2020: Chapter One

He looks back.

Unfortunately for him, the clock still reads ‘1:30.’ There’s still a half hour left in class. Sitting at the back of the sloped class, he has a perfect view of the room before him. Row upon row of equally disinterested students, sat at their cheap wooden desks in the dimly lit lecture hall. Fifty feet down and standing at an equally cheap lectern stands the instructor for the class, Professor Devine.

She’s gesturing to the projected screen behind her. However, his eyes don’t stay there very long. They scan the walls: large squares of some sort of grey fabric are affixed to them. He assumes they help with the acoustics of the spacious room.

He’s sat in the seat he always finds himself in: near the back of the lecture hall, to the right, and on the edge of this specific row. “I’m sure I could change seats,” his mind assures him, “But there’s something comforting in habits.” Next to him, a young woman, likely in her first year, busily texts away on her phone, her fingers dancing across the glossy screen. Her face, lit by the pale white light of the device, is focused. She’s also completely zoned out.

But who could blame either of them? This is an elective for most of them, and the sorry souls who are majors in history are likely well acquainted with the topic. Everyone knows something about World War II.

He looks back down to the lectern, finding Devine to be missing. However, she’s quickly located. She’s asked a question and is walking up his side of the hall. “Look down at your laptop, seem busy” are his words of advice to himself. Yet, the hypothetical gods of school are cruel today and she stops at his side.

“Can you answer the question…?” She looks at him imploringly, silently asking for his name.

He looks up at her, having successfully flipped his screen from Facebook to his notes, which are deceptively full, yet having in them no substance, they’re totally useless. “Logan,” he answers, “And I’m sorry, professor. What was the question? I was trying to get down what you were saying about the first VE Day.”

She knows he’s lying and in fact had been paying no attention, but she’s wearing a mic and the class can hear them both. He hates the sound of his voice – it sound nasally and lacks authority – but sometimes you just have to do a thing, despite it being unpleasant. She lets out a breath, “Where were the Japanese terms of unconditional surrender signed?”

“Aboard the USS Missouri in August, 1947. It was in… Nagoya. They were going to sign it in Tokyo Bay, but the harbour had been destroyed.” She gives him a levelling gaze, resigning him the victory that he either knew his stuff or had been listening. In either case, her unsubtle effort to prove no one was listening had failed.

It is common knowledge, after all, that Japan surrendered in 1947, after three long years of ground fighting between the Americans and the Japanese. Some had suggested the usage of nuclear weapons, and even with the death of President Roosevelt in 1946, his successor, Harry Truman, so no need as the island nation’s resistance was finally beginning to crumble.

A small alert flashes on his monitor. Someone’s message him on Facebook. Opening his browser again, he finds a curious message from his Resident Advisor, Alexis: “Looks like you’re finally getting a roommate again!” Logan lets out a small sigh and doesn’t respond. He misses having company, but there was always the chance this newcomer would be a complete freak like the last one. 

Leaning back in his plastic chair bolted to the ground, he stares blankly at the projector screen, fatigue gnawing at him. “I’ll close my eyes,” he yawns into his hand, “For just a minute…”

~*~

“Damn Logan, I can see when you read my messages, you know. For such a nice guy, you’ve got ice in your blood.” Alexis smirks at him as he goes to open the door to his dormitory. He looks momentarily confused at her presence, but quickly reminds himself she’s his neighbour, so it’s not impossible she’s aware of his comings and goings. She’s stuck her head out the door and is leaning around it, letting short auburn hair fall to the side.

Turning the key and unlocking the door, he scoffs. “Well, it’s not my fault someone messages me in class!” He wags a finger at her sarcastically, “You’re bad for my grades!” She smiles at him, shaking her head before stepping out from behind her door and holds it open with her left hand.

