2020: Chapter Five

“In all things, the greatest joy is control,” the aged man declares sagely. His slow footfalls clack noisily upon the marble floors of the foyer.

Around them, the expansive room is marked with stone walls interspaced with large pained windows and thick blue and red curtains – the national colours – between them. A golden ornamented crown is stamped at the top of each curtain, adding a distinctly royal aesthetic to the already grand room. Pillars support the roof fifteen feet above them, though their likenesses are distressed with age.

Elizabeth moves next to the old man, her hands folded behind her back, causing her stiff navy blue uniform, consisting of a zipped up jacket, pants and black boots, to stretch uncomfortably over her chest. She however ignores the discomfort for the sake of appearances.

Her pale skin is contrasted by her dark eyes and short black hair, cut into a bob, giving her a decisively intense look. “This is true, but, when control is lost, one must be trained to act in an appropriate manner,” her response is calculated, calm, but critical all the same.

The elderly man, garbed in a similar uniform, save that his coat hangs open, revealing a white dress shirt and black tie, gives a terse nod. “True, but only a weakling allows themselves to lose control over a situation.” As if to contradict his statement, the two of them reach the end of the grand entry and reach a flight of wide steps up to the second floor. They are constructed out of a solid oak, lacquered meticulously, and creak underfoot. He slowly ascends the steps, his thin legs trembling under his wide pants.

For her part, Elizabeth ascends them easily, but does not move too quickly as to embarrass her elder. “Sometimes control is wrested from us due to forces we either could not control or could not foresee. You cannot dispute this.” She looks back at the man who, for the time being, is consumed with the task of climbing the stairs.

The staircase leads to a second floor landing which splits off in either direction to long, narrow hallways. Directly before them, large, old windows look over the small town below their current residence. “Consider, sir,” she begins thoughtfully, “Were the UN to learn of our operations here in Vaduz Castle. They would undoubtedly remove us from here, and then where would be operate?”

He tuts as he ascends the stairs and motions to the hallway to her left. “That would be a folly of both our intelligence for not knowing their movements and our wit for not outwitting them and allowing us to stay,” he looks over at her, his pale blue eyes holding dire warning for her continued questioning. “We are better than that – the situation would not occur.”

She remains silent as they walk down the hall, wooden floors continually creaking from time to time. On either side of them at regular intervals are heavy wooden doors. Many are open, revealing empty rooms with primitive stone walls and holes for windows. Others hold military-style cots and simple desks, while a scarce few hold larger desks with complex computer setups sat upon them.

As they pass by one room, Elizabeth nods at a young boy, no older than twelve, sat at one of these computers. Even with the pale glow of the monitor upon his face, she can see his dark skin and recognises him to be a refugee from either Chad or Zambia, likely the child of someone who died from complications following the nuclear bombings in the late 1980’s. The child spares a look at her and nods back.

“You are still so young,” he comments with a touch of condescension typical of a man in his seventies. She looks over at him, silently considering the folly of his age. “Yet,” he continues diplomatically, “You will make a fine successor when it is my time. Ours is a noble organisation and I will rest well knowing you will continue my work.”

She does not smile, but feels a foreign warmth in her chest. She bows her heads in his direction for a moment. “You honour me, Sir Gabriel,” she says, using his title for emphasis, “I hope to do as well as you have, but not for some time. I am not yet ready for such an honour as leadership over our organisation.”

“Oh?” He questions and stops before another room. In this one there is another computer station with three monitors sitting next to one another and a mess of documents spread out over top a keyboard and mouse. Yet, no one sits at the desk. Instead, a woman looking to be Elizabeth’s age moves busily over the ground. Up and down she goes, her push-up form smooth and superb. “Miss Talia,” he says in a relaxed, though authoritative tone.

The woman looks up from her workout, curled black hair drooped over her face and, upon seeing who addressed her, hops to her feet, hands clasped behind her back, much like Elizabeth. “Sir Gabriel,” she begins formally, her accent giving her voice a commanding tone, “What can I do for you and Lady Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth resists rolling her eyes at the dated formality with which their organisation operates, and instead merely nods at the woman. “Miss Talia, you are from Suakin in Sudan, correct?” Sir Gabriel inquires wearily. Talia nods once but remains silent. “Splendid. And where you are from, what would you say is the age most people begin their careers?”

