockery left Viktor's face, and he grew reserved. "You better write them back. You'll never know when they'll be gone." His words disappeared quietly like a dab of sand falling off an edge.

"I would have written back sooner but I just don't know what to write."

"That's an excuse." Viktor said, aggravated.

"It's also the truth."

"Something would have been better than nothing! At least hearing back from you would put them at ease."

"I know." I let out a brisk breath. "Relax, I'm going to do it today." I got up from the bed and shoved the pencil I stole from Viktor in my pocket. I also picked up my parents' letters and the new chapter draft.

"Where are you going?" The boys asked with differing volumes.

"To get some inspiration."

Viktor muttered as I left, "You're making this much harder than it has to be."

I was curious about what advice the mail soldier would give, so I made my way to the mail tent. I found my bunkmates being chewed out by Kaslow on the way there. "You're all fat now! What am I supposed to do with this!" Everyone literally looked the same from before the break, except for Kaslow, maybe. He must have been going on a diet for a ladylove or self-improvement.

We all know it wasn't the latter.

I grew full of gratitude that I wasn't being forced to do ten different exercises in one hour. I also grew full of laughter when seeing the bare Milo again. I will never forget that.

When arriving at the mail tent, I caught the mail soldier in the middle of his lunch. Some lettuce hung from his mouth and stayed there as if I saw him in a criminal act. He then swallowed it while putting his utensils down and looked back at the other soldier in the tent.

"What is it?" The mail soldier asked me. "You don't usually come around here at this time."

When I was about to answer, he interrupted with another question, "Did you write another one of those chapters yet?"

I stuttered. "Yes."

"Good. Drop it here."

I pulled the draft from a file folder he had given me a few weeks before and stared at the title of this new chapter. I welled in a brief spurt of accomplishment. It disappeared as I placed it on the table the mail soldier kept his legs on.

Who would have thought that I would end up writing something for a newspaper, in the middle of a training camp at that?

No one expected this.

I turned around, hesitant on leaving, so I forced myself to face the mail soldier again. "I actually wanted to ask something." I noticed the other soldier in the tent reading a paper. "Are more people reading the paper now?"

The mail soldier crossed his arms and teetered on the chair. "Hmph." It seemed like he was pondering an answer. "How about you come back tomorrow morning after it's published. You'll find your answer then."

I was unsure why he didn't just tell me then. But I knew better than to argue with a Marleyan.

"Okay, sir."

I had a fleeting thought of asking the mail soldier for some advice on how to write a letter back home. But I was afraid he would hit me with his fork if I did that, so I just said "bye, sir" and made my way out.

The mail soldier shouted, "Hey, you haven't typed it out yet!" I had totally forgotten that I needed to type everything out using the typewriter. I went back in to complete the last step.

At the end of that extremely entertaining process, I left the tent again to the fact that I still had no idea what to write in the letter. I could conjure whole fictional characters but not reflect on my daily events. What an irony, but then again, life is chock-full of it.

I procrastinated on this activity until night when I had dinner. Viktor, Kurt, sat at my table with undercooked beans and biscuits that looked like shaved buns.

"Have you written the letter yet?" Viktor asked with his mouth stuffed with undercooked beans. When I shook my head, he huffed through his nose and looked back at his food. He then swallowed, "You're going to write this thing in front of me."

"I don't have paper," I replied defensively.

"Yes, you do." He looked through his napkins to find a clean one. When he couldn't find one, he stole the one Kurt was about to blow his nose in. He moved my plates over, knocking my water off the table, and slammed the napkin in front of me.

I said, "I don't have a pen,"

"Shut up. I know you stole my pencil."

I yielded. "Fine, but how did you know I have it?"

He made up an answer, "I have a sixth sense for my possessions. Now, don't change the subject."

I pulled out the pencil, and Viktor told me to write exactly what he said. He cleared his throat and stared at the table briefly, likely thinking of what to say. He looked at me and began, "Dear Mama, I hope you're doing well. I'm sorry for sending you a letter back so late..."

I wrote down the first few sentences, trying to be as neat as possible. I didn't want my first letter to my parents to be written in chicken scratch.

"...As much as this place is hell, Heinrich and Kurt—" Viktor paused and ordered me to erase my name and put his instead. "As much as this place is hell, Viktor and Kurt made the time more enjoyable. Especially Viktor, though since he was so great and wasn't scared of anything."

I told Viktor I wasn't going to write that last sentence, and he replied with "Fine. Just write you were sad the whole time." We came up with a better replacement line, and Viktor continued.

"Anyway, I'm sad to hear Lina is being so mysterious. She's always been weird, but I hope she's doing well now. You should probably keep those cigarettes away from her if you can. Her face is going to get wrinkly very soon if she keeps with that habit." A thought interrupted my writing. I had never shown Viktor the letters, but he knew what was written on them anyway. I refrained from bringing that up since the strength behind Viktor's voice began to water out.

"I have a lot of problems too, but I'm figuring them out. Viktor was jealous of me about something, but then I told him I was jealous of him too, so we forgave each other." Kurt laughed at that one. "I'm also writing a story for the newspaper! It seems like I'm dealing with newspapers wherever I go."

He kept going with some lines until ending with, "We're finally combat medics now as of the time writing this. Love...Heinrich."

We took a moment for the words to settle in on the page as if not being gentle would cause them to get knocked off.

"I think I have an idea of how to do the one for my papa now," I said while looking at the page. But when I looked up at Viktor, I noticed that his face was soft. The corners of his mouth were drawn downwards, and his lips were drawn in tightly.

He refused, "No, you're going to mess it up. I want to do this second one as well."

"But we don't have any more napkins," I said.

Kurt stepped in with another napkin. I took it from him and set it on the table. "What's next, Viktor?" I asked.

Viktor's voice became thin, soft and fragile when under the warmth of sadness. He continued, "Dear, Papa Devil. Thank you for the letter. I'm sorry for replying so late. And you're right. It is weird how I almost forgot that whole island devil thing. I guess priorities changed with the declaration of war against the mid-easterners."

"I hope you're having fun playing with cards. For some reason, Viktor, Kurt, and I can't ever seem to play them properly. It's great that you're making friends, though, even if they're Marleyan. I found some nice Marleyans here as well...and mean ones too. Our sergeant is a great example of that." Viktor let out a sheepish chuckle, and his face went soft again.

"My sergeant said we're going to have a battle, so I'm definitely going to see some action soon. But until then we are going to have some fun since our training is over." Viktor paused as if trying to remember something.

"I also wanted to tell you of a time Viktor argued with the sergeant..." Viktor listed out the interaction you saw chapters ago that ended with him saying to Kaslow, 'The truth is, sarge, you look mighty handsome today. It's making me act up. Did you get a haircut?' Viktor's chuckles watered down and melted into a flat expression by the end of the narration.

Viktor kept giving some more lines until he ended with, "I miss you papa. I miss mama too even if she's been mean to you so many times. It feels like years since I've seen you two..."

"Love, Vik—" He stopped himself and picked it up again. "Love, Heinrich."

I stayed quiet and let the words settle on the napkin once again. My friends and I remained silent, for it seemed like Viktor told me to write what he wanted to say to his parents for so long. His eyes appeared pink as he stooped over, and he sniffed while wiping at his nose. The eyes of the boy with chocolate hair drizzled gently, and I watched with my lips shut.

In my peripheral vision, I found Falco waving at me from his bench, and Colt simply raised his hand as he looked up from his food. I gave them a slight smile. They had their time; I needed to stay with the boys.

I wrote out the letters onto fresh sheets of paper when my friends and I returned to the barracks. I folded the papers carefully while listening to the bunkmates moan and groan with sore muscles. They fell out of their old routines thanks to their break and had to pay for it after getting back into the swing of things.

Viktor went to sleep rather quickly that night. Maybe he felt content with finally revealing some emotional words, which allowed him to sleep weight-free. I can't relate to that since I go to sleep with a different kind of weight every day.

The morning after, Viktor returned to his usual self, and the weather and animals outside were their usual selves too. The birds in the sky shitted gleefully on unsuspecting soldiers. Some stray goat wandered into the camp from who knows where and a stupid cadet chased after it thinking it was a chicken.

Just another regular morning in the training camp.

We wouldn't have those for much longer, so I chose to savor what little enjoyment I could experience.

The rest of the day didn't follow the routine. My agenda was to go to the mail tent, drop off my letters, see how many people would pick up the newspaper, and attend the circus performance. I will get back to the circus performance later.

After arriving at the mail tent and exchanging some greetings, I asked the mail soldier for some envelopes. He grudgingly gave me some, and I delicately inserted the letters, doing my best to not let the corners fold. I borrowed a pen and wrote down the addresses from which the original letters were sent.

I then remembered something.

I went outside and scooped a bit of dirt from the ground. I put it in the envelope for papa. He gave some dirt to me first, so I returned the favor. As expected, this got a puzzled look from the mail soldier, but I took the envelopes and put them in their designated positions.

I sat awkwardly on a table, withholding a burning question. The mail soldier noticed it and asked, "You want to know if the papers are printed yet, do you?" I nodded, and he continued, "They'll be here any minute now. Just stare at this table, and someone will drop off the papers."

I sat down by the typewriter and observed the mailing people do their work. They fidgeted with packages, likely office materials for the generals' offices, as well as other letters. I twiddled my thumbs after getting bored of the working ants carrying their heavy leaves. Just kidding. No one actually twiddles their thumbs in real life. People's minds just wander off into random concerns, and like the psychologist mentioned, the past and future but rarely the present.

I glanced up at the table every few minutes until a magical worker bee buzzed through the tent entrance and placed multiple stacks of papers on a table. Some of the workers in the back rushed immediately to pick up a paper.