“Like you’re even paying attention. Remember when we took Greek and Roman Studies together? I was so pumped to cheat off you, and then it turns out you’re completely scatterbrained the whole time. I remember once, during a lecture, I asked if you had a charger for your phone: you dug around in your bag for a minute, only to pull out an eraser and hand it to me.” She flails her hand, “I mean, who does that?”

Propping open his own door with his foot, he winks at her, “Maybe that was on purpose! Anyway, we’ll talk later. I better clean up this dump before my new roomie comes around to judge my excellent taste in mouldy plates and half-eaten noodle cups.” Giving her a cheeky wave, he says in a singsong voice: “Toodles!”

“You’re hopeless, you know that?” Alexis offers one last smile, but this one has a knowing quality to it. Her dark eyes glint with unknown knowledge as she slips behind her door, leaving a mildly confused Logan in her wake. He steps into his own dorm, finding an unfamiliar sight. To his left, the de facto entry closet is no longer a sad pile of his coats. They’re, in fact, hung up! He looks around, his green eyes searching for the nefarious cleaner.

He hangs up his coat on one of the hangers which he can only vaguely recall buying before turning and noticing another fact. Across from the open closet in the short hall was the mirror he had seen many times. Except, this time, it’s clean. He watches himself, absently noting his dark hair looks almost black at this length, giving his eyes a popping quality. It’s something he’s been told many times is an attractive quality, but to him, they’re simply eyes.

He moves into the living space. To his left are three doors: two bedrooms and a washroom between them. Before him, an angular grey couch facing a TV, adjacent to a wall of floor length windows. To his right, the kitchen: a single wall of cabinets, a small fridge, a stove, and roughly three feet of countertop. All of it looks clean, another oddity.

Logan moves cautiously, feeling distinctly uncomfortable in this clean, functional space. The door to his room is ajar, and he sees through the crack that, mercifully, his new roommate has not also cleaned that. “Well, it seems they know some boundaries…” He muses aloud.

“I considered cleaning it, too, but it seemed too onerous of a task to take on myself.” The voice was behind him, and a startled Logan turns abruptly, finding an unfamiliar face staring at his. He finds another young man, looking to be no more than a year younger than himself. He has golden blond hair, slate coloured eyes, a pale complexion, a slim build, and is about an inch taller. “Dirk Ritter,” he says, offering a hand in greeting.

Logan takes it, momentarily silent, and shakes it. “Well, for such an exotic name you don’t have any accent! I’m almost disappointed.” His effort to break the awkward silence following his eyeing the stranger doesn’t seem to work, as the stranger simply blinks, obviously confused.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, Logan,” he says with a strange level of formality, “But I’ve spoken English all of my life.”

Logan feels his cheeks dust themselves crimson with embarrassment and decides to change the subject. “So, where are you from, then? It’s not often students start mid-semester.” His new roommate slowly moves toward the TV, absentmindedly brushing off a few specs of dust. “If I know my surnames – which I don’t – I’d guess you’re from Germany.”

Dirk’s bright, mystifying eyes, move back to Logan, and he shakes his head. It’s only now that he notices that the newcomer is wearing nothing but black: black slacks, a black zip-down sweater, and black socks. “Close,” he begins, his voice still measured and polite, “But not quite.” Logan knits his brow lightly, silently asking for more. “I’m from Lichtenstein. It’s a country –“

“In Europe, yeah. Everyone knows about it. It’s that tiny country that won’t join the UN…” Logan’s words trail off and he goes silent. That tiny country from which Dirk hailed had a lot of press recently. For fifty years it has avoided joining the EU and eventually the UN. “But!” He begins hastily, gesturing with his hands manically, worried he’s offended the newcomer, “I don’t think what those people on Fox News think. Just because you’re from the outside doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

His words were impulsive, and any positive feeling he had talking to Alexis had since passed. Logan feels a hot discomfort in his stomach, and his palms are slightly sweaty. How had he gone from shaking his hand to assuring Dirk that he didn’t think he was some kind of primitive freak?

