1948, PERAK, Malaya.

He swirled the dirty water with his stick. Finding nothing, he pulled it out and dropped the metal plate on the end back in, farther away. Lugging it towards him he found nothing again.

And again.

An inefficacious process, but nonetheless, he swished the dirt around once more.

The water splashed onto his soaked trousers.

Just finish the day, he thought to himself. Pulling his hat down against the heat of the sun, he dragged the topsoil closer with his tool. He drew it back out of the water, prepared to throw it back in, but paused, letting it drop into the water. A trifling sparkle of tin ore caught his eye.

But as he was bending down to reach for it, he stopped, squatting next to it rather than taking it from the shallow water. His bad leg jutted out, straight to the side.

If he turned it in, they would know that he didn't belong here. His blue eyes would set him apart in an instant.

If he dropped it, it would be a waste of precious metal. He needed as much as anyone to get back home, and with this, he just might be able to bribe a native for a phone.

He looked around beneath the brim of his hat at the other workers.

Seeing that no one was looking, he took the shiny metal and tucked it into the pocket of his trousers.

As he stood, lifting himself shakily on his good leg, he pretended to throw his find back into the water, hoping it would feign innocence.

He gripped his tool and dropped the metal end into the muddy liquid at his feet. He scraped it along the soil beneath the thin layer of water, eyes searching. Maybe there'd be more.

Splashing and ripples distorted his view beneath the surface as a young Chinese boy raced towards the engine shed, where the guardpost sat.

"Calm, Ivan," he whispered under his breath. "Just finish the day."

***

"Are you ready, Ali?" Amadi asked. It had taken them 16 days to finally reach Perak, hiding from everyone. Because they had rounded around Malaysia and bordered Thailand, avoiding all major cities, the trip was 1021 kilometers of trekking, hiding, scavenging and running. But finally, they had arrived at their base and after years of staying under the radar and planning, they found themselves in an alleyway.

"Just once more, repeat it to me."

"Simple: I go and distract the guards with my men - a raiding party," Amadi explained. "You take the matches and the tinder and light the engine shed."

"Which one is that again?"
"It should be wood, around 10 feet tall, with railways leading to it."

"So exactly what it sounds like." Ali groaned. Amadi crowed.

"Exactly," he confirmed. "And we meet back here no later than dusk. Don't let them catch your trail, 'li."

Ali rolled his eyes at the nickname and moved away from the brick wall and its shadows.

Amadi noticed a poster and reached up to tear it down, but Ali grabbed his wrist.

Then he took his knife and pricked his finger, deep enough for blood to flow freely.

"What on earth are you doing, Ali?"

He raised his hand to the poster and began to draw 5 lines to form a messy, hardly identifiable red star. Finally, he stepped back and licked his finger.

"Psycho."

Amadi pat Ali on the back then turned into the midday sunlight.

Ali jogged past him and continued down the street. He didn't stop until he reached the railway tracks, and only then did he take off his Communist-marked jacket. If he was caught, he wouldn't link it with them. He chucked it into a nearby trash pile.

He followed the railway tracks to the engine shed, where two engines sat, occupying two of the four berths.

Then, he ducked into the shadows.

Slipping into the shed unnoticed, he shrunk against the wall and pulled out the matches. And without further ado - Ali waited.

***

Suddenly, a shout made a shiver run through his bones. Sneaking another peek of the setting beneath his straw hat, Ivan watched as the other labourers dropped their tools. He stopped where he was and followed along. They couldn't know he didn't understand them. And they won't, he reassured himself.

More shouts escalated behind him, but he stayed where he was, facing another labourer. He lowered his gaze.

The shouting crescendoed, but without a doubt, it was for someone else.

A quick panic seized his thoughts.

He risked a look up. It was a long way from the nearest wooden ladder, and in no time at all, he could feel the perspiration on his forehead.

And as soon as he saw the ripples in the water behind him, he knew his theory was confirmed.