His odd question leaves Talia silent for a moment, but Elizabeth is all too aware of where he is going with his prodding. “Well, sir, I was very little when I left, but I would say somewhere around 16, at the latest 18?” She lofts a brow, “If I may ask, sir: why do you ask?”

He shakes his head, “No reason. Thank you, Miss Talia, you may return to your exercise.” With that, she nods and drops back down to the ground, now performing twisting sit-ups. Meanwhile, Elizabeth and Sir Gabriel continue down the hallway. “You see, my dear. In many places around the world – many of which are inside the World Confederation – a girl like you, in her twenty-third year of life, would have already begun her own business, were her country of origin one that allowed for such a thing.”

“You’re very right, sir. Especially about the last part: 2018 it may be, but plenty of places still look down on the enterprising woman.” Her social commentary does not go unnoticed, and Sir Gabriel offers a nod in response. “That being said, my business, as it were, is a bit different. I don’t seek to run a grocer, or create a start-up, I will run Project L. someday.”

He smirks, “If you are so unlucky as to be made its leader, yes you will.” The two continue down the hall to its end. To their right, a door unlike those in the rest of the long corridor, is opened by the elderly man. The door is taller than the others and stained a dark, woody colour. Another hallway is revealed behind this door, but it is much smaller and narrower. No windows exist, yet light is provided by a few ugly bulbs hanging from the wooden ceiling above.

At the end of this hallway is another door, which the old man also opens. They step into a much larger and much more grandly decorated. The room is circular and has a conical roof high above their heads.

Half the round room’s walls are covered in square windows three feet across. In the centre of the room is a large desk, around ten feet long, and covered in flatscreen TVs with keyboards and mice in front of them, as well as an assortment of documents, both loose and contained in folders. The left side of the room is dedicated to a sitting area with four high-backed chairs seated in plush, red velvet with ornately designed shining wooden arms and legs. Across from this sitting area and on the other side of the desk is an assortment of smaller desks with monitors all busily observing various locations.

Sir Gabriel moves across the expansive room to the windows with Elizabeth in tow, and hurries, as well as he can, to a window. She looks through the one next to the one he has claimed and observes the scenery. Outside the retrofitted medieval tower is a sprawling landscape. In the distance are snow-capped mountains, alive with green forests below the wintry tips. Closer in is a sprawling, dense forest that stretches as far as the eye can see, yet remains hemmed in by mountains. Closer yet is the edge of the small city of Vaduz.

Stout, colourful buildings sit on either side of a wide, slow river. Nearby is a large catholic church, and to the north is a small shopping mall. The entire city has a distinctly homey feel to it, something the old man seems to thoroughly enjoy. “Were we free to explore Vaduz at our leisure, hm?” He says wistfully.

Elizabeth is certainly not moved. “It’s just a small city in the middle of nowhere. Looks like every other shit-burg in Europe,” she thinks glibly. “Of course, sir. A very picturesque landscape. But, we did come here for a reason…” Her words are carefully stated, and luckily do not seem to anger Sir Gabriel.

“Hm, true,” he sighs and moves across the room to the messy assortment of desks and monitors upon their surfaces. He motions to them, “Well, bring it up.” Elizabeth moves past him and quickly opens a program on the nearest computer. With a quick search, she brings up the needed video. The screen changes to a security camera hanging at an awkward angle, its picture titled 60 degrees to the side and covered in dust.

The scene is an ugly one: bodies lay strewn around, crushed by debris, lights, chairs, and much more. Rain has entered the once grand building and mixed with blood, leaving a crimson trail of carnage across the sloped ground. In the background, huge chunks of balcony are collapsing downward with screams following them. A cacophony of noise: crumbling concrete, shrieking screams, and the ravaging rain, all create a hellish scene.

“There,” she says stoicly, pointing to a familiar figure dart in from the left. He hops down from the stage, moving around the still corpse of a man lying next to a podium and toward a young man stumbling toward the collapsed horseshoe balconies. The second man, covered in blood, collapses forward, and begins crawling toward his destination, but is stopped as the first figure, clad in a black jacket, grey jeans and black shoes, grabs him by the arm and begins pulling him away. The second individual resists, but is eventually overcome as his bloodless gets the better of him. The first figure takes the opportunity and slings the second man over his shoulders, slumping over in the process, and hurries off screen.