Dirk thinks on what he’s told for a moment before moving toward Logan and clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m not offended. It’s good to hear that you don’t think I’m some hick from a country too stubborn to join either the UN or the World Confederation.” He drops his hand and motions to his own room, “Anyway, I need to unpack my things and then go out for a bit. I wasn’t aware Vancouver was a rainy city: I didn’t bring my umbrella.”

“Well, don’t tell anyone else that or they really think you are slow!” Logan says impulsively, though quietly regrets making that kind of joke. “I’m sure I’ll be around when you get back. I need to work on an assignment, anyway.” He lingers for a moment as his roommate moves toward his own room, “And, uh… Dirk. Thanks for cleaning up. Even if it did startle me to see the floor again.”

The blond haired foreigner chuckles, “Trust me, it surprised me too when I saw it. I was sure it was just an endless pile of crap.” The door closes lightly behind him, leaving a very confused Logan wondering just who this new roommate of him.

“Well,” Logan muses to himself, moving toward his room, “He’s anything but dull…”

~*~

The steady ring of telephones is a common sound to her. She knows it so well it’s become second nature to ignore them. She walks down a corridor between four sets of desks on either side. At the end of this room is a set of double doors. “Ishana, can you look over this report for me?” A young man asks to her right.

She stops, taking a moment to smooth out her grey suit jacket. The garment often hitched on her white blouse, and she found it horridly uncomfortable, but the dress code in this building was one that did not allow for any kind of traditional clothing. She stops at the man’s desk. He looks to be no older than thirty and, from what she can recall, is Taiwanese. He gestures to an open word document on his computer screen.

“This is for the secretary?” She questions, and receives a wordless nod in response. She leans over, pushing a few stray locks of black hair back as she examines the dossier. “I like this part about how projections can quickly become obsolete, but he’ll never present that. Take it out.”

He looks up at her for a moment and, despite her meagre height, looks very small in comparison to her. “Are you sure? It’s true, after all.”

“Jack, politicians hate to be told they can’t control the world. And you know Mr. Lin won’t let it go through.” She straightens her back and nods in agreement with herself, “Save yourself the grief.” She moves to walk off, although chuckles as she hears her subordinate busily backspace over the section she had critiqued.

Moving toward the set of double doors at the end of the hall, she takes a deep breath and pulls them open and steps in. Before her now is a large, white wooden desk supported by steel legs. A computer monitor and an assortment of documents are splayed out upon the desktop. In the corner of the room to her left, sharply contrasting the pale blue of the walls, was a thin TV. The far wall was covered in curved windows which overlooked the Linxi Scenic Area, west of Beijing. Short, green mountains undulated the surface before giving way to the busy city below. It gives the building a decidedly stately feel, as though it observes those below it.

Glancing at the half opened cabinets on the right hand wall, she shakes her head before looking to the man seated at the desk, now observing the TV in the corner. He had not even noticed her yet, let alone said anything. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lin,” she begins cordially, silencing any sound of an accent as she spoken his language, “You asked to see me?”

Mr. Lin, a middle-aged secretary, is a portly fellow, and she has always found him to be something of a wildcard: rarely is he calm. He is either moribund over the latest political blunder, or elated when he views, what he considers, a victory. Today, his brows are knit and his black hair looks evermore peppered with white.

He gestures to the TV, his elbows propped up on the desk and his fingers tented before him. “Are you seeing this?” He questions, motioning to the TV, “The Uzbekistan consul general has been assassinated. Right here in Beijing!” He lets out an irritated huff.

“That’s, what, the sixth dead dignitary in the past year? The United Nations is bold, that’s for sure,” she says as lightly as she can, not wanting to inflame her boss’s temper.

He shakes his head and pushes himself to a stand, moving to look out the windows. “Twelve million people in Beijing and we can’t protect a few hundred important ones,” he looks back at her. “Ishana, how in the hell are we supposed to keep the UN off our asses if we can’t protect our own? They’re going to see their successes as indicative of infighting.”