The mail soldier asked with a coffee in his hand. "Do you have time to hand these out? Wait, of course, you do. You're done with training. Grab one and get out there." I picked up a stack, and, on my way out, he threw a statement at my back, "You'll find the answer to your question from yesterday."

I stood in front of the mail tent. A slight morning chill embraced my hands, and unfortunately, it made it more challenging to sort through papers. After setting myself up, I rolled my shoulders and took a deep breath. The air tickled the inside of my nose.

I shouted the golden words, "Extra! Extra! Come get the latest edition of the Trench and Camp!"

A few humans avoided eye contact with me in the batch of people wandering about, and others went about their duties. I didn't allow myself to jump to conclusions. I repeated my lines, but the same reactions occurred. I thought, 'I finally found my answer. No one cares...' Any motivation I once had flooded out from my body, as if someone opened a hatch and everything left me.

I turned back into the tent and dragged the papers with me as if they were ankle weights used by prisoners. (I can assure you. They are very uncomfortable to wear. I used to wear them.) I drudged with these papers until I heard a voice. There was nothing special about the voice itself; it lacked a radio host's timber or the lusciousness of a singer's voice. It just happened to say the right words, "Hey, where are you going? I want a paper!"

I turned around to find a young recruit with blue eyes running towards me. He took the rolled-up paper from my hand and flipped towards the back end to see my story. His eyes gleamed like gems behind a few tired eyes lids as he stared for a few seconds. He then waved some of his friends over, and while these assorted recruits approached, the blue-eyed stranger said, "I'm glad someone wrote this thing. It's great not having to read depressing news all the time."

I stayed speechless as I handed out more papers to the stranger's friends. One of the strangers with knock-knees said, "I wish someone tried writing stories in the paper before. It's good someone started it."

The blue-eyed recruit stated something I'd frame on a wall if I had one near me.

***A GOLDEN STATEMENT***

"Yeah, listening to a story is like having a few minutes of peace."

That's right. Music wasn't the only way to bring some excitement to people's lives. Even if my writing was amateur quality, it gave these complete strangers some complete smiles, some respite from their excruciating lives.

"I wish they'd put the name on here," one cadet said.

I dropped out of my speechlessness. "Yes. I'm sure he would like to see how much you guys liked it." I did my best to seem not too excited since that would likely get awkward. I half expected the narrator to make an entrance and say this was his story, but that didn't happen. This moment was just for me.

Just for me.

The strangers walked away with their grins moving to their words. I peeked into the mail tent to see what the mail soldier thought of what had just happened. He provided a cold smile. It was simple but got the point across.

I saw why the mail soldier didn't mind Viktor and Kurt not being around. He knew I wouldn't need their help since people would be coming over to get a copy of the newspaper anyway.

This filled me with pride. But this pride must have been helium since I felt like I was floating in elation out of my body. Three or four weeks before, no one wanted to get anywhere near me with those papers, but that changed in a matter of weeks. For once in my damn life, my courage wasn't counterfeit. It didn't try to resemble actual strength with base-less words and expressions. This strength was authentic and set chills around my skin.

I yelled, "Extra! Extra!" with more confidence behind it than ever before. It only took me five or so months to believe in it.

I went back into the mail tent when finishing my stack. As I mentioned earlier, I was elated. Even the psychologist came by and he gave me his gratitude, but I was surprised he didn't give me his paper to read. I didn't want to remind him since he didn't push it upon me after mentioning it the first time.

I set the ropes that used to carry the stack on a dusty table, and the mail uttered through some air-chilled coffee, "Never have I ever seen people want to read something so intently before."

"I guess people are tired of reading reports and tough to read stuff like that."

"Say, Heinrich, I heard some rumors that Sergeant Kaslow and his recruits are going to battle soon. I know you're underneath him..." He trailed off.

"Yes, sir. He told me about it a while ago."

His voice began to raise. "How are you going to continue this writing when gone?"

My pride melted to a puddle next to me. "I haven't thought of that."

"Neither did I." The mail soldier set his old mug on the table with less care than usual. "Without what you write in these papers, people aren't going to take them anymore."

It felt pitiful that the vast material of the papers couldn't attract people, but one little story could. That's the wrong reason to pick up a newspaper. Either way, I said, "I don't think I'll be gone for that long, sir."

"You never know how long battles can take, Heinrich. You think they'll last one week and then they turn into a month."

I stayed quiet since I had nothing to refute that with, but the mail soldier's voice escalated with every word. "Write some more right here. Right now." He pointed at the typewriter.

I tried not to sound whiny, "With respect, sir, I can't write things that quickly."

He threw his mug in my direction, nearly hitting my leg. I stepped back, preparing to run out the entrance just in case the mail soldier got more hostile. I then began to wonder, why did he care so much about this story anyway? The paper itself wasn't for profit.

The mail soldier revealed some intentions, "I get paid based on how many of these newspapers are handed out, okay?! It's my second job. The pay for managing packages here is horrible, but I thought distributing these papers would be useful even if they aren't for profit. It was utter garbage." He looked at the other mail handlers who were frozen from their tasks since they were watching the squabbling. He looked back at me. "But then you came along, and after a little while the papers actually started to be distributed. And I got paid more simply since people took them."

In this situation, I did what I do best. I ran. I ran out the mail tent to escape from the selfishness of a man whom I thought facilitated my hobby, but at the end, it was all for his own interests.

I left that tent without a payment of a single coin.

While this fool didn't play a titular part of my time at this training camp, I could not miss out on including his selfishness in this journal. I thought it would be essential to include him since he facilitated something critical to my life story—another story. It trained me to write what you see before you.

I returned to the barracks with a three-course meal of emotions. I had difficulty discerning each one. I had delight for the strangers that seemed interested in the story, disappointment in the selfishness of someone that had vague trust in, and anticipation for the circus acts that would arrive later that afternoon. Instead of being nicely portioned off, they all smudged together like poorly separated paint.

I always had to put my previous feelings aside without reconciliation for the next agenda item on the list.

I looked at the bunks near me when standing near my bed, but to my bewilderment, Kurt was nowhere to be seen. I asked Viktor where the fool went, and he said, "Well, that circus thing is happening today, and he is the Eldian circus monkey, so I guess he's preparing."

"I thought sergeant Kaslow was joking about that."

"He made that promise of giving Kurt a unicycle on that first day of training, and I guess he's making it come true," Viktor retorted.

"Hmph." I said dryly, "we've never seen a circus performance before, but I have a feeling this first one is going to be the most embarassing."

I walked around the barracks uselessly for the remainder of the time until the performance half-worried about different things. I was half-worried the mail soldier would somehow snipe me through a window, half-worried about what my parents would think of the letters, and half-worried about my friend making a fool of himself.

Oh well, that's just what it means to be me.

Anyway, when the circus performance rolled around, it happened to be evening, and the clouds evacuated to make way for the rising moon. My fellow military men and I "evacuated" the training camp to go to the large field that the graduation ceremony occurred in before.

All the recruits sat on the bleachers along with higher-up officials. Thankfully, no nobles and their pompous wives were present. A circus troupe organized around a giant ring they must have set up earlier in the center of the beige field. Poles were erected strategically, and animals of all colors and sizes sat eagerly in their boxes. The hamster-like circus men and women squiggled around in their roofless and wall-less cage.

I found Colt and Falco walking up the bleachers with other candidates, and I waved to them almost instantly. Falco waved back, but he seemed torn between sitting with friends and me. He looked up at his brother, and when Colt came in my direction, Falco followed along. The Grice brothers sat next to Viktor and me.

Kurt was still nowhere to be found.

I made some annoying small talk with Colt as he adjusted his pockets. "Why do we have these stupid events? Tomorrow, everyone is going to the closest city for some celebration. It just feels weird."

"It's to boost morale. The warrior candidates aren't going to battle soon like you regular infantry will, but we could all use a good mental reset." He paused as if looking for another answer, "I think it's mainly for the sergeants, generals, and the higherups. I guess they want to do..." He tilted his head shyly, "they may want to do adult things."

"Like what?" Viktor asked. It seemed like he wanted to test Colt's ability to say things that you wouldn't want your parents to hear.

"Well," he started to go red in embarrassment. "When you go to a city, you have bars."

"Yes..." Viktor looked eager to pull the answer from him.

"And after some people go bars..." Colt grew more and more uncomfortable, and Viktor grew more and more eager. Colt closed Falco's ears and said, "They go to brothels."

Viktor pulled away and clapped for himself proudly, as if happy to pull the answer out from the candidate. Colt flushed in embarrassment, and Falco grew confused as I laughed. Both of these boys were too innocent for their own good.

I could have continued laughing for a while longer, but Kurt's appearance shut my lips. If he had arrived a little earlier, he could have stopped Viktor from pressuring Colt, but to be frank, I could have done that as well but chose not to.

After asking Kurt where he was the entire afternoon, he applied that crooked grin of his like it became a defense mechanism. Viktor asked too when the freckled boy squeezed past our legs to sit next to me, but Kurt still smiled creepily like a goblin to his chagrin.

A speaker squealed. I gave up asking Kurt any questions and set my attention on the stage below. It looked like the show had finally begun.

One of the performers stood on a raised portion of the platform and spoke into a microphone. It was a straw-like man wearing a blue suit that gave dimension to his lanky figure. His race was ambiguous, but thankfully, his words weren't, and I could understand the intention behind the foreign accent. After a short introduction, he motioned to the artists in the center of the platform and motioned them to begin their work.

A bald man wearing a dress shirt and dress pants raised a knife in the air to showcase it. He twirled it elegantly, trying to make it shine like an emerald underneath the robust show lights. He then lightly pricked his finger, and a tidbit of blood contrasted his tan skin. It was a display to balance beauty and deadliness, something I can't say about the appearance of the fat generals near us.