Elizabeth pauses the footage as the first one moves into the centre of the crooked shot. “You see?” She moves to the controls and scrolls in on the video before enhancing it with a few clicks. “That’s Siegfried, no question.”

Sir Gabriel frowns and runs a hand through his short white hair before shaking his head. “I told him not to get involved with the enemy’s actions. Being a hero only attracts unwanted attention…” He looks to Elizabeth, “Has any news agency reported on this little stunt?”

She shakes her head, “Thankfully no. When one of our watchers told me about it, I had him copy the footage and then remove it from the Chan Centre’s database.”

“Smart move,” he commends her.

Her voice, ever serious, sounds once again as she crafts an ominous theory. “I believe, sir, that Siegfried has lost sight of his goal and indeed his purpose in Vancouver. He is to discover the cover organisation our enemy is working through. You yourself ordered him not to interfere, yet here he is saving someone.” Her eyes a cold and dark as she looks at her counterpart with revulsion.

Sir Gabriel eyes the two figures, his pale eyes squinting before her pulls out a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and eyes the still frame once more. “Who’s the person Siegfried is saving?”

“His name is Logan Greer. He’s a Canadian student attending the University of British Columbia in Vancouver. This was his graduation ceremony, but the enemy rigged the two horseshoe balconies – each a few hundred people in them– with bombs.” Her dark eyes glint dangerously, “I also learned he’s Siegfried’s roommate.” She shakes her head irritably, “I believe he grew fond of this Greer fellow and saved him, regardless of the risk he took in exposing our organisation.”

The old man removes his glasses, visibly displeased, but also seemingly conflicted. “I will not deny what Siegfried did was a noble thing,” he begins carefully, “But he should have asked someone else to save his friend…” He grunts, frustrated, “Bah! What’s he doing, making friends like that? It’s not part of his mission.”

“Sir,” Elizabeth interjects abruptly and receives a withering stare, though she ignores it. “Allow me to go to Vancouver. Siegfried must either be corrected or silenced. I’ll also determine how much this Greer kid knows and make a call about that on site.” She looks from the frozen video to the Sir Gabriel, “Give me the go-ahead, sir. I’ll fix this for you.”

Puzzled, the elderly man furrows his brows. “You’ll go? Why not send someone else? I’m sure Geoffrey or Talia would be more than willing.”

“It has to be me, sir,” she states firmly. “Siegfried and I grew up together – we trained together. You always said he was like my big brother, well, this time, he’s the one needing correction.”

Sir Gabriel looks back at the monitor one last time before returning his attention to the serious-minded woman before him. “Do it.”

~*~

Sasha has often bemoaned the fact her brother is only sixteen, while she’s twenty-five. While she’d love to move out, she simply cannot imagine leaving Ivan to the mercy of their parents. Today is yet another day when this rumination has come back to nag at her – the injustice of her brother’s youth leaves him legally vulnerable to the vultures a floor below them.

She sits upon her bed, a thin mattress atop a cot she bought from a WC military goods resale, with a yellowed book in hand. The weathered spine reads “The Sign of the Four, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” and cracks when she reaches certain points where the glue has begun to fail. Similarly discoloured walls are on her left and behind her head, while ahead of her is a small space where her dresser exists, and above the stout piece of furniture is a large window. To her right is another space and a single closet door. Next to it, the entrance to her room, though the door is closed.

Leaning against the closet door is her brother. His dirty blond hair falls messily over his face, obscuring his bright eyes. His legs are crossed below him and in his hands he holds a nearly identical book, though the spine of his reads “A Study in Scarlet, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Sasha looks up from her book and out the window. The sun set a few hours ago and the sky is now progressively darkening to deep blue tones, soon to be black. Despite the run down condition that Moscow is in, she has always found that, without all the light pollution that exists in better cities, she and Ivan are able to see stars those in more prosperous places could never enjoy.

However, she frowns after a noticeable thump is heard below them. She looks over at her brother, finding him to be alert, though still trying to ignore it. “Ivan, door,” she instructs and he wordlessly rises to his feet and locks the door before sitting again. His expression is uneasy, but Sasha does her best to not worry him by not voicing her concerns.

“Living in fear of our parents,” she thinks bitterly to herself, “What a fucking stupid life… We need to leave.” However, she discards the thought as he recalls the bitter reality that is theirs. Even if they did, they’d be little better off. With only the money she makes as a reserve forces soldier for the WC’s Ordinance Patrol, she can’t support both of them. They’d just replace violent parents for violent strangers.