As she goes to speak, he raises his hand, “I know! The UN is also experiencing assassinations, and as I’m sure you’re aware, the secretary to the Chancellor – AKA, me – has no idea about such things. I’m sure some twit wearing a black suit and tie with aviators on is telling his subordinates in a cool voice that it’s “for the good of the nation.”” He pauses, and lets out a breath. “Anyway, I didn’t call you in here to listen to me belabour the obvious. I want you to go down to the trade office. The Chancellor’s up my ass about some deal Iran is trying to work out with Afghanistan.”

She nods, quietly ignoring his diatribe on the very much publicised assassinations taking place worldwide. “Alright, anything else?” She asks, fiddling with the hem of her jacket behind her back.

He snorts, amused with himself, “Yeah, and a coffee.”

Ishana turns and opens the double doors, “You can get your own coffee, Mr. Lin,” she reminds him coyly. She can hear him scoff at the idea and pick up his phone, likely to ask a weaker willed subordinate to run his errand, despite the fact there was a coffee machine in the adjoining room.

Her short heels clack noisily on the hardwood floor as she moves with renewed purpose. As she passes by the last desk on her right, a larger one with the word ‘Reception’ emblazoned upon a small name plate, she smiles at the elderly woman working there. She’s also Indian, and has a distinctly maternal feel to her way with people: “Ms. Neha, I’m going down to the trade office, if anyone asks for me, let them know I’ll be back in about a half hour.”

The elderly woman, clad in a thick, beige sari, smiles at her, “Of course, dear. Careful on the stairs outside! It was raining last I checked.” Ishana offers her a small wave and a smile in return before opening a set of glass doors which read “Secretary of the Chancellor” in block letters.

Now facing a set of silver doors, she pressed the down button and waited for the familiar ding of the elevator. As it did, she feels a familiar vibration in her pocket. “Who now?” She questions quietly as she enters the elevator. Pulling out her phone, she finds a text reading “Gonna be late for dinner, going to Liam’s house after school.” Her fingers tap the screen slowly as the elevator descends: “Okay, call your father if you need picked up before I’m home.”

“Jay has been spending an awful lot of time with that Australian boy recently,” she muses worriedly, “I hope the police don’t give him any trouble for being seen with someone like that.” The elevators open and she looks over the lobby of her building. Marble floors stretched out to either side, and off to her right was a semi-circular desk for reception, a bored looking man scrolling through Tumblr, evidently unaware that those exiting the elevators could see what he was doing.

She moves across the main floor, nodding to those she recognised before reaching yet another pair of glass doors. Stepping outside, the smell of rain is still fresh in the air. The sky overhead is cloudy, threatening more precipitation. Meanwhile, the carefully preened greenery before her, adorned with flowers and small shrubs, seems almost gleeful, moisture dripping off leaves and pedals.

All around her, tall, modern buildings stood, each with a similar design, but different colour accents to differentiate them. Behind her was her own: the Executive Bureau, clad with a red stripe, while across from her was the Trade and Development Bureau. It was taller at roughly fifteen storeys and while being majorly grey concrete and glass, had a stripe of yellow adjacent to the doors which followed the building’s architecture to the top. Down the road were more buildings, some taller and some shorter, all which bore their own colours.

One of her coworkers had once dubbed the area “Rainbow Village.” It was a term everyone found wholly inappropriate, considering the serious nature of the complex. As she moves across the courtyard, she notices a familiar sight. At the base of the road to the north and behind the gates were protestors, holding signs aloft in numerous languages, but with one meaning: they want change.

She ignores them and moves ever closer to the trade office, only to be abruptly shoved as a man in a dusty grey peacoat bumps into her. He’s east Asian, she notices, and has a harried look to his face, and seems to be in a great deal of a hurry. “Are you okay?” She asks him as he hurries by, but the man does not respond.