The knife thrower rolled up his sleeves as a young woman wearing well fitting-clothing stood across him. The woman stood in front of a thin wall as the knife thrower steadied his aim with the knife.

He pulled the knife back in forth as if building tension. My friends and I leaned forward as if getting sucked into the suspense. He released the blade, and it split the air, cutting a slit into the wall above the woman's head.

Everyone clapped, but one general clapped so aggressively that his toupee fell, and he shuffled along the bleachers for it.

This cycle of building tension and breaking it was repeated until the next act.

For this second act, some items were cleared from the center of the platform, and one "circus person," for the lack of better nomenclature, brought a unicycle. The announcer announced, "It appears that we are missing our unicycle rider today. It looks like the lions were fed early." That tasteless joke pulled a chuckle from here and there but moved past it, "Would an audience member like to try this staple event?"

A few hands raised from the crowd, but when I heard the ruffling of clothing next to me, I found Kurt raising his hand. Viktor came around and tried pushing Kurt's hand down to no success. A light aimed at Kurt, and the announcer yelled, "I found one! Come down, young man."

Kurt twitched and went down the bleachers two steps at a time. I looked at my friends and said out loud, "This can't be happening. This must be a dream." I looked at Viktor, "Pinch me."

"Okay, you pinch me too, just in case if I'm having a dream as well."

I pinched the under area of Viktor's forearm, and he did the same to me. The world looked the same, so I assumed we didn't do it properly. We pinched each other hard enough to create a bruise, so Colt stepped in and stopped us from doing anything even more stupid.

I was still astounded, "How is this even possible? We were trained how to use a gun a little while ago, and now my friend is going to be a clown. How does this make sense?"

Falco said a cliché line unexpectedly, "That's just how the cookie crumbles."

Viktor murmured, "I don't like cookies. They get stuck in my teeth."

Kurt arrived at the platform wearing the usual green training uniform, and a crew member put a jester's hat on his head. I was glad it wasn't a DUNCE hat. We didn't need one of those again.

Kurt's freckles grew illuminated in the stage light, and he squinted at it as people tried to wrap a clown uniform around him. People laughed sporadically throughout the crowd, and I said to myself repeatedly, "No. This is not real." Viktor echoed my sentiments, but Falco couldn't help himself from enjoying this embarrassing display.

The crew members walked away from Kurt, and he went to pick up the unicycle. The bells on his head and body bobbed about with his movements. He got onto the unicycle and, without hesitation, began pedaling.

As I watched him ride around, I was astonished by how fluid his motions were. He didn't keep his hands out to help balance himself as one would expect. Instead, he kept his hands to his sides and leaned when making turns.

It all made sense. Kurt was gone most of the day since he was practicing from this event. Kaslow went too far for his enjoyment.

Viktor closed his eyes as if the possibility of utter failure was not worth watching as I continued to reject my reality. Falco repeatedly snorted in laughter, and Colt just had a smile glued on.

One of the crew members on the sidelines threw Kurt two rubber balls the size of baseballs. Kurt caught them and began juggling. I began to worry how long he could keep up with this buffoonery because of his conditions, but I just accepted the situation after a while.

The unicycle grew increasingly unsteady as the seconds passed. Kurt could juggle, but the multitasking lowered his efficiency at both tasks. The crowd must have noticed this, too, since they reacted with every stumble.

When a crew member threw a third ball in, Kurt finally collapsed. He fell forward and stayed on the ground for a few seconds. He then got up as if he felt no pain and started dancing like a monkey, making the crowd go wild.

The Marleyans must have loved watching their inferiors acting like utter idiots. Kaslow especially loved this. He rocketed up and clapped aggressively as if he was trying to kill a bug between his palms. He then whistled and yelled, "That's my Eldian circus monkey right there!" A few other higher-ups joined in for a standing ovation.

My friends started clapping, and I was the only one left out. After a few seconds, I submitted and clapped grudgingly. Kurt then stood up and bowed before climbing back onto the bleachers.

I could not believe what I witnessed even when Kurt returned and sat next to me with his regular training uniform. The rest of the circus performances that evening passed with my jaw hanging loose.

Kurt became the talk of the barracks when we all got back. Everyone started copying his dance and began juggling random items. Milo juggled some soap as others juggled dominoes or whatever things they could find.

I watched Kurt intently from a corner in the barracks as he enjoyed himself. Something really bugged me, though. He said he wanted to be useful, but he took up janitorial positions when Kaslow forced him without a single complaint. I felt like he allowed himself to be used as a doormat for other people, and I didn't know how I could help him out of that.

After some more lollygagging, Kaslow burst through the entrance with the wall-keeper behind him. Everyone went to their respective positions, and I took a break from my thoughts.

Kaslow shouted at Kurt, "That was mighty fine work today, Kurt! If you could be that useful on the battlefield, you might just get promoted quicker than some of the idiots in this room." Kaslow continued prowling around the room until he said, "We're visiting the city tomorrow, privates! I can't believe I'm saying this, but I want you all to enjoy your time there. I need you all to be mentally strong for what's in store for us next." He continued with some directions before leaving for the night.

I went to bed. It was time for a real respite.

---

I spent every ounce of that morning doing my best to avoid the mail soldier. After brushing my teeth with a toothbrush that I'm sure someone used to clean the floor with, I went straight to the dining room for breakfast. Luckily for me, the mail soldier was nowhere to be found. He was probably back at the mail tent, eating a bowl of cereal with powdered milk. I'm sure he could turn even the food-serving people into his enemies with his antagonistic personality.

I updated the boys on my story struggle as we consumed some dry oatmeal. They acted concerned, but I knew they didn't give a shit in the end. I can't blame them, though, since my mind was still on the topic of Kurt's performance. I asked the new circus member, "Kurt, I still can't believe you actually became a circus monkey last evening."

Kurt replied, nonchalantly, "It's not really like I had any other choice. The sergeant said I had to do it, so I did it."

Viktor ignored the conversation and stabbed his bowl of oatmeal with his spoon as if trying to smash it into an edible version. After grunting in disappointment, he flipped the bowl upside down, and the oatmeal mass landed as an upside-down cake on the table with one-tenth of the color and none of the flavor.

Viktor left to get a different bowl of oatmeal, but when he came back, he asked, "So, what do you guys think the city will look like?"

I answered without much thought. "I don't know. It has to look better than the internment zone though."

Viktor scoffed. "That's what we thought before coming here, and look how it turned out."

Kurt entered, "Logically speaking," Viktor rolled his eyes just with that first phrase, but Kurt ignored it and continued. "This part of Marley used to be governed by the mid-easterners, so I think we are going to find a lot of different architecture."

"Like what?" I asked.

Kurt shrugged, "I don't know either."

Viktor said slyly, "Maybe there'll be another circus for you to join, Kurt. You can bless the nobles there with your amazing clown skills, and then you can be their personal jester that acts too intelligent."

Kurt dismissed the comment and threw a concern in, "The only issue is, the mid-easterners hate Eldians more than Marley does, so I am worried what could happen to us in this city."

"I think we should be fine," I said. "If this city is governed by Marley now, there may be more Marleyans there than people of mid-east descent."

Viktor disregarded the serious considerations and wondered, "What I'm worried about is the money. When we go to the city, who is going to pay for things?"

While wiping his hands with a napkin, Kurt answered, "Heinrich can pay for us. After all, he's rich with all the money that the mail soldier gave him."

I rubbed my forehead, "Don't remind me of that guy again." We continued voicing some possibilities for what the evening would be like as we finished our breakfast. The rest of the morning and afternoon passed without many noteworthy things to say. The only notable thing was the boys, and I stayed moderately anxious the entire time. (I don't know if that's really noteworthy, though.)

Anyway, when the late afternoon rolled around, Kaslow ordered us all to wear something nice, so I scrambled through my "extensive" wardrobe of training uniforms and dusty rags. One cadet complained about their lack of fancy wear, and Kaslow stated mockingly, "Oh yeah, I forgot. You guys don't have money." He addressed all of us, "In that case, wear the uniforms from graduation. They better still be clean."

I put on the standard military uniform while doing little dances to get the sleeves in their designated positions. The whole room did little dances, too, like they were trying to summon the rain.

After Kaslow provided some more directions, we left the barracks and loaded onto some buses. Privates from other barracks packed into other buses too and we spent thirty minutes just trying to gather everyone.

The worst part was that we had to pack three people per seat. That would typically be bearable. After all, I'm from the internment zone, so luxuries are hard to come by. But our hateable Milo farted shamelessly in the middle of the bus. None of our gas mask training prepared us for this.

Poor Kurt couldn't handle the flatulence, so he clawed at the nearest window, trying to get it open. When it didn't budge, he yielded to the misfortune and said while plugging his nose, "Well, I might as well just die now."

The misfortune continued when the human manifestation of a fart, Kaslow, wobbled onto the bus. His movement made the bus shake with each step. He gave some general bus protocol while investigating who committed the treasonous deed of farting.

The bus engines moaned, and we began a two-hour journey full of awkward silences, awkward restricting of bodily sounds, and Milo refusing to apologize for his actions.

With thirty minutes left to travel, tiny buildings popped up around us and hid as we passed. It was like a game of hide and seek, except you don't know what you're looking for, and the people in those buildings likely don't want to play games with you.

These buildings piled on top of each other as the minutes passed by to make buildings of intricate designs. They were often beige and were layered with simple colors, but these structures didn't look like they were constructed with bricks but instead well-strengthened sandstone. The edges of these structures had frills that looked like waves. Doorways curved, and windows just happened to be rectangular holes in buildings with metal bars in place of glass panes.

It looked to me that the Marleyans left the structures largely untouched, for better or worse. It's nice not to see chimneys and coal houses everywhere.

