August 26th, 2030, 4:13 pm

(TW: implication of suicide)

I sling my cerulean flannel over my shoulders to cover my white t-shirt. I roll my sleeves up to my elbows and pull my dog tags away from my bare chest. The blue glow fades into the silver as they hang where my ribs divide. The chain isn't too long, which actually makes the dog tags kind of stylish. They add a new personality to my outfits.

I take a step into the bathroom onto the rigid tiles. I stare straight through myself in the mirror, running my fingers through my hair once. It seems to be staying upright nicely, unlike how it was this morning. Strands stick out here and there, but it's not like I'm going on a date or anything. I'm not trying to impress anyone with some variant of my devilish good looks.

The Captain is taking me to meet my mom for the first time today. I haven't seen her since March, so I don't know what she thinks about me. I wouldn't blame her for being angry; if my kid became a criminal, I would be mad too. But maybe she can see me for who I am now instead of who I used to be. I think she can be proud of me.

I can't wait to see her reaction when I walk in through that doorway with the cream-colored frame. The same one I always did when I came home from school as a child or late night baseball practices. I'm curious to see my room, and if it's the same way it was when I was last there. Knowing Mom, though, she would definitely tidy it up, awaiting my eventual return. I'm not entirely sure that this is a surprise visit so she could've prepared the house first. Either way, I'm expecting the house to be spotless.

Mom never wanted me to join the Imperial Guard, and neither did Dad. She would say to "never follow in your father's footsteps" or, more eerily, "look at how sad his job makes him." Dad, on the other hand, would encourage me not to join by saying that his job is dangerous and I could get seriously hurt. He always used the threat that one of his buddies died as soon as he joined, and if I wasn't careful, the same would happen to me. I never understood that statement until the other night when Celestine told me about what happened to her dad.

I think that attitude will change when she sees me again.

I emerge from the powder room as Celestine opens her door. Her face is flushed of all color, except for her nose, which is bright pink. She wraps herself in a fuzzy gray blanket over her sweats. Her dark hair sits on top of her head in a messy bun, and there are pieces hanging out here and there. She sniffs, and I can hear all of it.

"How was your nap?" I inquire as she trudges toward the steps with her blanket collecting dust. "Are you feeling better?"

She coughs, guarding her mouth underneath the covering. "I feel fantastic."

We mosey downstairs and into the kitchen where the Captain is attending to the stove. His arm curls around a small pot with steam seeping from the top. The room seems to grow exponentially warmer the further I venture, which I'm sure kills Celestine right now. The last thing she needs is to be heated, especially under her blanket and sweatshirt.

The rain today is ruthless, sort of how it was the night of the ranking. Heavy droplets splatter against the sliding doors beside the table, and the gusts of wind give them strength. There are no signs of thunder or lightning anywhere on the radar, so this shower should pass without harm. I may start to question the integrity of the infrastructure of this house, though, and see if it could hold through.

The Captain spins around the table with a bubbling bowl of dark liquid. "I hope you're feeling better. I made you some vegetable soup like you used to eat when you were younger." He sets the bowl in front of her, releasing a smile from both of them. "There's a whole pot over there if you need any more."

"Thanks, Dad." She pulls at her sleeves, exposing her arms to the lighting ornament above. She grasps the spoon and blows at the surface of the soup. He plants a kiss on the top of her head as she stirs her dinner.

He turns to me, starting toward the foyer. "Did you finish your laundry?"

Without another word, I skip through the door in the hall and down to the basement. The Captain told me to have my clothes neatly folded and done once we left for my house. I threw my stuff into the washer this morning, and he continued asking me if it was in the dryer after we heard the timer go off. I guess I never got to it.

I left the cellar light on from when I was down here this morning. The layout of this single room is simple with nothing too fancy. Stone-brick lines the walls and a wooden ceiling hangs over the top of my head. A single light bulb dangles from a couple of wires in the center of the room. The air is a bit stuffy down here like it's a jungle or something. There is a window high on the wall where one can see the severe rainstorm shattering the earth above.

The washer and dryer sit below this little window, in between shelves and cabinets of old junk. At least on this side, it's garbage. Near the stairs, the other shelving units seem to hold books and photo albums, as well as boxes with a big eagle across them. Much like the one on my tag.

I spring the washer door open and reach in to sift through my cool, damp clothes. One by one, I take handfuls and shove them into the dryer beside it, leaving my hands clammy. I slam the dryer door closed, ensuring that it is sealed, and turn it on. The machine revs up, and I watch as my clothes spin round and round for the next thirty to forty minutes.

Or the next ten or so, when I have to leave for home.

I guess I could pass the time down here instead of soaking in Celestine's illness. Yesterday she came down with a cold and it escalated. This morning she woke up with a fever and has been in bed since. Hopefully, she should be cooling down within the next couple days, because the Imperial Guard ceremony is fast approaching and I want her to feel well enough to be there.

