You nod slowly. He just looks at you, eerily calm.
-
Well then. I do not regret having met you.You pull the envelope out of his uniform's inner pocket: it's a small rectangle of crisp wrapping paper. There are no marks on the envelope. With some trepidation, you open it. The soldier remains outwardly serene, but his eyes track the movement of your fingers with unsettling attention. You reach inside, take a deep breath, and pull the cardboard out. On your side, it’s printed with “Do not turn - MP Siren” in neat little letters. What’s on his side, you hope you’ll never know.
His pupils dilate; his face is all innocent curiosity and eyes, tracing lines on the sheet faster and faster, until suddenly they stop. For a second, his expression is unchanged. Then, his head drops, his shoulders slump, and he topples forward. Dead. You are sure of it: you don’t hear that rasping breath anymore. The royalist is dead.
For a few moments, all is silent, and you feel slightly ridiculous standing there barefoot, your water canister in one hand and your bit of butchered train in the other. Then the scream comes.
It’s a shrill, ululating wail that goes on and on without stopping until you are ready to scream, too. Your hackles raise. There’s thunder, and rain beats hard on the building’s tall metal roof. The scream does not stop. The shed with the handcar is outside, you remember. The scream does not stop. You become aware of your mother: she’s watching you from the rafters, or from the sky. It is not a comforting gaze. Your head hurts. You feel the traitor-troopers outside in your bones, marching in step.
Steel bar (wielded)
Work clothing (worn)
Lighter (almost full)
Knife-blade
Water canister (carried)
Isandan passport
Isandan military registry ticket (lieutenant of reserve)
Siren pattern (on cardboard)