Kaslow distracted me from my sightseeing with some yelling, "Alright subordinate mutts, the streets we're visiting today happen to be owned by a Marleyan citizen that is quite fond of our military. So fond, in fact, that he makes regular donations, larger than all of the money in your parents' savings." He scratched his back as if wondering what he wanted to say next, "As long as you wear your uniforms, you won't have to pay anything. I almost forgot about that earlier today."

Kaslow then looked to the seat next to him and woke up the wall-keeper from his slumber. He then returned to yelling at us with more directions. He ended with, "This isn't a school field trip, so I won't be holding your hands wherever you go. I'll be busy doing my own thing anyway." He made a self-satisfied chuckle, "Just keep in mind that you have to get back on these buses by 12 am on the dot!"

I ignored Kaslow's thoughts as I observed the setting sun. It made for a beautiful sight as we slowed down. The sunlight was like a comfortable veil that hugged the buildings, almost soothing them from whatever traumas they had to experience during the forced transition of power.

Colonialism. What a fruitful process that culls fruits in the process.

The bus stopped, and my fellow privates and I scurried out. The non-Milo-cursed air relieved my nose, but this relief swiftly dissipated from the overwhelming surroundings—the culture shock pushed down on me like an anvil.

At that moment, I noticed the other buses unloading. I found the occasionally friendly faces of half-pint soldiers—warrior candidates. The Grice brothers walked out, and much like me, they looked pressured from the culture shock. Their heads kept turning as if absorbing their surroundings.

Viktor tapped my shoulder, trying to get my attention. He asked, "where do we start first?"

I said, "Maybe we should ask the sarge for recommendations." He was nowhere to be found. "Maybe we should ask the wall-keeper." He, too, was nowhere to be found. Looks like the two grown-ups knew precisely what they wanted and didn't dare to waste a single second without it.

Kurt pointed out a restaurant across the cobbled street. "Maybe we should go in there first."

"I can't read the sign," Viktor said, squinting at the restaurant sign with squiggly language sprawled over. Luckily for us, below the original name sign was a translation in our language. Looks like the restaurant was popular enough that they catered to Marleyans as well—then again, it could have just been a requirement.

The boys and I decided to head inside until someone tugged at my arm. I turned to see the Grice brothers looking like lost deer. Even the sunrays contouring their faces couldn't hide it.

Colt asked after letting go of Falco's hand, "There's not as many warrior candidates my age as there are Falco's age, so…" Colt trailed off as if he was too embarrassed to reveal his intentions.

Kurt filled in the sentence, "You can join us."

I looked down at Falco, "Are you sure you don't want to hang out with your friends, Falco?"

Falco shook his head, "Maybe later. They look really lost right now." I peered at the mass of tadpole soldiers hovering around the buses looking like lost puppies. It looked like they needed a chaperone, but to be truthful with you, I wasn't altruistic enough to help more than one kid, so my friends and I went into the restaurant.

Upon entering, my friends and I were greeted by a scent clothed in richness I never had experienced before. It was fatty and almost made me full just from a simple whiff. The people at the register caught me by surprise, though. These weren't relaxed businessmen ready to serve you in exchange for money; instead, these were people on fight-or-flight mode as if they needed to be constantly alert.

I knew from that very moment I was not welcome there.

Kurt whispered to us, "Maybe it's best for only one person to order food for the rest of us."

"Why? That would take too long." Viktor responded.

Colt affirmed Kurt's suggestion, "Kurt's right. I think we'll overwhelm them if we all stand together at the counter."

"I'll go," I said, trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible to not stress anyone out. My friends then told me to ask whatever was the most popular item and order that for five people. I gave them a nod and watched as they tried to find a place to sit.

The restaurant was generally small, with two giant tables and multiple seats, and was packed with stomach-filling humans. Nonetheless, when the boys approached a free spot, two darker-skinned civilians immediately picked up their food and got up from their seats. One seat toppled over from the force of trying to leave, causing a clatter when hitting the ground. Every non-Eldian customer instantly turned their heads.

My friends seated themselves while keeping their heads low. The tension in the room mingled with the fragrant, smoky scent to make a juxtaposition one can't find too often in the internment zone. I tried to ignore it and approached the register.

"Falco, come back." Colt tried whispering, but it ended up sounding more forceful than he may have intended.

When I arrived at the register, I saw Falco by my side. I wanted to tell him to go back to his seat, but I didn't say anything to avoid confusing the cashier. I looked at the lady at the cash register and tried to ask for the most popular order, but the question stayed glued to my tongue. My lips failed me.

I unintentionally observed the middle-aged woman's face. She observed mine. I analyzed the simple blank expression, the bulbous nose, the skin with a soft hue, hedging on brown but wasn't brown entirely. Her dress was sprinkled with designs I can only liken to flowers. What did she see in me? I saw the humanity in the new race before me beyond the concepts I had been taught in schooling.

Unease dripped in the form of a bead of sweat from her forehead. I halted my observations and tried to ask my question as clearly as possible with space between the words, "Hello, could I have five orders of your most popular dish?"

"Uhh," She nodded once but then again as if she wasn't too sure on the first one. "Yes." She rushed to the back of the restaurant.

I took a deep breath and looked down at Falco. "That was kind of stressful."

Falco titled his head. "Why?"

I walked aside to let the subsequent customer order before answering Falco's question. I didn't know how to introduce the concept of racial tensions to a child, so I said, "I didn't know if she would understand me or not."

"Okay," he stayed silent for a few moments until bringing up a memory, "Do you remember when we visited a bakery in the internment zone?"

"Of course," I did my best to maintain some composure in a restaurant that strongly lacked it. "How could I forget? The lady there ran faster than most young people can. Also, you brought it up a few weeks ago."

"That bakery lady was mean but…." He looked up at me. The sun coming through the windows emphasized the size of the eyes. "I hope you don't steal from this lady like you did last time."

I raised my finger to my mouth, making a shushing gesture. I lifted my gaze from Falco to the general customers to see if anyone noticed, but they were already glaring at me. It didn't matter if it was a regular, light-skinned Marleyan or the darker-skinned native folk—their glares burned. They carved little pockets of bitterness into me and filled them up with fire ants.

This was supposed to be a relaxing day. Why did it feel far from that?

I looked back down at Falco, swallowing my pain. "I have a question for you now. Why did you come over here? Your brother said only one person needed to order."

"I wanted to ask you something. I thought about it a few weeks ago but didn't know when to ask it."

"What is it, Falco?"

"Umm," he gulped and wiggled his fingers in unease. "Did your story make people happy?"

My attention stayed on the golden boy without answering. I wondered how he could ask if the product of my imagination was making others feel well when I wasn't feeling well myself. I let it slide. He was just a kid, but I don't know how long that can be used as an excuse.

I answered while recalling the time of the blue-eyed stranger and his friends chasing after me when I was about to call it quits with advertising the newspaper. These recruits' smiles still glowed even in the often faulty record that my memory often is.

In the spirit of that memory, I tried to make the best confident expression for Falco at my point of lowness. I took the corners of my mouth and lifted them, which tightened my cheeks and the corners of my eyes. I forced a genuine smile in a time of false faces. "Yes, Falco. I think my story made people happy."

In turn, Falco flashed a smile I knew was as genuine as he could make it. It rivaled with the faint smile of the soldier in the sky peering through the window. Falco said, "Looks like my idea worked. But I think it's your idea now." He paused, "and maybe when I'm older, I'll read the story myself. Colt said it isn't a kid's story."

"Well," I had a flashback of the gore of Erich stamping people's heads. "I agree with him on that one."

I heard a few ceramic clanks and turned around to the tall counter to find a man with a mustache. He set two plates of food near me, and my mouth gently watered in preparation for eating. The man's hands wobbled between lifting each dish, and I couldn't tell if it was because the food was too heavy or he simply wanted to be careful. What fast customer service.

I waved my friends over, and while I waited for them to come by, I watched the food with a careful eye. The color of the cuisine had a saturation that one can't come by in the internment zone. A mystery meat appeared to be sliced and seasoned with spices alien to me with its red and brown palette. Then again, the only spice we are used to in the internment zone is salt and pepper. There was also a thick, brown fruit that looked dry but appetizing despite its dull color that contrasted the vibrancy of the rest of the dish.

My friends arrived, but I noticed that the mustached man accidentally placed the fifth plate in an unbalanced position on the counter in the corner of my eye. I reached to make an adjustment, but it slipped onto Falco's head, and the plate landed on the ground. The shatter rang due to the already unstable pressure in the room. It almost magnified with each second.

This shatter dampened when the mustached man scurried around the counter and kneed by Falco's feet. He cried with broken words and desperation. "I'm sorry! Don't turn titan! This place, all I have."

Colt rushed over to check on his brother, but the mustached man backed away. His expression was far from shining when I look back on these days.

***A STAINED PORTRAIT***

The mustached man's hands trembled before his face.

He shrank like a gremlin as he rocked in a swaying motion.

He was a ball bundled together by the ropes of terror.

The mustached man must have thought Colt was going to kill him. Fair enough. We were trained to kill people similar to him on the battlefield anyway, but he lived on new Marleyan soil, so there was no reason for that.

Poor Falco couldn't comprehend the devastation of the mustached man. He rubbed his fingers in his hair, trying to get the food out, but then he tried comforting the man trembling before him, "It's okay. I can wash this out." The man yelped as a reaction, and he watched the other customers.

I looked to the tables at the other side of the restaurant to see some people bolting to the entrance. Some got up so quickly they knocked over chairs and tripped over them.

All this drama, just for a bit of food.