“How ironic,” she says quietly, “That war would be helpful…” She shakes her head of the thought, finding it unlikely, despite the declaration of war made by the new UN Secretary General, Matthaeus Kingsley. “Even if the WC does declare war, it’s not like they’ll suddenly need some poor girl from Moscow to fight,” she muses to herself.

Heavy footfalls sound on the stairs and Ivan visibly stiffens. Sasha folds the corner of her current page over and places the book on her bed. Ivan mimics her and also closes his book, his gaze moving to the door of her room.

The sounds of footsteps grow louder and then abruptly stop. The doorknob jiggles. Tension rises between the two siblings as they watch the door. “Why’s this damn door locked? Sasha! Open the door!” Their father’s gruff, slurring voice sounds with anger. The two of them remain silent. “Did you go fucking blind while having your little nap in the city? Open the fucking door!” He jostles the door more violently.

Deciding to keep things on her own terms, Sasha rises from her bed and moves to the door. Clad in only a tan t-shirt, her grey army issue pants, adorned with numerous pockets and her socks. She unlocks the door and swings it open, finding a surprised parent before her. His once auburn hair is now greyed. Where he had once been a strongly built man, he is now fat. Where there had once been hazel eyes like her own, now there are bloodshot, beady little eyes that look frantically from child to child. “What’re you two doing in here?”

Sasha motions to the book on her bed. “Reading,” is her terse answer. “Need something?” She inquires after a tense silence.

He looks to Ivan, his small eyes perpetually angry. “Why do I need something?” He questions her angrily, despite his gaze being on the younger sibling who does everything in his power to not return the gaze. “I’m your father. You don’t lock your doors to me. Never.”

“Some father,” Ivan snorts derisively.

A switch is flicked upward in the elder Alkaev’s mind and he moves into the room, his large form ominous. “The fuck did you just say, you little shit?” His voice has not risen, but there’s danger in it, and both Sasha and Ivan know the latter has made a grievous error. The teenager does not respond, and instead slowly stands, staring up at his father defiantly. “Speak up, if you got something to say to me, you worthless parasite!” He moves toward him, but Sasha quickly interjects and places herself in between them.

“He didn’t mean it, father,” she says coldly, “And I won’t lock my door anymore. Happy?”

He looks from son to daughter and then back again. “Always protecting him. Why? He ain’t done shit for anyone! Just ate my food and wasted my money on school. What’s the point? You’re too dumb to be anything!” His venomous words cut deeply into the youth who visibly withdraws, but his sister will not have it.

“I’m protecting him because his parents are too fucked up on god knows what to do it.” Her words are calm, but only serve to anger her father more. “C’mon, Ivan. Let’s get out of here.” She pulls him hurriedly past the hulking figure that was their father and into the hall. “With a coked up mother and a father that’s both drunk and fucked up on crack, I think we’ll be safer on the streets tonight!” She calls back angrily.

He’s on the move. Their father is swearing furiously, his face growing redder, as he moves after them. Thankfully, the two younger Alkaevs are faster and already have their shoes on as they reach the door. Sasha puts her military issue jacket on and clasps her utility belt around her waist, only to find another figure barring the door. Her hair, badly needing a wash, is the same as Ivan’s: a dark blond, but her eyes are cold and hollow. “And just where do you two think you’re going? You won’t speak to your father like that and get away with it!”

Her tone is vicious – a commonality for their mother when she’s feeling withdrawal symptoms. At this point, their father is behind them, pinning them between their parents. “No one should feel trapped by their parents!” Sasha protests to herself.

“Come here you little shit, I’ll show you some goddamned respect!” Their father shouts as he moves in, grabbing Ivan by the arm and dragging him back.

Ivan thrashes in protest, pulling his arm out of his father’s grip. “Let go of me, you drunk fucker!” He shouts at the big man. This only seems to anger him further, his face flushed with fury and his small eyes wide. A hand moves through the air and catches Ivan across the jaw, sending him into his sister.

“You want more? Or are you gonna shut your mouth and take your beating like the little shit you are!?” Their father questions, shouting inanely as he moves in, his hand curled into a large first. Ivan wipes blood from his mouth and snarls defiantly.

“Fuck you, you fat fuck!” The teenager shouts back, “You’re the worst parent I can imagine!”