Turning back to the building, she takes another step, but hears a sudden, deafening roar of an explosion. Two thirds up the building, fire rockets out of every window. The heat wave hits her first before she sees the glittering, deadly debris coming down at her. Around her, coworkers are suddenly screaming in shock, some taking out their phones to record the fire. “Get moving! There’s glass!” She shouts, running back toward the Executive Bureau.

Glass shards cascade to the ground, shattering on impact, and she hears cries of pain from those around her as the debris slides into flesh. A stinging, hot pain sears her leg as a glass shard embeds itself in her left calf. Ishana stumbles forward, unable to run with her left leg, and finally collapses forward. She turns over and looks up. Black smoke is billowing from the top third of the Trade and Development Bureau and sirens are now squealing.

Her ears cry out against the sudden noise as people rush by her, some accidentally kicking and shoving her as they flee. Hordes of employees flee the burning building, all of whom seem fine, but none familiar. After a moment, she sees a familiar face: “Ivan!” She calls out. A man around her own age, with greying brown hair askew from running, stops and moves toward her.

“Ishana! What happened? I was just at my desk before there was this huge explosion above me!” He looks back at the building, and staggers backward, in shock as he observes the billowing black smoke and flames inside it licking out into the air, greedily sucking in oxygen and fueling it to grow further. Ivan looks back down at her, “Your leg!” He quickly grasps her arm and pulls her up. She looks down and finds a small pool of blood where her leg had rested.

Her calf burns with pain but becomes unbearably agonising when she tries to stand on it, “I can’t walk, Ivan, can you get me back into the admin building?” She does her best to sound calm, but the look in her coworker’s eyes tells her she’s as scared as he is.

“Of course. Let’s go,” he slings her arm around his shoulder, stooping over to accommodate her small frame. As they move toward the doors she had just exited, new sirens sound as fire engines barrel through the crowds of people, narrowly missing some. The large vehicles obscure part of the building from site, but the billowing smoke can still be seen darkening the skies and forcing an ominous shadow across their immediate world.

Firefighters pour out of the first engine, but are quickly joined by two more. Following them, ambulances pull up and finally the police. “Wait,” Ivan says, pointing to the police cruisers, “Those aren’t Beijing cops… Those are WC peacekeepers.” Ishana looks again and realises he is correct. Beijing’s city sigil does not mark the vehicles. Instead it is the silver star on a red background of the World Confederation.

The peacekeepers move toward the crowds, one shouting in Russian. She looks to her counterpart, “What’s he saying?” Ivan turns his attention to the man and frowns.

“He wants everyone to remain where they are and present their ID cards. Anyone who saw anything suspicious is going to be brought in to the Security Bureau for questioning.” The words hang heavy in the air as those around them hear what he says.

“They can’t just detain people!” One man shouts irritably.

A woman behind him shakes her head, “Yes they can, and you know it.”

“What if this was the UN?” Someone nearby questions.

Ivan looks to her, adrenaline still evident as his form trembles. “Why would they attack us here? This is a civilian complex – no soldiers work here…”

She looks forward once more, having thought the same. Ladders are being extended toward the upper floors and firefighters drag hoses up them toward the fire. “But there are a fair amount of politicians here, that’s for sure…”

“Do they want war? Do they want another Africa?!” The first man asks angrily.

The word hangs in the air, silencing those in her immediate vicinity as they recall the tragedy that occurred in the 1980’s. Few spoke about it in public, and fewer yet would compare any action taken today to it. “Africa…” Ishana says quietly as she watches the building before her burn.

~*~

“I understand your concern,” were Dirk’s measured words in response to the haranguing voice spewing out of his phone, “But I do not believe that my time is best spent here. Vancouver is a hotbed of activity, but there are others.” His cobalt eyes subtly watch the passersby as they moved through the crowded corridor in Denam Mall.