My friends and I didn't know what to do to soothe the trembling man, so we took the four plates of food and headed to the seats my friends had picked out before. When we sat down, I glimpsed at the artwork on the walls, but I was no longer in the mood to admire a new culture. My friends and I terrorized an entire restaurant by simply existing, even while we tried to keep open minds.

Colt pulled out a pocket-handkerchief and cleaned Falco's head. With appetites dissolved, the boys and I remained silent as the customers that stayed after the minor accident glared with even more intensity than before.

I forced myself to swallow the cuisine. We had no utensils, so the heat burned my fingers as I picked up the meat. As vibrant as the food could have tasted if we were in a stable mindset, the negativity soured the dish like someone diluting it with piss. How can one enjoy a meal when everyone is stabbing you with their stares?

After getting a quarter way through the dish, I couldn't force myself any longer to ingest the hard work of someone who cooked for me out of pure terror that I could hurt them. It seemed like the boys reciprocated my thoughts since they were barely through their meals either. When I stood up and wiped my hands, they did as well.

On our way to the entrance, I said, "It looks like your strategy didn't work out, Kurt."

"To be honest," Colt interrupted, "it may have gone worse if all of us approached together." Viktor stayed silent.

I looked over my shoulder to the cashier and the terrorized, mustached man. They were slowly getting back to their senses.

When exiting, Falco dropped a few solemn words, "I don't feel…wanted here." He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, and some sauce got stuck on his face.

Colt nodded, and I spoke for everyone else, "I don't think any of us do, Falco."

XXX

Kurt dropped Falco off at the busses so that he could be with kids his own age, for better or for worse. These kids huddled together, confused about what to do. The bus drivers took pity on them and tried playing their radios which they blared songs of men singing like goats.

A few meters away from the restaurant, we found the narrator entering with other full-grown recruits. Viktor said crudely, "We emptied the store for you. Have fun."

The narrator discarded the warning and entered anyway. Viktor grunted and started walking in front of me.

With all this drama, the sun rays diminished, and a blanket of dark blue enveloped the sky in preparation for the night. My fellow recruits were buzzing about the street without much complaint. Had they not faced the discrimination that we endured? Maybe they did, but they probably got drunk first.

With his eyes slightly closed, Viktor muttered, "I could use a drink right now." He only drank once, but he already sounded like a 50-year-old dad trying to drown his sorrows away.

Kurt answered from behind me, "How would we even get into a bar? We're too young."

Viktor lifted his head up and shouted something unintelligible. He then glanced at the buildings at the side of the street for a few seconds and came up with an idea. "I'm sure most of the recruits would want a drink. Maybe if we find a group big enough, we can hide behind them and get in."

"That may work," Kurt said quietly. Usually, Kurt would mock Viktor for actually coming up with a decent idea, but he kept his thoughts punctuated. I can't blame him, though, since I was silent for the entire conversation, so I cannot complain.

"Would that work with you, Colt?" Viktor turned to ask an honorary member of our squad. Colt nodded. He was the most innocent of all of us, so I was surprised by his compliance. Viktor then asked me, and I said 'yes' as well.

It was time to be irresponsible teenagers, not because we wanted to be rebellious, not to show a middle finger to society, but simply to dull the mind of yet another act of discrimination.

As the minutes passed, streetlights illuminated one by one, and the grim expressions on my friends' faces altered with each light despite their features not moving. Fortunately, we found a group of recruits huddling along a street. Actually, it was more like the group found us. Milo yelled at my friends and me to come over. I can't believe that I almost felt relieved seeing that knucklehead.

Milo commented when we arrived, "You guys look more depressed than usual." He then eyed Colt up and down and stared at the armband, "Oh look, we got an honorary Marleyan here." The group of recruits thinned one by one as they entered the bar. The group was so big that the usher didn't really care about each individual but just paid attention to any riff-raff that may happen in the line. And if there were any issues, Colt's honorary Marleyan status would have definitely helped our case.

Entering the bar made me feel like I was thrust into yet another artificial atmosphere. This had more hints of home, however. I had expected the building to have a foreign style, like the restaurant, but there seemed to be a more substantial, Marleyan architectural style.

Cement bricks peeked behind wooden planks. A wall of poison stood beautifully like jewels behind a few bartenders. Cackles of mostly Marleyans spread thoroughly around the walls, and musicians were perched like songbirds on a raised platform—a guitar strummed magnificently underneath the rough hands of a suit-wearing gentleman.

I almost felt nostalgic in a land of segregation. Who would have thought that was possible?

The only significant difference between this bar and my parents' bar was scantily dressed foreign women dancing with military men, revealing more than they needed to. Instead of people wearing suggestive clothing in my parents' bar, we had the cabbage man wearing his usual distasteful overalls.

I shifted my eyes away from the dancing people to avoid embarrassing moments, but Viktor stared unabashedly without consideration for how perverted he looked. I grabbed his arm, and my group headed over the bar stools near the wall of "jewels." We lost track of Milo.

The barstools already carried a few overbearing Marleyans. I could only see their backs, but I knew they were consuming cigarettes or cigars since smoke floated above them like a thundercloud. One of these men turned around, and his whole face folded to make a welcoming expression. He held a cigar between his index finger and middle finger as he waved to the boys and me. "You boys can have our seats," he chirped.

The friendly gentleman and his group got up from their seats and motioned us to take their spots.

I looked at the boys, confused whether this was a trap.

"We insist," the first man said.

I moved towards him and sat in his seat, "Thank you, sir."

"Anything for anyone serving our military."

My friends and I sat almost expecting to hear the men call us out for stealing our seat or something foolish like that. But no, we instead were greeted by a ginger-haired bartender. She asked while wiping a cup, "What would you lads like? Apple juice?"

She caught us off guard with 'apple juice,' but who were we kidding? We couldn't have hidden our ages for that long. Either way, when we took too long to answer, the bartender said dismissively, "You guys look close enough to be sixteen years old. I'll let it slide today." She then set the glass down and looked at Viktor, "So, what will it be?"

Viktor was dumbstruck. He didn't know drinking slang or nomenclature, so he looked at me expectantly. I helped him and asked for five shots of whiskey. It's by no means a beginner's drink, but for someone with as unrefined a tongue as Viktor's, something like beer would be deplorable to continually sip at.

While the bartender did her thing, the boys looked at me as if I had summoned an inner drunkard, but ironically, just because I was surrounded by spirits didn't make me more inclined to consume them. It made me see their evil more—that's why I ordered some that day.

I also thought back to the generosity of the five men sitting in the seats before us. They were light-skinned Marleyans, yet they refrained from condescending towards my friends and me. The people in the restaurant were constantly on alert due to my Eldian nature, but these Marleyans weren't.

Why was there this discrepancy?

I thought back to the Psychologist's thoughts and Mr. Kruger's thoughts on perspectives. Maybe, the men were happy because we were profitable to the military even if we were Eldian. The restaurant people must have been scared if the boys and I would ruin it further.

My thought process was cut off by Kurt's concern, "We just got discriminated against. Shouldn't we be sad and moping instead of doing this?"

While looking eagerly at the bartender, Viktor replied, "We can save the moping for another day. Today, we have fun while we still can."

"Kurt." I said, "this is exactly what people do when they're sad and moping. I've been in a bar enough to notice it." I muttered bitterly as the bartender set the shots in front of us, "Who would have thought I would become one of them?"

The group and I grabbed our respective shots and clanked the glasses together. I tried thinking of something to celebrate, but not much came to mind. I simply said "cheers," and we brought the shots to our mouths.

I glared at the deep, translucent brown for a lengthened second and noticed a refracted version of my face. It looked like a poorly scrambled egg. I swallowed the whiskey, and it scorched down my throat. I should have asked for something smoother, which wouldn't make my chest vibrate with heat.

My friends' tongues left their mouths instantly, and Kurt clawed his tongue, coupling it with coughing. Colt mirrored this, and Viktor tried to look calm while his trachea exploded silently. The stupid faces lifted my mood a notch.

After that, the boys and I discussed our medical training with Colt. He, in turn, provided some stories of warrior training, and as the minutes passed by, his restraints lowered as his thoughts became more personal. The whiskey was hitting him. He then talked about becoming a titan shifter even if his life span would significantly decrease.

To be frank with you, I drifted from the conversation here and there to listen to a unique brand of music that flooded the bar. I asked the bartender, "Excuse me, ma'am. Do you know what kind of music this is? I've never heard it before."

"Beats me," she shrugged. "We get people from all over the place in this bar. I have an ear to recognize which location the music is from and associate it with the country the people are from." She paused, "but this music, I'm not so sure about. It's like an…," her tongue tripped on the word.

Colt helped. "Amalgamation."

"That's right," She threw a sly comment in, "you're not going to be able to say that word in a while." She looked back at the musicians, "anyway, it's like an amalgamation of Marleyan classical music and the traditional music of the dark folk Marley conscripts." She turned her back towards us as she wiped another glass, "You could be witnessing history right now, lads. The creation of a new genre. It could be huge in a few years. Maybe if you learn some when you get out of the military, you could become famous," she laughed.

I didn't laugh because I was too focused on an instrument I had never seen before. A giant violin stabbed the ground with a thin metal stick, and the trumpet didn't play the usual strict, fanfare notes that I would wake up to in the morning. It didn't play march music. Instead, the musicians moved with the shape-shifting beat that had no bounds.

I sighed, realizing that the world was more expansive than I ever knew.

Unfortunately, it appeared that the drunken military soldiers had gotten tired of this evolutionary form of music, and they started bullying the guitarist. Hey, put something else on. What is this shit?

Others whined while some seemed to like the freshness. Either way, the guitarist wanted none of it, so he dared the crowd. "If my music is so shitty, how about one of you play something better?!"

An idiot from the crowd returned with, "why don't you play something better?"