“You watch your mouth, you ingrate!” Their mother calls out from behind Sasha. Sister turns on mother, her gaze cold and dangerous. She remains quiet, but grabs the woman by the shoulder and shoves her out of the way. With one hand keeping her mother at bay, Sasha opens the door.

She steps around, keeping one hand on the door, grabs her brother, and practically tosses him through, narrowly escaping a jaw-fracturing punch. With that, she slams the door and turns on her parents. “Listen here, your bastards. You’ve beaten me, you’ve sold me to your disgusting friends, you’ve sold my things more times than I can count for drugs… But you will never touch him,” her tone is like a shard of ice, cutting through them with such vehemence that her father looks surprised.

“You little bitch!” Her mother screams, fueled by withdrawal and hatred, she grabs Sasha’s ponytail and attempts to push her into the wall. The daughter will have no part of it and grabs her mother’s wrist. With her free hand, she unsheaths her baton and slams it into the woman’s stomach. Her mother lets out a winded gasp and staggers back.

Her father comes next, his huge form cornering her against the door. “Hitting your mother? You little whore! I bet you liked all my friends, you slut!” He says, swinging for her. She raises the baton as a shield over the length of her forearm, though still flies back into the door as his fist makes contact with the metal surface of the weapon. He cries aloud as his fingers crunch against it and clutches at his hand.

Sasha takes the opportunity and raises the baton high before bringing it down over his head. Her father groans, his gaze lidded and confused, before collapsing backward in a noisy heap. Her mother, now recovered, looks between her unconscious husband and then to her daughter. “Don’t even think about it,” she says coldly. Without looking back, Sasha grabs a coat next to her, opens the door and steps outside before slamming it behind her.

Standing directly in front of her is a very confused looking Ivan. “Don’t worry about it,” she shrugs, moving down the cracked cement steps into the chilly winter night, “They’ll be fine. Probably.”

Ivan can only shrug, “I wasn’t worried about them. I forgot my damn coat! It’s cold out here.” She smirks and takes from behind her back the coat she had picked up off the floor in the entryway and hands it to him. “Oh, thanks,” he says gratefully, quickly putting it on and zipping it up. “So, where to now?”

“Good question,” Sasha acknowledges, “I have an idea.” She takes from the epaulet of her coat her radio and fiddles with the frequency toggle for a moment before speaking into it. “Dina?” She calls out, “Dina, it’s Sasha, respond.”

“Dina here. What’s up?” A voice comes through.

“Is it okay if Ivan and I stay with you tonight? Some shit went down at home.”

“Sure, but meet me at the barracks.” Dina responds after a moment.

Sasha lofts a brow and looks to her brother who can only shrug. “Why are you there? It’s like 8:00pm.”

“Didn’t you hear? The Chancellor declared war. Vadim can tell you more, but I’ll see you two there! Tell Ivan his little friend is here, too.” Sasha chuckles and looks at her brother, his face abruptly flushed red with embarrassment.

“Get your phone out and look it up, did he really?” Sasha instructs of him, mercifully not commenting on Dina’s comment. Ivan wordlessly removes his phone from his pocket, the screen cracked, though still functional. After a moment, he brings up a video and the two stop walking to watch it.

On the cracked screen Sasha sees a skinny Indian woman approach a glass podium donning the World Confederation flag, the red background and Silver Star. The subscript by the news agency who had uploaded the video reads “Ishana Chaudhri – Secretary to His Excellency the Chancellor.” The woman has thick black hair that rests behind her back in perfectly controlled waves. Sasha cannot help but feel a pang of jealously for how well put together the woman looks in her form fitting grey suit.

“Thank you for joining us today,” Ishana Chaudhri begins, “His Excellency will be joining us shortly. We ask that all reporters take their seats and keep to the question cue. Disruptive questioners will be removed from the room.”

“Eugh, enough of this,” Ivan grumbles and fast forwards to when he sees the chancellor.

“… the stance of our transnational government that the attacks on Vancouver were a terrible tragedy, and an evil attack by malevolent forces. However, the new Secretary General is incorrect in his accusations that it was our glorious World Confederation that is to blame for this. We did not perpetrate this attack.”