I could check out some of these Imperial Guard boxes that are sitting all over the room. Now that I'm a guard myself, I could try digging up dirt about some of the Captain's colleagues so that I can join in on their banter at HQ. Maybe then the Captain will think I'm cool and want to talk to me more.

There is one container beside the washer that looks intriguing. Written in black permanent marker over the plastic is 2000. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that's when the Captain was ranked. Since I made it into the Imperial Guard, I've been curious to see how different things have gotten over the years. That is if you disregard the sick, glow-in-the-heat dog tags.

I delve into the contents and find a plethora of interesting material. One of the first photos that appear on the top layer is divided between black and white and weak color, depicting two teen-aged boys. I can quickly determine that the boy on the right is the Captain; his face is easy to recognize. The kid on the left, however, has less definitive features, ones I have never seen before. He also wears the same black Imperial Guard uniform with a gold outline around the collar. Something I can pick out between them is that they have the same face shape. I'm no detective, but I think the man I am looking at is the Captain's dad. It kind of reminds me of my dad and I. I want to do a comparison like this when I get my picture taken.

He has a copy of that picture of him and his class from the office. It's framed and everything, almost as if he just replaced it. It's even grimmer now than when I first saw it, knowing that six of the kids in this picture were kidnapped, beaten, and, except for Brian, killed. The way they all smiled; there is no way they saw any of this coming.

I set the frame back into the box and seal the lid. I can't bear to look at their faces or any of the other mementos that are scattered in that crate any longer. It makes my insides squirm thinking that these recruits were only seventeen years old when they were murdered. Seventeen. And they were killed by the Medo. I'm glad I cut ties with Roarke now that I know what his cult really stands for.

I always wondered something. Whatever happened to Celestine's mom and brother, Hayes? It's very possible that her parents are divorced, and Hayes went with the mother. But now I'm not so sure. Celestine never talks about them, and neither does the Captain. And whenever they mention Hayes, their statements are brief. It must have been messy; I shouldn't indulge.

But what harm could it do to search for any kinds of remains? I doubt they disposed of any family pictures after the separation. Somewhere there must be a box of items belonging to the Captain's wife, as well as one that was once possessed by Hayes. I should know; Hayes' room is totally void of any items that are personal besides clothes and furniture. I even checked the closet, and there were no traces of anything. That being said, it should be around here somewhere.

I stray away from the Imperial Guard memorabilia and strut toward the shelves with boxes without the eagle on its side. Is this a dishonest and dirty thing to do? I have no business doing this sort of thing, and if the Captain finds out that I've been snooping around in his family's closet, he'll rip my head off. Nonviolently, of course.

My sight graces each box as I search up and down the shelves. I can hear him now. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Do you live here? Who gave you the right to look through my stuff? You're in the Imperial Guard now, you're a changed man." Yadda yadda yadda.

A resounding crash clatters outside the small window. It's no use looking anymore. If I want to find something, I'll have to start picking out boxes and eliminating one by one. I have to work quickly before I go to visit my mom. I pull out the box from the bottom with a minimal amount of dust particles whipping off as I reveal it to the light.

I lift the lid. Above me, I pick up on my name being called. Through the numbing silence, it is all I hear.

What lies on the surface of the keepsakes is another framed photograph, far more colorful and defined than the ones from the Captain's early years. It depicts a man standing beside him, grinning, with a sturdy arm around his shoulder. His almond-shaped eyes are of a darker shade, but it doesn't dim his other display of personality. Dried dirt is splattered all over his face, molding his honey-colored hair together. He has a light dusting of facial hair below his nose. Both he and the Captain are decked out in light green camo.

Dad. If I remember anything about what he looked like, this is it. I'm more interested in finding information about the Manchesters, but this could pass the time.

I place the photograph on the ground by my feet. Below a few stacks of grainy pictures is a cardboard box. Clear tape stretched around the edge seals it tightly. I don't know if it would be right to open this. It could be something very personal lodged into a container with an overwhelming amount of snapshots of my father. Kind of strange. A little obsessive, even.

What the hell? I'm his son.

I dig my fingernail under the tape and pick at it until it comes straight off. I tear it and pull the sides away, giving air to the inside. My hands wait there until my brain decides what to do next, if anything at all.

"Slater? Hurry up, we're leaving soon." The Captain calls down to me with half a heart beating.

A clean white cap lies atop a slick black uniform, the same one with the yellow embroidery. Underneath the collar, my last name is stitched out in the same, dandelion thread. It appears as if it was never touched, or at least, not for the past decade.

I feel my heart beating against my shirt. A ringing is crushing the sides of my skull, deafening the commands of the Captain upstairs. As I remove the cap from the box, I refuse to move. A folded up piece of paper is tucked in the opening of the uniform, pleading for me to pull it out from where it hides. But I can't find the courage.

