Hey guys, I said I was going to upload an interlude the day after the longer chapter but didn't get to it since I had two interviews this week among class work. If any of you are planning on going to college or have already completed it, searching for internships is not a fun process.

AJ: I'm glad you like Viktor and Kurt. I never expected anyone to really care about Kurt to be honest. And I can see why Mr. Kruger's chapter was so memorable. I miss writing him.

ikanisfish: That ice cream chapter feels so surreal when considering the events of later chapters. It feels like a totally different story looking back on those chapters.

I'm glad you like Heinrich, or at least, his narration. And yes, I will keep bombarding you with new phrases. I just hope they make sense, though.

I wonder what you thought of some of the darker parts of that longer chapter. I'm sure those didn't make any cackles but I tried my best to incorporate funny things as well. Although, to be quite honest, this story may not be as funny anymore...

I can empathize with your worry for the exam. I think every student can haha. One of the weird things I've noticed with my exams is that the preparation is stressful for long time, but after I complete some tests and do well, I feel happy for a few minutes and forget about it. Tests are weird.

An Eldian's Journal

Part 5

Another Damn Interlude

I'd like to pull you all out of those lovely days of angst and occasional buffoonery and return to my present days with buffoon-like Paradisiens destroying stages and the equally buffoon-like Marleyan military.

As I enjoyed the homely meal of air and dust this morning, the crowing speakers above my head squawked in their evil tongue, something about an attack. Our well-dressed and un-oppressed dictator ordered in his stately tone that the Marleyan military finished its preparation for revenge against the Paradisien attack.

As I chewed on this air, I began to wonder what time of day the blimps would fly along with the crows in the sky. I imagined how many would be needed to get the job done, especially when facing an island of unconventional fighters.

I don't have to imagine it any longer, though, since I see some of the blimps going above my head right now.

Wow.

It's been a while since I've seen those evil pillows in the sky, fluffed to the brim with sharp feathers that are plucked from propaganda birds. These blimps are marching valiantly with their propeller feet, signaling an eerie realization that another provocation in a 2000 year chess-match would take place.

There is some feeling that I'm not going to last much longer. I'm not afraid to mention it. This thought itches my back more than my poor hygiene. I think this will be the last procession of blimps I will see in my life.

Am I wrong for thinking this way? Am I being too pessimistic? In this time and day, pessimism is the baseline thought process, and a laugh here and there is the only thing to hinder it temporarily.

Well, what can I do? It's not like I can become a soldier again and bear arms after what shit I've pulled, and it's not like my health will permit it either. That won't matter to the military, though. All base-level soldiers are paperclips. If you lose one, you can find someone else to hold your papers…

What is there left to do?

I guess the only thing I can do is write. I've written so much in the past few weeks in hopes that at least one person can read my life's adventures, but now I'm unsure as to how much I should skip over due to my shortening time. There's more than one thing right now that's pushing me to death…

What's fueling me to write this? Maybe I'm looking for another story to sell to a newspaper publisher. Perhaps I'm writing a plea for someone to forgive my wrongs…

Or do I simply like writing?

Anyone can like writing, but why am I so desperate to describe my wanderings in the internment zone and a smelly camp? That's a simple enough question, yet it draws on so much. Maybe I crave nostalgia like a poor man's opium, yet my life only has so many decent moments ingrained in its withered fibers.

Maybe I'm a self-centered bastard that only cares for redemption.

Maybe I'm a coward without friends.

Maybe I'm strong for containing my paranoia by channeling it into scribbles.

Maybe I'm a miner searching for the gold of meaning in my coal-like memories.

That could be it. I'm no longer a boy that seeks freedom.

I could be a boy who seeks meaning. Meaning in subjugation, cruelty, animosity, laughter, and all the beautiful synonyms ending in "ty."

That is what I'm here to do, sitting on the side of the street.

Before we jump back into my fifteen-year-old days, I have to decide another name for this next part of the story. Soul of War was the last one, so we need something different now.

The Chase sounds boring and uncreative. Maybe I should name it simply by what it is, A Tale of Three Medics? No, it's too literal, and it's missing a flare to it.

You know what, screw it. I'm not wasting time on this.

***PART 5's TITLE***

The Tale of 1000 Men