While trying to talk with a numb brain, I looked at the boys, "Hey guys," I tried not to slur my words. "I'm going to play that guitar next?" I made it sound like a question for some reason.

As I mentioned a while back, alcohol affects everyone differently, but in Kurt's case, he took vocabulary more literally. He said, "you're going to play, Heinrich?" His eyes were a quarter of the way closed. "Playing is for kids. And we aren't kids. We are all eighteen years old and ready to shoot people." He turned towards Viktor, "Right, Viktor?"

"Right," Viktor replied. His words melted like they were coated with butter, "I'm fifty years old and I have three kids: bob, throb, and corn on the cob."

Colt patted my back ten times. He sounded overly optimistic with eyes that must have been looking to another world, "You can do it, Heinrich. I believe in you! Okay? But you need to believe in yourself too!"

Thankfully, the alcohol had dulled the edge on inhibitions, so I waddled over to the angry guitarist and raised my hand. "I'll play something better." My confidence was summoned from thin air, and my hesitation further dissipated when the crowd noticed. For once, I yearned for attention.

"You sure about this, boy?" The guitarist asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I'll give it my best." I hadn't strummed a guitar for over three months. How could I magically bring it back? I guess you can say that is the strength and weakness of spirits. They can pull you out of your hesitation, but hesitation can be helpful sometimes.

The crowd grumbled as the guitarist handed me his instrument gently. The guitar materials may have been shaped the same as every other one of its kind, but I assure you, it was crafted with attention and blood. I felt like I held gold from a single touch of the frets—I bore royalty.

When bracing the instrument with both hands, a spark of calm memories reignited and surged. Times of old with mama and papa hunched over me, listening to me strum a crummy guitar almost strummed a tear from me, but I wasn't sober enough to feel the pain in its full force.

I strummed a chord. I plucked the fruit of music and savored its juices and texture. This fruit is the only one that benefits from the despicable acts countries go through to assert their hegemony, for this process creates variety and development. I, however, just wanted to play an old song I once heard from the bellowing of a perverse bartender back home and the gentle strums of his wife. There was no development needed here.

I sat on a stool on the platform as the other musicians set their instruments aside to listen to what the little Eldian boy had to perform. The lights were dim, but they hovered about like fireflies turning off in some places and turning back on in others. Thankfully, I hadn't reached that point where lights would be too distracting. However, the eyes of the crowds stayed completely active while staring at me, waiting for me to begin.

As I played a few warm-up chords and hummed to warm up my voice, I thought of a song my parents performed to me on the night I had seen fireworks with Viktor. It was about someone who lost their love to the island of Paradis. The lyrics were seared into me, so I knew them by heart no matter what state my mind happened to be in.

I started off the song slowly. It drudged, allowing me time to get used to music performance again. My fingers grazed patiently like a gazelle on a lush field of grass. They savored each vibration to remind themselves of what they once treasured.

My voice hummed with occasional graininess, but I capitalized on the lower expectations people have for a teenager. I sang the melancholic words of a man whom I could not empathize with. My stomach hummed along due to the slight indigestion of new cuisine.

I sounded like utter shit.

The gazelle's legs tripped on each other like a newborn calf, and my voice sang like I was working a stiff muscle. A crowd member affirmed this statement by flinging an empty bottle to the leg of my chair. The bottle collapsed, and the horrible sound wasn't far off how I sounded—a greatly elongated dissonance.

These souring things didn't deter me since muscle memory always arrives fashionably late, and if there's one rule to performing in front of a bar crowd, you don't yield to them.

As my fingers began to warm up to its old love, the crowd members flung at me what they had available. They wanted entertainment, but I couldn't satiate the immediate desire. They had to wait as my fingers courted an old friend. I had not been lovestruck like the lover in the song in a traditional sense, but I guess I had been lovestruck for the clangs of the world's most beloved set of strings. I just hadn't noticed it all those months, strumming the wooden tool of death instead of love.

The discomfort of pressing metal strings grew bearable as the song chorus encroached. My confidence walked undamaged, and the buzz of alcohol and investment in the lyrics connected into a pushing force to the chorus.

In the chorus, my consciousness became one with the sounds of my second voice, the guitar. My authentic voice melted with the harmonies like a pot of stirring metals. My harmony chilled in silver, and my melody burned with gold.

I was back.

I had returned. I played a character all along in those months at the training camp. I belonged in a bar with an instrument, and that was my past, and I yearned it to be my future…

I was dragged out of my self-inflicted spell upon finishing the chorus, like being pulled out of a dream. My lyrics knew nowhere to go, for no train tracks were left to lead the way.

I totally forgot. This song initially required singers of both genders. Where was the female?

Where was my lovely Denna?

I almost waited for this imaginary girl to descend as the notes collapsed onto the platform, broken with no idea of where to go. I wondered if anyone in the crowd could sing the part of the lovely dark-haired girl. I waited for a second, which became five seconds, and ten seconds for her to arrive.

Alas, this is no fiction. No one sang as my Denna.

The crowd grumbled once more. One person even threw a bra at me, and a woman shrieked shortly afterward. What a scoundrel of a man.

In desperation, I raised my hand to call the audience's attention. No one listened. I looked at the musicians around me, and they just shrugged as if this was my mess to solve. Fair enough. I ignored the unpleasant peasants and returned to my performance. I hummed the female part of the song and continued with the chords.

I ignored the crowd, letting them do as they please, while I got reacquainted with a passion. They must have picked up on it since soon enough, their squabbles died down, and I could hear myself again. I kept my head down, tracking my finger placements, trying to salvage what I had started.

My performance was like the split-ends of someone's hair. I could not snip off the loosening ends, so I tied them back together and kept moving forward with my spell. As the verses passed, my chords strengthened, and my voice carried itself into the clouds.

In the end, my music filled the bar like a whisper being passed around. I looked at the lights above. I was still underneath my spell, and my mind was bereft of the thought of discrimination.

Small waves of applause swooshed in the crowd while others returned to half-sober conversations. I didn't need their approval. My own was enough.

"You saved the song in that chorus, Eldian. I thought you were an amateur in the beginning of that song, but you're not so bad," someone said.

I turned around to see the guitarist. He put his hands out, expecting me to return his guitar. I waited for a second, feeling sentimental for having something ripped from me that I loved after only seeing it again for a few minutes.

I walked back to my friends. Colt turned to me with his hands outstretched, trying to give me a hug. He lunged into me and gave me a brief hug before the other boys joined in. I gasped for air but managed to say, "You guys only had one shot and you can't even handle it." I got a good look at their faces. Their cheeks were tomatoes.

Everyone let go, and Colt tried grabbing my back as if he wanted to pick me up. I tried prying his hands off, and he told the boys' to help pick me up. And just like that, I was in the air, looking at the ceiling and having no idea what was happening.

Colt started shouting, "Say it out loud everybody! Heinrich! Heinrich! Heinrich!"

The boys' joined in with their floppy words, and the bartender joined in as well. My name spread through the bar like wildfire. I'm sure even the people that couldn't care less about me were calling my name.

I was on top of the world, or rather, on top of three drunkards' heads.

It doesn't get any better than that, for me at least.

XXX

My friends and I drank another shot each, and Viktor started rhyming. "Girls like pearls. Buns like puns. Lungs are connected to tongues."

Kurt nodded blindly as if making sense of this.

Colt continued acting extremely over-supportive towards me, "Heinrich, you should have seen yourself out there. You sounded amazing!"

My sentences grew short and snappy. "I was out there. I played the music myself."

"I have to ask. Why did you stop for a little while? I was so confused." He started itching at his head, "So confused."

"I needed someone to sing the female part."

"That's it?" he asked exaggeratedly. "We have just gotten Viktor to help." He looked at Viktor, "Show him your skills."

Viktor burped a sentence, and Kurt squealed like an angry rooster.

I realized I had gender-swapped the song all along. The music initially started from a female perspective, but I followed through with my mistake anyway and specified, "I need a girl to sing it."

"A girl?" The boys asked in unison. Colt added, "We can get you a girl. Look at how many there are. We can get one to sing with you."

"I'm not sure if they know our language."

Colt stared at me with his mouth open, "Music is universal. They don't need to know our language."

Kurt added uselessly, "Music isn't universal. Music is music. And what is the universal anyway?"

Viktor replied, "I think it's a kind of cereal."

A few moments later, one woman walked towards us, each step deliberate and lecherous with legs that led to an hourglass shape. She looked young, likely eighteen or maybe even younger. She must have been a standard Marleyan due to her light complexion and no recognizable accent.

"Are you his friend?" The girl pointed at me with a slender finger and asked Kurt.

Kurt replied without much thought. "Yes, but he's my friend too."

The girl bit her lip and started playing with Kurt's uniform buttons. Kurt said, clueless of what was going on, "I'd like my clothes on, thank you. And I know how to unbutton my own shirt. My mother taught me how to put clothes on just fine."

The girl giggled forcefully as if she was new to this, "You want some fun?"

"I'd like fun right now. I'm missing it. Maybe we can make a poster that has an award on it. 5000 dollars for missing 'fun.'" Kurt asked the bartender for a piece of paper and a pen. She just giggled, and the questionable girl grabbed Kurt's chin and pointed it back towards her. Her fingers lingered on his freckles.

The girl asked, almost whispering, "Don't you want to ride?"

Kurt asked loudly, still oblivious, "Ride what? You want me to ride you? Are you a car? Do you need oil and gasoline?"

Viktor and Colt started cackling without a care in the world. I had enough sense to hide my laugh, and Kurt looked dumbfounded. His eyes were half-closed to our world, and the rest must have been looking into an imaginary world of lunacy.

The girl pulled away and stopped her performance. She asked Kurt, "Are you dense?"

"No, my name is not dense. I am Kurt. I am Kurt, dammit!"