Chancellor Zheng pauses, gathering himself for the weight of his next words. “For too long have I delayed this decision… Naively I believed peace could be brought through negotiation chambers. Yet the United Nations, like the mad rabble they are, refuse to listen to reason. Therefore it is the decision of the World Confederation member states to declare war on the United Nations. We will fight to secure our borders and end the violence that has disrupted our government, our economy, and indeed our very people over the past few years.”

“Well,” Sasha begins, looking toward the empty husk of downtown Moscow, “We do have somewhere to go… The recruitment office.”

“For real?” Ivan inquires almost gleefully.

“With war declared, you can join. We don’t have to go home.”

Ivan claps his sister on the shoulder triumphantly. “Be happier, Sasha! We’re free!” He begins hurrying down the street, but Sasha can only feel anxiety twist her stomach into knots. “I won’t lose you, Ivan. I won’t ever let those UN freaks hurt you…” She narrows her eyes with determination as she too sets off, “I’ll kill them all to keep you safe… You’ll find happiness, I’ll make sure of it.”

~*~

Dirk has not lived in Vancouver for long, but to find the Skytrain, the city’s main form of light-rail transit, so completely bereft of conversation, was a disturbing fact. True, oftentimes it would be quiet due to everyone either being on their phones, asleep, or in some rare cases, reading, but today many simply sat in silence. The tension, he finds, is palpable. Everyone is terrified of another terrorist attack. No one had expected Canada of all countries to be the place where the World Confederation would strike. “Or at least, they all seem to think it was the WC… Oh, how wrong they are,” Dirk thinks to himself.

He does not find it hard hiding the truth from strangers, and to him everyone but one person is a stranger, so it remains a near universal task. The exception to this rule of his relations sits next to him. “Logan Greer,” Dirk thinks to himself, observing the hollow shell of a young man he had grown fond of. Where a once lively youth had existed, now all that was left was a bandaged husk with a sad, empty gaze. He hasn’t said much of anything since his breakdown at the hospital, and the stranger from Europe finds himself unsure of what to do.

“Lifeless,” the word comes to Dirk’s mind after a moment of contemplation, “He’s lifeless… It’s so wrong. For someone once so happy, so friendly, so welcoming… This is not right.” The complexity of emotion with which he felt when in Logan’s presence is a disconcerting one, and even with the latter in such a terrible state, the confusion in Dirk’s heart and mind has not abated, and indeed has only increased.

Seeking relief from his own ruinous mind, he turns his attention to his own phone. Procuring the Apple product from his pocket, he finds that he has three new messages from “L.” He presses his thumb into the main button and the lock screen fades away to the homepage. He opens his messages app and finds the new correspondence from L.

“Report on Chan Centre received.”

“Threat level increased to four. Exercise caution when operating outside of university grounds.”

“Standby for further correspondence. Continue surveillance.”

He deletes each text and pockets the device once more. Despite outward appearances, his phone is custom made and is programmed to continually erase any messages or voicemails to avoid any incriminating electronic trails.

Dirk looks back at Logan, only to find him slightly slumped forward and his green eyes still looking forward at nothing. He moves his attention to the train car around them. Many riders are nervously looking around themselves while others are, predictably, buried in their phones. A typical sight for a Western city like Vancouver.

As he shifts in his seat to lean back, he sees through the door at the front of their current train car and spies a familiar individual standing in the next car ahead, their gaze elsewhere. Her short, black hair, pale skin, athletic frame, and cold visage. “Elizabeth…” Dirk immediately feels his heart quicken its pace and anxiety knot his stomach. “Why is she here?” He questions, his mind moving toward panic, “Oh, shit… They don’t think I’m doing a good enough job… Why the hell did she come, though!?”

Keeping his outward appearance calm, Dirk moves in to the seat to speak to Logan. “Logan,” he begins, his tone as passive as ever, “Let’s get off at the next stop.” His emotionally devastated friend looks over at him, confused and silent. “The walk would do us some good.”

“But it’s raining,” Logan says quietly, motioning to the grey skies outside.

Dirk raises an eyebrow, his visage incredulous. “It’s always raining here.”

Logan almost smirks, but his face falls back into the same emotionless mask as before. “True. Let’s go.” He goes to rise out of his seat, but is stopped by the blond youth.

“No need to get up now, the next station isn’t here yet,” Dirk advises. However, in his mind he’s planning to use the hustle of those getting off and those getting on to sneak away without being noticed by Elizabeth. Logan settles back into his seat.