Just as he turned to face their creator, a hand grasped his upper arm and pulled almost to make him trip - but he moved his feet and found the guard's pace. He didn't look up. One look from his blue eyes would give him away in a heartbeat.

The guard dragged him up a wooden plank dented with footholds, all the way to the very top of the mine. He pulled him near the engine shed.

The man said something in Chinese.

Ivan shrugged.

Then the guard shoved Ivan to the ground and reached into his pocket.

But as Ivan hit the ground, his large conical hat fell beside him, exposing his blond hair.

Both the guard's and Ivan's eyes widened, and Ivan began scrambling to his feet, leaning heavily on his good leg.

The man called something indistinguishable and Ivan rushed, limping along the wall, only to be stopped by a larger man who shoved Ivan to the ground almost in a flick.

He stumbled in the mud but found himself pushing up against the outer wall of the engine shed.

The second, bigger man put a knee on Ivan's stomach and he released a groan as the man reached into his pocket and pulled the small piece of tin from the cloth.

As he inspected the small piece, Ivan searched his surroundings. Anything, he thought. Anything I could use.

His hands found a rock, about the size of his fist. He curled it into his grasp and tightened it with every passing second, waiting for the guard.

Finally, the man looked up, throwing the tin into the ground to his right. Ivan swung his arm as hard as he could from the ground, gaining as much momentum as possible.

Just as the impact was milliseconds from occurring, the guard ducked and snatched Ivan's hand mid-air, squeezing so hard that he dropped the rock to the ground. Ivan was hauled up, and their faces were inches as the Chinese man spat some sort of curse.

As more yelling continued, Ivan studied the man, and noticed exactly when his muscles tensed, seconds before he dropped Ivan and roared back. With the reply, the man seemingly forgot all about Ivan and sprinted around the engine shed.

Ivan sighed.

He used the wood siding behind him to lift himself from the ground and turned to run. If anything, he had to get out of here.

But which way? He looked to the left, where a road led away. To the right, he saw the railway tracks leading to town. The smoke from the steam engines raised high above the roof, a thick, dark grey colour polluting the air. Wait, he thought.

He stared at the smoke. Wisps of some unidentifiable object floated in the heat, along with tiny scarlet stars.

"Steam engines don't produce smoke like that," he thought aloud. What could it be? He wondered, staring into the smoke. Screams began to pierce the air, and a horn began to sound around the mill. A man sprinted past, looking like someone he used to know. Ivan shook away the thought.

He scrambled to peer around the engine shed, inside where the smoke was coming from, but his good leg caught a rock and he fell to the floor with his bad leg catching the brunt of the fall. He looked back to see the rock that he had attacked the guard with - or at least tried to. A wave of strong heat hit his face and he looked into the engine shed.

Or what was left of it.

Bright flames caressed the wood panels, rising far above his head into the roof. The engine sat idle, and Ivan watched as men loaded it with as much tin as they could. The conductor yelled out the window as the flames inched closer.

The engine was going to overheat, Ivan realized. In the rush of adrenaline, he lost feeling in his bad leg and ran on it without a care, slamming into the side of the engine.

"Leave!" He shouted. He grabbed the men's shirts and turned them around, pushing them into the wall of the engine shed. He ran up to the conductor and flicked his wrists, motioning for him to go.

The engine roared louder, and the conductor didn't bother with a horn as the wheels began to turn on the track.

Ivan issued a sigh of relief.

But the flames were still here.

As the engine began to inch forward, Ivan ran back towards the men and grabbed their wrists as the fire caught on their wall, pulling them into the open.

More screams echoed from inside, and Ivan coughed from the smoke.

His lungs burned as he heaved a deep breath, and he held it as he ran back into the shed. The smoke had coated his vision in the shed with an eerie black shadow, and even as he moved towards the screams he could hear them getting fainter and fainter until there were none at all.

The fire's cackle howled above him, and he looked up just in time.

A large part of the roof fell from just above him and he fell to the side, covering his head.

He breathed in the smoky air and coughed in the madness.

Suddenly, a sharp pain hit his bad leg, and he cried in the torture.