The girl sneered and walked over to another unsuspecting military member at a table in a noisier part of the bar. This soldier looked a little older than Kurt and could actually pick up on the flirtatious behavior. After a few minutes of teasing, the guy fell for the trap, and they walked out of the bar.

"Where do you think these girls came from?" I asked. "This looks like a bar for military people only."

Colt replied, "They came from their mothers. That's where all humans are born from."

"I give up." I hated to be the only one that could actually handle the alcohol. It's usually more fun to be dumb along with the dumb people.

After a few more minutes of mind-numbing conversation, Colt swiveled his head as if sifting through the crowd for someone. The soundtrack to this search was some slow music, something elegant to tame the wild devils and devil owners in the bar. The tender melodies led to the military men pairing up with some women. They held hands and their wild dances narrowed into pleasant and deliberate moves. They weaved gracefully.

One girl got left from the mix. She looked younger.

"That one there." Colt pointed at the girl with a quivering arm. "Maybe she can help you with your song."

"She doesn't look Marleyan or Eldian." Viktor said while licking a shot glass like a bear looking for honey. "She looks like the restaurant guy we saw earlier. Maybe she will spill food on you like what happened with Falco."

Kurt added another stupid comment. "Food is good for you. Let her spill some onto you."

"She looks sad," Colt said.

"She's probably oppressed." Kurt replied, louder than needed.

"We are too. Therefore, it's fair game." Colt said while patting my back. Each pat got increasingly aggressive. "Get in there. Make her sing and you can do your song again."

I got up and adjusted my uniform top, tucking it in more tightly. I didn't need much persuasion. I walked to the girl while staring at her more than appropriate, but I couldn't help it since I always stare at new things, new objects, and new people. I was generally surprised I could even walk in a straight line, but the staring must have guided me through.

Observing this girl was like seeing a myth for yet another time. She was nothing like the overly stereotyped mid-easterners I had purposefully written in my story. I had been brought up to harbor ill conceptions of anyone that looked like mid-easterners, but I assumed it was a similar attitude from her position.

Disregarding the light copper skin, I saw a human with decently attractive eyes, naturally long lashes like beautiful black feathers, and a slightly larger than usual nose. It was just a person with good genetics in some places, and others were average. That's what makes for a typical civilian.

I almost became disgusted that I looked at her like an exhibition animal from a zoo. Yet, that's what happens when you base your knowledge of a culture on a book and propaganda-filled mouths.

This girl tilted her head as I approached, and she grinned almost like a child with a missing tooth. Her necklace twinkled, but her wardrobe was simple outside of that. She wore a long skirt similar to girls in Marley. Why didn't she wear some cultural clothing like the restaurant owners before? There were so many things about this new part of Marley I couldn't understand.

Nonetheless, her presence gleamed, not like a refined diamond that rich people would be, but like iron among coal. That was good enough for me.

I confronted the girl and got straight to the point, "Do you know how to sing?"

The girl closed a bit of the distance between us. She had an accent and a deeper voice than you'd accept from a teenage girl. She went with a proper greeting, "Hello."

I should have introduced myself. Looks like my decency went out the window. "Hi, my name's Heinrich. I played-"

"The guitar?"

"Yes."

Her dimples made up for the lack of descriptive words, "I saw it. I loved it."

"Okay," my voice went to sleep. My conversation skills with the other gender definitely went out the window during the training camp. It wasn't like I had much to begin with, though. I continued, "I was wondering if you could sing? I needed a female singer for my song, but I totally forgot before playing."

She scratched her cheek, "I don't understand."

"Um," I tried rephrasing. I threw around my words like hot stones. "Do you think you could help me sing a song?"

She pursed her lips, and her eyebrows pulled down. "This is new. Usually, people just say I'm pretty."

It was my turn to be confused. "Well, you are pretty?" Only I could make a forced compliment sound like a question.

"Thank you for telling me," her dimples creased again, and I flushed in embarrassment. She played an incredible trap on me. She must have been skilled with all the conversations she has with woefully clueless men. I held gratitude because her behavior was not as aggressive as the other girl with Kurt.

I wondered then if she saw beyond the concepts she learned of Eldians. She didn't cower from me, act in terror, or spill food on me on accident. I did my best to see beyond her color, and I fared pretty sufficiently if I don't say so myself.

"I can sing." She said, twisting her hair with her finger.

"Did you know the song I played?"

"No," she shook her head. "But I know other songs."

"Like what?"

"Songs you won't know."

"That's a very convenient answer," I said cheekily, trying to not sound as emotionless as a typewriter. I relaxed into the rhythm of the conversation.

"What does that mean?"

I sighed but quickly covered it up with another statement to not appear rude. "Sing me one of your songs. Maybe I can learn it." I was still attached to the goal of having a stellar performance, for some reason.

"Well," her head bobbed around as if the environment was too distracting. "I don't think you'll be able to hear me. Maybe we should go somewhere else."

I was worried if she'd take me outside, but she instead pointed out a corner table of the bar without many people crowded. We walked over, and I glanced at all the dirty glasses lying about the area.

"I don't know many songs in your language, but I know some in mine," she said honestly while sitting down and knocking a cup aside.

"Okay," I kept my eyes on her, trying to show some respect.

The girl cleared her throat and blew the magical pipes that were her vocal cords. The melodies zig-zagged almost hauntingly, but another breath of orientalism cut through the stank scent of wild humans in a cramped room. Instead of being smacked with culture shock again, it felt like a comfortable caress and a kiss to my ears.

Her lyrics fluttered, but the syllables made no sense to me. Nevertheless, her voice widened into a deeper alto range instead of the soprano you hear most female singers in. It was luscious to listen to, like the sifting of sand in the wind, and I could differentiate it from the songs already playing in the bar.

Her gaze was set on the table as if I had disappeared in her world. I was entranced in her musical spell and observed the way her black hair moved with her head as she rocked a few centimeters back and forth. I couldn't help but wonder, 'Why was I told to hate these people like they hate me?' The rhetorical question stung since I knew if I hadn't ever gotten my soldier position, I likely never would have heard this song…

I felt lucky at that moment. I got to experience worldly wonders beyond my own without being discriminated against for just a second. Maybe that's what Colt must have been by saying music was universal.

When the girl finished her tune, I didn't have a crush or a sinking feeling of love. I felt wonder. I asked quietly, as if not wanting to talk too loud, thus breaking the spell too quickly, "How do you do that with your voice?"

"Do what?" she asked while looking up from the table. Her hair sunk to the side.

I put my finger in the air, trying to make a wave since her lyrics weren't as stable as Marleyan music. She mirrored my actions and tilted her head to the side, confused by words once more, "That's how I always sing."

It was funny how I could understand her the best while she sang but not when talking. Either way, I chuckled, "I don't think I'll be able to sing like that song anytime soon."

"I don't think I'll be able to do yours either," she smiled, and we grew noticeably quieter.

I looked back at my friends, and they were still sitting on the stools. They had already drunk two shots in my time pursuing a fellow singer and were holding onto their seats for dear lives as if they thought they were going to fall off a cliff.

I looked back at the fantastic woman I still didn't know the name of. I asked, almost starting the conversation from the beginning, "What's your name again?"

***A NAME***

"Dilara."

What a warm name for someone I would never meet again.

I reintroduced myself, "My name's Heinrich."

"Nice to meet you, Heinrich." She struggled with the "rich" part, but I refrained from complaining.

I drew a breath when I remembered the restaurant moment again. It plagued my entire night. I closed my hands and asked another rhetorical question hoping for an answer I hadn't thought of.

"Dilara, my friends and I went to a restaurant earlier down the street. But, everyone looked scared of me. Do you know why that is?"

The lightness in her face dimmed, and her luscious voice grew grim. She waited as if pondering the best way to deliver the answer. "People with your uniform walked through these streets years ago and kicked out the sultan we had in place. People with your armbands were also thrown out off blimps and destroyed the city center a few miles from here."

She moved her seat back as if trying to increase the distance, "Then we were all forced to learn your language as Marleyans built new buildings and kept the old ones. Regular Marleyans are moving in day by day because they like the heat." Her eyes tightened like a fist, "You're one of these soldiers, aren't you?"

I nodded in response to her question, but I wanted to say, 'No, I'm a newspaper boy that likes playing guitar and singing with my family.' Yet, that was no longer my profession. I then pleaded my case, "This is what I was forced to do." I slipped on my words in desperation to explain myself, but I spoke like a bumbling fool until Dilara showed me her hand to tell me to stop.

I hungered to ask why she didn't feel the same bitter way about me, yet I pulled the question in close and didn't let it escape. I wanted to run from this conversation.

Ten seconds followed until Dilara changed the topic with a more relaxed posture. "None of my customers asked me if I could sing before."

"Really?" I asked innocently. I tried to mirror the relaxedness. "What do you sell?"

She went back in her chair slightly and looked at me like an idiot. "Myself."

I stood up, bouncing my glances between other people as if finally understanding my surroundings. I mumbled, still not believing the statement, "You sell yourself?"

"This is a military bar. What did you expect?"

During the circus event, I recalled what Colt mentioned about brothels often being next to bars. Kurt's interaction with that random woman began to make sense. "I have to go," my head spun from hearing another twist I hadn't expected. I said, disoriented. "I can't do this."

She grabbed my arm. She didn't plead her case pathetically like I did. Instead, she used my own words against me with a mournful look occupying her supple face. "You said it about yourself, Heinrich. This is something I was forced to do too."

I muttered apologies, which I'm sure none of which landed. I turned my back to Dilara, and I distinctly remember the warmth leaving my forearm as the girl's tender fingers dropped from my hand. The musician's easy-going music clashed with my indescribable emotions. Every note angered me.