After a few minutes, the Skytrain pulls into the next station. The signs affixed to the train’s ceiling flash with the name “King Edward.” Many of those around them stand to rise, and Dirk is heartened as he sees a large crowd waiting to get on the train. The doors open and he rises only after those in front of him have. Logan, his mind elsewhere, follows.

The two exit the train with a crowd of others and move into the underground station. Concrete surrounds them on all sides and the noisy crowd around them rushes forward toward the train, yet they do make their way up the escalators and into the drizzly outside.

They move onto the sidewalk, Dirk passively noting the building across from the station, a three story commercial structure, each floor belted with windows and white stucco between these bands. “Authentic Rugs and Art,” he comments wryly, “Seems reliable.” His attempt at a joke falls on deaf ears as Logan simply walks on.

Moving north on Cambie Street, Dirk falls silent once more, unsure of what to say or do. The silence stretches on for many minutes as they move into a more residential area. At this point, there are fewer pedestrians, and the quiet seems evermore unnatural for Dirk, considering his company. “You know,” he begins after a time, “I never knew my parents.”

Logan seems genuinely interested in this and looks over at him, though his form is still buried in his oversized and old grey hoodie. His hood is drawn over his head, but wavy brown hair sticks out over his forehead. His verdant eyes look over at Dirk with almost a look of hope, wishing for some anecdote to help him. Yet, the hollowness there tells the blond youth that Logan does not expect such a thing, despite his hopes.

He nods and continues his story, “I was an orphan. My parents couldn’t afford kids, and so they left me at an…” Dirk pauses, unsure what to call his place of residence, “… an orphanage.” The term seems absurd, but he cannot tell Logan the truth. “Vaduz Castle,” he muses bitterly, “Some orphanage.”

Logan doesn’t look at him, but he does speak. “What was it like, growing up in an orphanage?” His counterpart mentally congratulates himself for getting the former to speak.

“It was a very unique orphanage, you see,” the blond youth explains, “There were… teachers on site; they taught us everything. Math, sciences, history, philosophy, critical reading, even more martial sports.” It feels good, Dirk finds, to speak of himself, but even still, some of what he says is untrue and the words taste bitter and like sulfur in his mouth.

“Martial sports?” Logan inquires, confused, “What does that mean?”

Dirk shrugs, pulling the collar of his nylon peacoat closer around his neck, feeling his hair leak rainwater down the nape of his neck. “You know, normal stuff like soccer and whatnot, but also stuff like self-defence. Our… teachers thought it was a good idea to learn, just in case.”

“In case of what? Aren’t you from Lichtenstein?” The morose young man to Dirk’s left inquires as they come up toward the intersection of quiet Cambie Street and the ever busy West Broadway. “I know it’s not part of the UN, but it can’t be that unsafe.”

Dirk nods, “Well, yes, but –“ he abruptly silences himself as a familiar figure hurries toward them.

Hefting an umbrella and wearing a grey zip up jacket, the newcomer reveals himself to be Logan’s friend, Nathan, who had emceed the Greenpeace event they had attended. His face lights up in recognition of seeing the two of them, “Logan, Dirk! What are you two doing out here?”

“Nothing too interesting. I’m surprised to see you out here, Nathan,” Logan says, his face a mix of macabre distance and feigned interest.

Nathan shrugs, “Nothing much, really. Just was going down to London Drugs to buy some more shampoo. I’m glad I ran into you two, though.” He lifts his umbrella over Logan’s head and wraps a single arm around him. “I’m really sorry for your loss, dude. It’s just terrible what happened.”

Logan’s breath hitches in his throat and he briefly embraces his friend before letting him go. “Thanks Nathan, it means a lot.”

“Actually,” the newly arrived friend begins, “Can we talk for just a second?” He looks over at Dirk, the enigmatic roommate an otherwise impassive figure in this exchange. “Sorry Dirk, I don’t mean to leave you soaking in the rain while I gossip. You can borrow my umbrella while you wait if you’d like?”

Dirk shakes his head, “It’s fine, and I don’t mind. You two take your time, I’ll be here.”

Logan looks to Dirk hesitantly, but complies and moves back down Cambie Street with Nathan.

Despite Nathan’s best effort, Dirk’s hearing is sharp and he hears quite clearly their conversation.