I keep my eyes on the smiling face of my father as my shaking hand reaches for the paper slip. There is something untrustworthy about how this box is decorated that makes me sick to my stomach. A twirling deep inside me riles up a feeling that I cannot describe.

With my hand trembling, I unfold the note.

To whom this may concern,

I have committed an inhumane act of hatred today. The "dutiful" Imperial Guard has once again disappointed me, and it is time that I make my statement. None of these disgusting orders I was given have any universal benefits besides asserting an authoritative dominance over a lesser people. And I find this all revolting.

Our encampment, comprised of men and women from Class 0 to 15, was set up in its entirety five days ago. We knew what our mission was from the start, or at least we thought we did. They said we would be eliminating hostiles in the North Forest; ones that would be plotting how to destroy our way of life. As it turned out, we fired on a civilian village. I watched young children run out of their houses screaming because their parents could not escape the blaze that trapped them. I watched husbands shield their wives and babies from gunfire. Once it was all over, I realized that I have innocent blood on my hands. And as I write this, I still do.

So, I sit in my tent, contemplating whether or not I will commit a most dastardly crime on the ones I love. How can I go home to my wife and son without thinking about the needless slaughter I recently perpetrated? There are men who are born of the same flesh as me who will never see their families again because I killed them. In the countless years I will live, I will never forget or forgive myself for this most heinous act.

I have decided. I will suffer no longer.

I would, however, like to give a final word to the ones who I love the most. First, to the man who currently sits five feet away from me, Brian Manchester. I have never had a closer friend in the years I have lived. A man of trial pacifism, you have taught me about patience and perseverance. I will never forget running away from the attack on our camp in our first year, and believing that I saw you for the last time when you pleaded for me to keep going and leave you behind. When I saw you for the first time when you came out of the hole, my heart was at ease. You and I just had a conversation about the content of this letter and my intent, and you are doing everything in your power to resist what I will do to myself. Thank you for trying. I beg you to take care of my family in my absence until Slater is grown. I will never respect another man more than you. I salute you.

Jo, sweetheart, you are my first true love. I am so glad that I was able to spend these last fifteen years with you, and the last seven taking care of our beautiful son. I pray that he takes after you and your vivid, kind heart. The experiences we have had over the years cannot be bought with the greatest fortune in the world. Your love cannot be replaced. You are the star in my sky, forever and always. I will see you up there.

And to Slater, my greatest joy. It will perhaps be many moons until you read this. I will never forget the day you were born. When your mother and I found out that you were a boy, I could hardly contain my excitement. I wanted nothing more than to teach you how to play baseball, go fishing, and go hunting with Brian and Hayes. I am sorry that those visions of me with you must come to an end. But please, son, do not stop dreaming. You are the emperor of your own life. If you want to play professional baseball, do it. If you want to become a doctor, do it. I know how smart you are. And if you want to change the world, then, by all means, do it. Please never forget that I am always watching you, through the good times and the bad. All you have to do is yell out to the stars, and I will be listening.

I am sorry that my life must end this way. A great guilt destroys my heart and wretches my mind. My final wish is that the Imperial Guard will find a guiding light to escort the darkness from the helm so no more innocent people must die. As my wonderful, late mother always said, "Dieu, pardonne moi." Because I cannot.

-MSgt. Calvin J. Tross

"Slater, what the hell are you doing down here? I-"

Numb.

The sheet of paper clutched in my hands has a collection of damp circles covering its surface. I can hardly keep my eyes open as tears flood down my cheeks, staining my skin with watery rivers. My nose struggles to hold back any excess fluid. My father's name, penned without a flaw at the bottom of the note, is drenched.

I swivel my head to see the Captain, staring down at me on the floor. He is frozen to the ground, bouncing his attention between myself and the note. He streams a hand through his depleting hair and crouches beside me. The lines in his face run deep as his gaze prevents me from bursting into pure emotional anguish. He knows.

"Is he really gone?" I ask, looking at my father's best friend right in the eyes. He doesn't say a word. I'm trying to hold it together but as the moments pass it gets worse. I can't believe I have been in the dark for this long. With all respects and the information I have been subject to, this is a silly question. I let out a sob and duck my head toward the Captain. I release the note and let it sink back into the box.

He draws my head close to his chest where I can feel him breathe. I heave with every thought I have of my dad writing that letter. My surge of tears melts into his usual white button-down shirt.

"I'm sorry, son. I was going to tell you eventually." He soothes my arm between hiccups of my breaths. "I didn't want you to find out this way."

I take a cough that reverts to a heartful whimper, and he pulls me into an embrace. My dream of creating a search party to find my dad after ten years has vanished into thin air. He's gone forever.