What did I feel like, you may wonder? I felt I drank a potent kind of drink, not rum, but instead a cocktail of watermelon and cyanide that blessed my taste buds at first and ultimately singed my lips and tongue of words.

I walked back to the stool, ready to down more poison.

As I sat down, losing my coordination slowly, Colt asked while trying not to fall over, "Where's the girl, Heinrich. Did you pour food on her and make her run away?"

I didn't reply as I asked for another shot. The bartender said that would be my last one, and I accepted it without complaint.

Kurt asked, pulling his red face into something resembling concern, "What's wrong, Heinrich?"

I swallowed the shot. It added to my inner flame that I tried to keep tamed. I said while taking in the burn, "She's a prostitute, Kurt."

Kurt and Viktor looked at each other, and Colt answered as if the situation was obvious, "I know she would be a prostitute. Viktor made me mention that yesterday. You thought I was joking?" He chuckled.

Kurt asked carelessly, "she didn't like you, did she?"

I slapped Kurt across the face, not knowing how else to respond to the question. He looked back at me unaffected like a boxing bag that doesn't whine about you hitting it.

I looked back down at the bar counter, at my glass, and saw my refracted reflection again. I asked, "She was nice to me, but was it for some cash?"

My group stayed silent. This situation was hurtful enough to reach their senses and prevent stupid comments. I stacked my shot glasses together and said, "I thought she didn't care that I am Eldian."

I got up from the stool again, expecting my friends to follow me, and trudged towards the entrance. I grabbed chairs here and there to balance myself, and people occasionally congratulated me for my guitar performance, but I rejected their compliments. The one thing that I hadn't lost yet was my memory, but that didn't help my situation.

When standing outside the bar, I perfectly remember saying this one thing to myself, and my friends wandered out: "I don't belong here." I looked right and saw the brothel mentioned above, which had no windows. No one could look in or look out.

What was I doing near one of those things?

XXX

I swayed side to side, getting used to breathing fresh again. My friends tried to keep me upright, and I did the same for them. It was like a game of dominoes, but you're trying not to let anyone fall. The group didn't verbally try to solve my issue; instead, they wanted to take me as far away from this problem as possible.

We walked back to the buses to hopefully find Falco. Innocence always seems to cure a saddened state. Our walk to the buses was a wild journey since we actively had to keep each other from straying too far.

We found the young, warrior candidates playing cards with the bus drivers when we reached the buses. Thankfully, there was nothing to bet. Nurturing gambling in children sounds like a fast way to ruin innocence. The non-gambling children outside the bus were staring at the stars above, looking for shapes—Falco was one of these kids.

Colt lunged in to hug Falco. I pushed Colt away and embraced Falco myself. His slight frame made me reach down, and his hair still smelled foreign. It was crusty.

"Heinrich, why are you crying?" Falco asked.

"I'm crying?" I asked, disoriented. "I was just so happy in that bar. I miss it."

Falco pulled away from me and closed his nose, "you all smell like vomit."

"We didn't vomit," Colt protested after stepping away to vomit.

"I swallowed mine," Viktor commented.

My friends and I sat next to the bus, and Falco joined in. He instructed us on his game of stargazing. While he explained, I observed my fellow soldiers walk about the street with more muted expressions than before. The streetlamps were fully activated and made yellow posters on the walls that would probably disappear when the lights turn off during the day.

There weren't enough lights to make the stars invisible, however. I thought the sky looked like a black sheet of paper, and the soldier in the sky tapped his white paintbrush in random spots when sleeping.

Falco pointed up, "Look! That constellation looks like an apple."

Colt pointed another one out, "That one looks like a pear."

"Maybe they're scared of each other, because they're so different," I muttered.

Kurt then pointed one out, "that one looks like a cloud."

"Maybe someone will drop a bomb from up there," I said bitterly.

Falco leaned past Colt and asked, "Heinrich, are you okay?"

I didn't reply, but I swallowed my sour attitude and forced myself to be better for my friends. I sat up properly and pointed out a constellation myself, "That one looks like a cat that thinks it's a cat."

"It must be a smart cat then," Falco replied, smiling with his wide eyes. The other boys squinted, confused. Kurt retorted, "cats think they are cats because they are cats."

"Well, that cabbage up there thinks it's a man. It doesn't think it's a cabbage just because it's a cabbage." I pointed out another constellation that remotely looked like a vegetable.

Falco answered again, following along with the joke, "that's a smart cabbage then."

Viktor answered while scratching his nose, "the cabbage man back home probably thinks he's a cabbage. He's not very bright."

Kurt replied to Viktor, "The cabbage man back home isn't bright since he isn't a light. He's a human, and humans don't glow."

I said a broad statement, almost smiling, "I see the sky. It's pretending to be a canvas."

Falco answered after a few seconds, "I see the stars. They're pretending to be white dots of paint."

We spent the remaining hours playing goofy games, and I frankly enjoyed it more than having to be reminded of my race for every other second. When 11:45 pm came around, the boys and me, without Colt and Falco, walked back to the bar to find some closure to my situation.

Someone stepped out of the questionable building next door when we were about to walk in. It was the pathetic bully, Milo. He left the creepy building while zipping his fly and tightening his belt.

The boys and I got the alcohol out of our system since numerous hours passed, and our personalities finally returned to us. Well, they mostly did, since Kurt chose to do something daring, even more daring than becoming a clown: he spoke against Milo.

"Are you happy with what you've done, Milo?" Kurt confronted the buffoon and started picking into the man's pockets. He pulled out a familiar picture. "Do you think Pieck would be happy with what you did just now?"

Milo stared at the picture, and his expression decayed like an unwatered plant. His face started energetic like a flower with broad and alive petals, but they grew wilted and shriveled up.

Milo admitted his mistake, "I'm a pig, I know! You don't have to rub it in my face. I just… I just succumbed to my desires." He kneeled to the ground, and Kurt dropped the picture on top of his head like a hat.

I called out to Viktor, who was walking to the creepy building, "Viktor, where are you going?"

He shouted, "succumbing to my desires."

Kurt jogged over, grabbed Viktor's wrist, and pulled him back. "This place is corrupting you. Milo couldn't keep it in his pants. We don't need the same thing with you." He paused, "I'm getting corrupted too. Look at my tongue. I've tasted the devil's piss!"

"What does that mean? Did you taste your own piss?" Viktor said, trying to remove the tight grip on his wrist.

"The spirits! The alcohol!"

Kaslow walked out of the creepy building, so the boys and I immediately booked it back to buses. We didn't need further association with that place.

As we packed into the buses in preparation to get home, the air acted like a sponge and spread around vomit smells, burps from food, and anything else you could think of. When Kaslow got on, I avoided eye contact with him and simply looked out the window.

There she was again.

I saw Dalira, my single-serving friend, walking out of the bar in the distance with a taller person, likely a military man. I'm sure she didn't sing for that fool. They walked into the questionable building, and as you expect, probably committed questionable things.

Was I supposed to stop this?

The only women I saw in those four months were nurses, and on the city day, prostitutes. I missed the days in the internment zone where I had Lina and mama, humble people doing their jobs, like me. I yearned to see a whole society again, not one catered to military men that want to get their perverseness out on things.

As the bus engine rumbled, I saw the man and woman from earlier locking up the restaurant windows and entrance. I wondered what they had to put up with during the Marleyan colonization.

These wonderings, these concerns, and these events loosened as I teetered off into sleep…

XXX

I did my best to not think of the city day events for the coming days. I didn't find that quite tricky, though, since I had to face inferiority to one race, the Marleyans, instead of two like in the city. But I can say that even if I didn't specifically think about that day's events, they displayed a few world truths in the false perspectives, and they'll always be there.

It's like seeing a dead body for the first time. You don't think about it that often, yet something is permanently switched on for the remainder of your life.

So, a few days after that "enjoyable" respite, Kaslow and the other sergeants gathered all the regular infantry at the training camp entrance for yet another first-time experience. We conversed until a man with a camera set a stool a few dozen feet away from us and stood on top. The camera grew legs and planted into the ground. I guess they wanted to take pictures of us before heading into war.

That's right. I said it. We were finally heading into battle.

The seconds we had to stay still for the camera to process made me wonder if I would see a gun pointing out of it. Alas, I also thought about the time when I came across Milo, and he debated with Kurt on Pieck's attractiveness—the time I saw Falco in the medical tent with a sprained ankle—the time Kaslow forced Kurt into calling him "pretty"—the time I wrote a piece of fiction.

All of these things flashed me in those infinite seconds, a pocket of time that carries so much.

I realize now that this picture I never saw a copy of was the culmination of my misfortuned and occasionally fortunate adventures. It led up to that pathetic straight face I kept as an ant crawled onto my shoe.

If I saw that picture today, I would see The Soul of War in it.

In the interlude from a while back and even in a chapter before then, I said, "battlefield is a set of hungry tastebuds needing to be satiated." War, in general, would be a body in this comparison. But who plays the heart of this body or even the soul?

We did.

War is a self-damaging concept that eats its own soul with pride, for it stabs its fingers into its chest and rips us right out for consumption. The seasonings would be our clothes and our tasty memories.

Enough of that. Let's move on to the first battle.

PART 4

Complete

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The Real Author's Note

Guys, part 4 is finally over. We are now heading into part 5 which is the final part of the story.

I'm just curious, a writer's perspective is obviously much different than the reader's, but what was a memorable moment(s) that got you guys into the story? Were there any favorite moments from part 3 and part 4 or any of the parts? Favorite characters? Settings? What would like for the coming chapters?

Sorry for so many questions especially after a long chapter, but I would like to gauge general opinion and compare it to my own.

P.S. Another "interlude" will be uploaded soon, probably in a day or so. (That won't be 18000 words. Don't worry.)