He keeps his posture casual, leaning against a cement pillar adjacent to a store entry. His hood is down – too many of his fellows looked too conspicuous when they tried to look inconspicuous. He instead concerns himself less with image and more with body language. Nevertheless, he spoke quietly into his phone, wary of lingering ears.

He lets out a breath and runs a hand through his short blond hair, “I understand.” He moves into the crowd, lazily walking toward a set of narrow stone stairs leading up to the ground level and passes by a shop called Crystal Hearing Centre. “Goodbye, then.” He pockets his phone and eyes the shop.

“Do they fix your hearing with crystals?” He asks himself as he pauses to observe the shop. Shrugging, he moves on and exits the old, crowded mall onto Nelson Street. Apartment buildings surrounded him on all sides, and large, old oak trees bent over the road, creating a peaceful atmosphere. Rich and poor, young and old, all walked side by side. It is a thoroughly strange sight for one such as he.

He moves down the small street toward a roundabout and sees an elderly woman standing on the curb, watching the cars go by. Her face was contorted into discomfort, and it occurs to Dirk that she wants to cross, but fears being too slow. He moves up next to her, and offers her a polite nod. “One moment, ma’am,” he says with a courtesy she likely did not expect.

The young foreigner steps into the road and raises his hand halfway, indicating he wished to cross. A red Toyota Prius slowly stops before him, the driver nodding. He moves back to the elderly woman, noting her floral knee-length dress and sweater drawn about her upperbody. “Oh, my, thank you!” She says earnestly as he offer her his elbow.

She takes his offered arm and they cross the street, “I can’t remember the last time a handsome young man offered to help me across the street!” She says, laughing. Dirk chuckles along with her, his watchful eyes moving from her to the road, making sure none would hit her. “I feel a bit feeble, needing help across the street, it’s –“

He tuts, shaking his head, “Ma’am, there is no shame in needing help. A wise man – or woman, in this case – asks for help. Only a fool goes it alone out of pride.” She looks up at him, her green eyes – similar to the pair he had found in his new roommate, and smiles once more.

“You’re a quite the gentleman, and wise, too!” She looks down Nelson Street, “My place is just down here, but thank you again.”

Dirk lets her go as she steps up onto the sidewalk once more, and gives a small wave to the driver who had been surprisingly patient. “You are very welcome, ma’am. Have a nice day,” he keeps his tone calm and polite, and with one more smile, the elderly woman shuffles along, leaving him to his thoughts.

He turns, and crosses the street, moving west on Bidwell Street, then south on Comox Street, and finally west again on Cardero Street. His path was roundabout and circuitous. It may seem to the average passerby he was simply a roaming student, but for him, his actions are entirely purposeful. Every step must assure those around him that he is not anything more than a student.

As he moves by down a bikeway connecting the two sides of Cardero Street, his phone vibrates. Procuring it from his pocket, he frowns. “A message from L?” His mind jumps into activity, wondering what has happened. He opens the text and finds it to be no better than he had thought: “Attack on Beijing WC Offices. Thirty injured, twelve dead, including Trade Minister Xiao.” He quickly deletes the text and continues walking.

On the corner of Cardero Street is a small grocer, and in the window is a small flat panel TV. There was no sound, but it was tuned to a news station. The headline below reads: “Storms expected for Vancouver region.” He scoffs quietly and continues walking. It doesn’t surprise him that the UN is restricting this information, it could be seen as a provocation on their part. Unlike the World Confederation, the United Nations is a democratic organisation and dissent by certain countries could paralyse the transnational government.

“Everything’s a game to politicians,” he muses, “And we’re just pawns.” Dirk continues on his way, his mind wandering from topic to topic: from the weather, to world war, to whether he should buy his own food or wait until he’s better acquainted with Logan and ask him where to buy groceries. After some time, he reaches English Bay. Beach Avenue crawls slowly with traffic in front of it, but he can see the shimmering of the ocean as the high noonday sky shines upon it. He’s aware that this kind of weather is rare in Vancouver, and so it’s unsurprising to find many out on the bike paths next to the bay.