With everything clouded by smoke and silhouetted by the flames, he felt down towards the injury and his hand recoiled when he felt a piece of wood.

His fingers trailed his leg and found the piece jutting from his leg. A part of a wooden plank had impaled him.

Ivan shook his head, trying to ignore the pain. But as he tried to stand up, just moving his leg the slightest bit, the pain rebounded through his limbs, and a fire of pain, worse than the heat of the flames surrounding him, lit his bones.

He collapsed into the floor.

But when his hand fell above his head, it landed on metal.

Hot, burning metal. He withdrew.

The railway, he realized.

But it wasn't moving. If the engine was leaving, he would've felt the vibrations, even from a kilometre away.

He hadn't realized he was sweating until he grasped the metal to pull close to it and his fingers slid from the rail. Blisters boiled on his hand.

He cursed. The engine definitely wasn't moving.

A creak of metal caught his attention. His mind spun. The railways? Surely the rails aren't creaking...

His eyes flickered towards the entrance of the shed, but his view was blocked by the fallen roof.

Suddenly, as if he hadn't felt it before, the heat began to rise in the shed.

If breathing wasn't hard before, it sure was now. His lungs felt physically constricted from the heat, and he staggered a deep breath in the thick smoke. Ivan burst into a fit of coughs.

The creaking became louder.

If the engine hasn't left, could it be creaking? But what part- what would creak in heat?

His thoughts buzzed and blurred in the haze.

Why did the engine have to leave again? He thought.

If his thoughts were lost there, how could he even think of finding a solution?

Then it hit him. The engine had to leave because it would overheat. And if the engine overheated, then it would explode. And if it exploded...

The creaking echoed in his mind.

The creaking - that was the engine. It was the boiler, overheating.

The engine has to get out of here.

Ivan found the railway again and found its direction. He twisted in the dirt and began to follow its path, army crawling on his elbows and using his good leg to push him.

The flames of the fallen roof blocked his path. Grabbing whatever was closest, he hurled it at the planks, and thankfully, they fell into ashes and the fire disintegrated in the ground, finding no fuel.

Daylight leaked in and silhouetted the engine in front of him.

He inched toward the machine. The creaking rattled his insides.

At last, he grasped the wheel. It singed his skin and he pulled away, cursing. Of course it's hot. He reached for the ground next to it and dragged himself closer, curling his fingers into the dirt for better hold.

Through his blurry vision, he saw the conductor leap from the engine.

Less than two meters, he reminded himself.

Two meters.

He inched closer. The creaking inched closer. Its sound sent him shivering, despite the scorching heat.

Finally, his hand grasped the footstep for the cabin door.

***

Ali ran as fast as he could. Escaping the heat, he ran by a bunch of workers, shouting a few warnings as he passed.

As he bolted, he picked up his jacket from the trash pile and kept it in his arm as he ran, until finally, he reached the alleyway where he was going to meet Amadi.

He stopped near the poster and examined it, bored. It was an entry for the flag competition of Malaysia, faded from a year of flapping uselessly in the breeze in the alley. It held 11 stripes, alternating red and white, with a blue rectangle - taking up a quarter of the flag - in the top right corner. On the blue, there was a yellow crescent and an 11-pointed star. Then, the blood-red star Ali had drawn when he left. He looked at where the blood had dripped down the paper, a drop hanging about a quarter way up from the bottom of the sheet. He felt his finger, where the scab had already grown.

In the distance, a loud explosion drew him from his thoughts. He turned towards the shed and saw as the smoke darkened and blew from the engine shed, so close to the mine. The smoke mushroomed in the air and climbed.

Ali let out a silent prayer, hoping that no one got hurt.

Amadi came running into the alley.

"Ali, not everyone got out."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, 'li, but they didn't all survive."

Heat flared around Ali's neck and he felt the anger snowballing within his thoughts.

"Amadi, you said that no one would get hurt!" Ali gritted his teeth with his newfound anger. "How many were hurt?"

Amadi didn't reply. Ali shoved him. "I said, how many were hurt, brother?!"

