“Hi uh, my name is Jon. I- hey. I was a kid, I always wanted to sign up when I was a kid. Never thought of nothing else. My Da volunteered with the fire service and my uncle was a king’s man in the magic resources unit, so there was a lot of-y’know, kind of a sense of service. Anyway I was a pretty serious young kid, I trained, I studied, working on preping for the army was fun for me. Other kids, I mean, I thought they were weird, not waking up early and not doing the extra schoolwork. I dunno. Guess I was always kind of an asshole, so I joined the High Corps.”
The other men chuckle, and Jon clears his throat after smiling wryly.
“So uh, y’know, they really kind of push you the first couple weeks. That’s when they make their selections for who gets to take the spec test. I was one of them that year. I didn’t really know what that meant until I was on the wire with Da and he says to me “I’m proud of you son.” Y’know, just for getting the chance to spec, not actually getting one. So I take the test, me and twelve other guys. No, no, there were the Charoni brothers, yeah, so me and fourteen guys that year spec’ed. They said it was a pretty good crop I remember.”
Jon pauses and takes a thoughtful sip from the paper water cup he holds with both hands.
“I got the Forward Service, Indigenous Relations Division. We were supposed to get in with the civilians wherever, keep a wire open to any intell they had, cover any non-combatants, and act on any good leads to contain threats. It was such a delicate mix they said, having to go from shooting to talking within any given hour, they drilled and trained us for two years before we ever saw a single mission. Two years. Learned, like, four languages, three alphabets, how to switch between lethal and non lethal tech mid fight. Brutal man, just brutal. Not uh, not really what you have in mind when you sign up to shoot shit.”
They chuckle and nod, most here had some sort of superfluous training they could relate.
“But, really man, it all’s the same. I had my brothers. We worked our asses off together. We were going to fight for eachother. And when that first mission came down, we were happy we got to do our job. So I uh, knew about as much as anybody I guess about the fight. The...other guys had made ‘overtures’ to war. Yeah that’s what they called it. Overtures. So we were going in for the long haul, to kinda mesh with the locals and swing them on our side. Keep feelers out for any other guy overtures that turned into full blown orchestrations.”
Another pause for a sip while the other men chuckle. This was the hard part.
“So we get there, right? And we set our gear down. We get wired out and we go. We were gonna meet with the mayor, and his sec cheif. I was third down. Mathews and Clay were ahead of me. Clay, he was our team lead. He was the last face I saw before the blast.”
A pause, out of frequency with the others. But this is a sacred thing, Jon needs to get the details right.
“I get hit with a piece of metal the size of my fist, I wheeze out something, some kind of warning, as I leave my feet. I was getting flung back, my legs sticking out in the air, like a damn cartoon. Clay turns. He musta had the projectile wiz passed him, he turn to call out shots fired. But it wasn’t any gun. Cause like right after I get airborne, Matthews, he uh, he explodes. I mean he was there and then he wasn’t there instead there was fire. Nothing was burning it was just solid flame that ate him and clay, and me too.”
Jon adjusts his wheelchair and taps his stumps.
“The guys behind me they got hit with the metal balls too, I got both the fire and the ball. Two years. Two years and a million dollars I think they spent on me. And I had absolutely no chance, cause it was a three team of damn wizards who were making those overtures and we had no clue. My team. I uh, I visit them every year. Over at East National? Yeah. They got a spot on the shady side. I never seen combat. I never got to work the mission. They put me out to pasture. I- the FSIRD keep me on, to consult. I still study. Still try to be-y’know Clay he looked, he knew. He knew his team was gonna die. I saw it. He looked at me like he was looking at a dead man. And he, he’s right, cause I, I died that day. My whole life spent making myself perfect to serve, dead. Gone. And I never got a shot at the enemy. Never got a crack at the mission. Nothing I did helped the cause.”
A longer pause this time, but the others know Jon isn’t done just yet.
“Survivors guilt, sure. PTSD, sure. Normal wheelchair problems, sure. But it’s more than that, y’know? Yeah. Like I didn’t do the thing. Like I left something not done. And I can’t ever do it. They got the guys, y’know, the three rouge wizards. After the ambush, that’s when we came into the region with the regulars and the anti-magic corps. It’s all years ago now and everything's different, except I feel the same like I did when I woke up in the hospital and knew. I knew I was the only one alive. I wish I wasn’t.”
Hours later, the meeting is over. The veterans break apart and go their separate ways. Jon is getting a last drink from the water fountain before he throws away the paper cup.
“Jon, right? I’m Dale.”
“Yeah, hey, thanks for running the meeting.”
“Oh, we take turns Jim and me. I hang out when the kids need him and he jumps in when I get work done.” Dale lifts a pant leg and raps his knuckles on a metal limb.
“Look at that, I hadn’t even noticed.”
“Yeah, them doctors are a wonder with their magic and their computorials. I can’t hardly tell you how it works, but it do.”
“How’d you-I mean do you mind me-”
“Naw, I don’t make it no secret. Same’s you kinda, fireballer took out half my team and a piece of me near twenty year ago back before we had any anti-magic out there on the front lines.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too, for a while.” Dale eyes Jon in a way that makes him uneasy. “It happened before they had figured all this computorial magic hybrid mumbo jumbo. Now’s so they can make a lame horse fly I suppose. And our God-Blessed King has so decreed that every man who get hisself broke get fixed for free.”
Jon nods. “Seems only fair.”
“It do. Now, what sort of temper might posses a man to keep hisself broke, when he could be fixed?”
Jon stares at the tall man coldly.
“I think, young man, you be wanting people to knows you were in a war. Seems like you might get special notice, iff’n you were noticeable.”
Jon looks down and away, sipping again from the cup with two hands.
“I think, son,” Dale crouches down, a soft look in his eye, “you can make yourself whole. Butchou gotta want to.”
Jon lets his blood simmer. He doesn’t get to feel anger often and wants to enjoy it. There’s only two others left, joking as they put away the chairs. Jon’s wrist wire beeps, his ride is here. “Dale, no-one knows I was in the war, I keep those in a closet” Jon motions to a medal half-visible in Dale’s breast pocket under the coat that creases as he stoops. “They all think I’m a civ who got hit by a bus. And that’s what I tell them. Because only war heroes deserve prosthetics.”
Jon nods to Dale, tosses the cup in the trash can, wheels around and away. Dale stays crouched, and scratches his stubble as he wonders after the younger man.
Words mine, Image from Pixabay by way of Imgur. Thank you for reading, criticism welcome.
-Matthew