However, of the many individuals peddling wares or flyers, one catches his eye. It’s a young man of Middle Eastern descent and he has on a green t-shirt with a golden sun emblazoned on it. Dirk crosses the road and approaches the man. “Oh, hello,” the stranger said, genuinely surprised someone approached him, “Would you like a flyer? I’m out here raising awareness about the TransMountain Pipeline. We believe that sextupling the amount of tanker traffic is a huge danger to the ecology in Vancouver and the surrounding area.”

He takes a flyer, and nods, listening. “Would you like to come to one of our meetings? I’m sure one of the more dedicated people can tell you a lot more about it!”

Dirk smiles, “Oh, I’m quite sure you can hold your own! But I’ll take a flyer, sure.” The activist offers him a single sheet of printer paper, which he folds into a small square and shoves into his back pocket. “Pardon if I’m coming off as rude, but you seem rather young. Are you a university student?”

The other nods, though looks confused. “Yeah, I am. I got the SFU,” he shrugs after a minute, “But why not, right? Have to do something, and Greenpeace has such noble goals.”

“You’re quite right there,” Dirk says amiably. “Well, good luck.”

He continues on his way down Beach Ave, his eyes drifting to the bay to his right. “Oh,” he mentally sighs, “Were I just another student.” He opens the page he had folded up and found it to be what he had expected. An invitation to an open forum about environmental issues. The language, he finds, however, is strong. ‘The Earth needs you now!’ It reads, ‘Sign up now!’ it continues, ‘Join the fight for Earth!’ And, unsurprisingly, they intend to meet at the UBC.

He pockets the page once more and procures his phone, typing in an inordinately long number to text to and types simply: “Commencing.” He feels a satisfied calm coming over him and picks up his pace, moving to a nearby bus stop.

Later…

When Dirk arrived home, it was dark. He steps into the apartment-style dorm he shares with Logan, and found the amiable fellow perched upon the couch he had cleaned, his legs crossed below him. “Hey Dirk,” he makes a little wave with a plastic fork. Noticing the Styrofoam cup in his hand, the newcomer assumes it to be a ramen cup and nods.

“Sorry for getting back so late, I had more to do than I thought. It turns out moving countries is a fair bit of work!” He exclaims, slipping off his shoes and tucking them into the closet alcove at the door. He moves into the dormitory and takes a seat on the couch, resting his feet on the coffee table before it. The TV was on, and he looks over at his roommate with an incredulous stare. “Game of Thrones, really? What is this, season three?”

Logan looks over at him and scoffs indignantly, “What? It’s a good show!” The two laugh, Dirk shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. “I can’t help but notice you didn’t drop any food off while I was in class,” the student comments passively, “If you’re hungry, you can have one of my ramen cups. They cost me like, literally, 10 cents each.”

Rising from his seat once more, Dirk moves to the tiny kitchen. “Don’t mind if I do,” he proclaims before taking one from a cupboard. Filling it with water from the adjacent sink, he places it in the microwave over top of the stove and turns to his roommate, seemingly engrossed in his show. “By the way,” he begins, “Some random guy gave me a flyer for some Greenpeace event. You want to go?”

His roommate gives a thoughtful hum, “Well, I have been meaning to see what all the fuss is about…” Logan looks over, his brow aloft quizzically, “This isn’t you trying to swerve for me, right?”

Dirk simply stares for a moment, “What does that… No, although I have no idea what you just said, I’m pretty sure the answer is no. Better than staying in and watching Robb and Catelyn die again.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me that’s coming,” Logan groans. While his roommate re-engrosses himself with TV, the newly arrived foreigner takes a seat once more, noodle cup in hand, his mind already working on what had to be done.