"We killed two men, several were badly injured."

Ali's fingers curled tightly into fists and he took two steps towards his brother, then turned back around. He paced to the end of the alley.

"I'm sorry, 'li."

"How dare you!" Ali raved, turning back to face Amadi. "Innocent lives were taken! Because of us! You said - You promised!"

"I know -"

"And you -" Ali pushed a finger into Amadi's chest. "You probably didn't even give them a second thought." He pushed Amadi back, closer to the street.

"Ali..." Amadi warned.

"You probably watched!" Ali pushed farther. Suddenly, they were both on the street.

"Ali!" Amadi yelled. "Stop!"

Ali shoved Amadi to the ground, but instantly regret it.

He was hit with a pang of deja vu of when Ivan had shoved him to the ground. Ali turned his back to Amadi and slipped back into the shadow of the alleyway. He squatted and pushed into the brick wall, leaning his head into its coolness. His eyes welled up beneath his lashes and he closed his eyes against the pain, silently hoping he wouldn't cry in front of his younger brother. Amadi scoffed at his brother's mood change as he rose from the ground, dusting himself off.

"Ivan, right?" Amadi asked, putting a hand on Ali's shoulder. Ali flinched in response. "Maybe you can find another Brit to befriend. One of the men who was badly hurt was blond."

"That could be considered an act of war," Ali whimpered.

"What did I tell you, 'li - we start them."

Ali let out a humoured breath. "You did, didn't you."

Amadi chuckled.

"Let's go see what happened; maybe we can help."

***

"Pretty horrific, isn't it," Amadi admit, watching as Ali's jaw dropped at the sight of the victims.

"It's..." Ali began. His water blurred his vision and he cleared with a blink, but wetness returned to tug at his lower lid.

"It's...?" Amadi turned towards Ali. "What - Oh, not again. What's the matter with you?"

"Amadi." He said.

"Yes?"

"No, it's Amadi." Ali split-stepped and sprinted towards two men carrying the body of a white man. Amadi paused. His eyes searched blankly for an answer, unfazed until they caught on the man's white skin, blond hair burned and black with soot. He ran after his brother.

Ali grasped Ivan's face in both his hands, wiping marks of ash and dirt off his cheeks. "Ivan," he whispered. Ivan's eyes lazily crept open, and Ali's heart leaped at the sight of his blue coral eyes. "Ali," he said, reciting his own name. Ivan blinked slowly. Then, Ali watched as realization struck, and Ivan's eyes widened and he squirmed.

"Lay him down," Ali said to the men in Chinese, and they obeyed, letting Ivan fall ungracefully onto the ground.

Ivan winced as Ali plopped down on his knees. Ali gave one look at his bad leg and, noticing the wood piece, closed his eyes and turned away. After a quick recovery, he turned back to pull up Ivan's pant leg and frowned as they stuck to the blood beneath. "You need help," Ali said. "Your leg looks infected."

"It's... fine," Ivan muttered.

"No, it's not. Amadi!" He turned.

Ivan flinched at the familiar name, watching as a man nearly identical to Ali dropped next to him.

"What happened to you," Amadi murmured. He sucked in a breath at the sight of the wood jutting from the leg, at the burns all over Ivan's body, at the ashes covering him in a layer of grime. "Grab his legs," he directed at Ali, and they carried him down the empty streets towards their in-town base. It was a small basement below a handmade-clothing store.

Ivan stared upwards as the afternoon sunlight transformed into large industrial lights and concrete ceilings. He cried out in pain as his leg hit the doorframe on the way in, and Ali uttered a quiet apology. Other communists stared as they carried the white-skinned boy towards the nearest table, quickly clearing it in a hassle.

"This might hurt," Amadi said, slipping on some gloves from his first aid kit.

"I don't think he understands," Ali stated as Ivan stared in horror.

"Fine by me," Amadi replied. "Hold on here," he commanded, motioning towards Ivan's shoulders and other leg. "Here we go."