“Listen, I know you might not be up for it, but this is a really unique thing. The new leader of Greenpeace – we like to call him Lacertus – he’s coming down to the UBC to pay homage to those who died in the terrorist – er – in the WC attack at grad. You should come down and meet him! He’s a great speaker and always lifts your spirits.” Nathan gives Logan’s shoulder a friendly bump, “And you, my friend, look like you need some company that’s not a weird European guy that doesn’t speak.”

Logan seems amiable to the idea, but frowns at the slight against Dirk. “He’s not that bad. In fact, he hasn’t left my side since grad… He’s a good guy.” Dirk feels a foreign sensation of warmth – of gratitude – move through his chest. Nathan rolls his eyes, smirking, evidently wanting an answer. “Yeah, sure. Don’t have much to do while the school’s cancelled classes for the next while.”

“Great!” Nathan exclaims, “He’ll be speaking in the Rose Gardens. There’ll be press but nothing too crazy.” The two move back up to Dirk, the Greenpeace member all grins and smiles. “Sorry about that Dirk, just didn’t want to make my bro-condolences awkward in front of you!” Dirk cocks his head to the side momentarily, evidently indifferent. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two be, I need to get to London Drugs before my shoes fill up with too much rainwater!”

“Good luck with that,” Dirk comments wryly. Logan offers a small wave as Nathan hurries eastward on West Broadway.

Logan and Dirk continues on their way west toward the UBC campus, and surprisingly, it’s the former who initiates conversation again. “Not sure why he wanted to tell me that in private… Just some Greenpeace thing. Don’t get me wrong, it’s interesting stuff, but… Never mind.” He shakes his head.

Dirk looks over, concern and curiosity hidden behind his implacable mask. “But what?”

“Look, don’t get all worried or mad or anything,” Logan begins, his words self-conscious, “But… I’ve been thinking… With Kingsley declaring war on the WC, and my parents dead...” He pauses, the last comment cutting deeply into his broken heart, “I’m going to enlist. I’ve got nothing else to lose, now.”

“Enlist?!” Dirk deadpans, his surprise clear in his shocked tones. “But, you could die!” The thought of Logan dying seems so abhorrently wrong that he simply cannot allow it. “I didn’t save you to watch you die, you idiot!” He thinks to himself desperately. Even still, the logical part of his brain takes over, “Yet I imagine the enemy will infiltrate the military. My mission could be expedited, if…”

“So what?” His friend says defensively, “It’s like I’ve said…” He draws ever into his grey garment, “I feel like I’ve lost everything, okay!?” He suddenly bellows into the fabric of his hoodie, tears welling in his green eyes. “I don’t want to live in a world where the two people who raised me are gone… It’s too hard, too lonely.”

Dirk, stunned, remains silent, unsure of what to do or say. “I…” he begins, his voice quiet, “You’re not alone,” he says after a moment. Logan looks over at him, irritably wiping away his tears. “I don’t think you’re thinking straight, but… If you’re dead set on this, I’ll enlist too.”

Logan looks first stunned, then confused. His hurt heart has calloused, Dirk remarks, and now it’s growing wary of kindness. “A terrible, terrible thing, that. Such a gentle soul shouldn’t have been hurt like this,” the thought is such a sad one that even the blond youth from European feels a stabbing pain in his own distant heart. “Why would you do that? You barely know me.”

“It’s like I said,” Dirk responds, “I don’t have any family. I never have.” He looks down West Broadway, thankful that the otherwise busy street has been emptied by the steadily increasing rain. “But, you’re probably the kindest person I have ever met, and… shit, it’s difficult for me to talk about these things…” Dirk chuckles in spite of his own inability to be verbally honest, a barrier forming in his throat that he struggles to push past. “I wouldn’t want to hear you died in some far-off land alone. That’d be too damned sad.”

The two continue walking as silence falls over them again. After a moment, the wavy haired mourner smirks wryly, “You say I’m the kind one, yet you’re the one who’s going to war with me so I’m not alone.” Logan sniffs, wiping at his eyes with the cuff of his hoodie, “I’m glad I met you, Dirk. You’re a good friend.”

Perhaps it was just an off-handed remark, but Logan’s words struck Dirk deeply. The young man who considered himself a stranger wherever he went suddenly felt a sense of belonging with this broken, sad youth next to him. Unsure of what to say, he simply placed his hand on Logan’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze as a small smile grew on his lips.