He placed a firm grip on both his upper calf and pulled the wood from the wound. Then, noticing the badly healed broken bone, he gripped his lower calf as well, right near where the blood and bruising from a malformed broken bone produced brown and purple marks. Ali quickly shoved a rag in Ivan's open, already-gaping mouth, and blond hair rustled as he looked up at Ali from the table, eyes widening by the second.

A crack resounded in the room, and even the large group of people couldn't mute its echoes. Ivan's back arched with the pain, and even though Amadi had just set his bones in place again, there was no trace of gratitude in his stone cold stare. The glare stood Amadi's hairs on end but he held his ground with a confident "you're welcome" and a stiff walk away from the table.

Ali pulled the rag from Ivan's mouth, and instantly, a round of curses filled the silence. The people around began to slowly ease into conversation in the midst of Ivan's whining and, after a few minutes of listening to it, Ali shoved the rag back in Ivan's mouth and went to find his brother.

Amadi spun when Ali tapped him on the shoulder.

"Are you going to finish with him?"

"You try," Amadi answered. "I don't want to deal with his crying."

Ali sighed. "Really?"

"Yes, really." Ali rolled his eyes, then grabbed Amadi's wrist and jerked him back to Ivan.

"Finish what you started, Amadi, or your name will come to no meaning."

"Uh huh...." Amadi turned to head back to his bag.

"Amadi!"

"Calm down, Ali, I'm getting my bandages!"

"Well, hurry."

***

Ivan hopped off the table onto his good leg, all wrapped neatly in clean white bandages. After a few years of experience, he could do with only one leg, but after the incident, he was a little rusty.

He gripped onto Ali's shoulders as he was led toward a chair with a cushion, placed strategically between the main table and the kitchen. He took a look around. Amadi had run off somewhere to "do some business". He'd be back in around twenty minutes, he'd said.

The whole floor was dedicated to them, the Communists, but they had done nothing to personalize it. Ivan turned back forwards after apathetically becoming jaded by the grey, upon grey, upon shadows, and - surprise! - more grey of the boring basement.

He sighed dramatically.

Ali came hobbling back with a bit of water, and Ivan downed it quickly.

"Your English has improved," Ivan stated.

"I've practiced. Were you at the tin mines all these years?"

"A few transfers, but mainly here." A pang of guilt shuddered through Ali. All these years.

"I'm sorry," Ali said, and he realized it was the first time he had ever said the words.

"Me too."

Ivan locked eyes with Ali, his eyelashes brushing against his lids as he looked up.

Ali blinked. "Are you... feeling better?" He asked, not looking away.

"I am now, thanks." Ivan forced a smile, and liquid collected on his lashes, despite his blinking.

Ali ducked down and pulled Ivan into a tight squeeze, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Ivan swatted at a tear behind Ali's back.

"What a war," Ali whispered as Ivan chuckled. "What a war," Ivan replied, and he pulled back.

Ali scrunched his nose. "I thought you were dead."

"Well, that's clearly an overstatement." Ivan gestured at his leg.

Ali burst out laughing, glad for some kind of diversion of such a solemn discussion. Ivan joined in too, and somehow, someway Ali knew - he knew that it was back to normal. He knew that Ivan was back. He was safe.

The group of men stared at them as they laughed maniacally, eyes welling from happiness.

But as quickly as it had begun, it stopped when a knock slammed on the door to the street.

The group turned towards the door and Ali saw Amadi appear from the depths of the crowded basement, pointing as he counted the heads of all his men. He made his way to the entrance shaking his head. Amadi heaved a deep breath, and Ali tilted his head at the odd action.

But just as Amadi neared the door, it broke from its hinges and slammed on the floor, black boots marching atop.

He moved backwards, streamlining against the concrete wall to his right.

Ali let out a final chuckle, turning it into a cough as he noticed the austere expression drawn on the visitor's face. Ali and Ivan's smiles dripped from their faces onto the floor, pulling their lips into frowns as the man at the door brought his hand up to point.

"We're here," the officer said excruciatingly slow and unbearably loud for the small basement, "for you."