Cottonwood

We are few and weary. Soldiers not brooding or otherwise infirm are wading through chronic melancholy. Defenses are down, and the scouts have caught a curious infection. We know not of when Colonel Brandon may arrive.

With eyes painted a striking red, he sat. Veins, protruding like lightning bolts, stretch from his iris outward. Fists clenched, he pounds them against his temples. A pulsing pain ripples through his brain. Muscles and veins, both contracting.

The Sun is scorching. Some have suffered from heat stroke, while others from dehydration. Their lips chapped and throats dry.

Light hurts. The mere shreds of radiance, escaping from behind the cold-stricken blinds, act like pins and needles to the corneas. He sways his head slightly to the right, and the room spins. He submits to the pain, and collapses his head to the softness of his bed.

We haven't slept for days. The enemy is using a psychological tactic, and I fear it's working. All day and night, they fire their missiles aimlessly. The silence of the night shatters, along with our sanity.

Yet, the softness is lost. No refuge remains, none at all. The impact feels like a hammer banging relentlessly against his skull. No refuge, nor haven.

The men are ornery, homesick, and distant. Chronic pain wreaks havoc throughout their psyche. They ask, longing for an answer, 'When will the torture subside?' Yet, I can only look on.

He hears a faint creak.

"Gordon?" asks a young, male voice.

"Who is it?" he mutters irritably.

"It's Dante," he replies. "I've heard that you're losing faith in the revolution. We're fighting, how can you not have confidence in that?"

"Don't try to convince me to change my mind. Make yourself useful and hand me that lighter over there."

He pointed to a nearby nightstand. Dante obliged.

He grunted. "How's Price?"

Gordon opened a carton of cigarettes resting on his nightstand. Carefully, he removed one of them, placed it in between his lips, and lit it carefully. The embers glowed in the darkness of his room and smoke curled blithely out from its end. Dante observed that on Gordon's arm was a nicotine patch. While this scene would have seemed unsettling to anyone else, Dante was completely accustomed to this type of behavior. This was Gordon's norm. This was how he dealt with his troubles.

"Keeping alive," Dante replied. "Supplies are low, and the death rate's high."

"I told them it was an irrational move," Gordon took a long drag from his cigarette with his patch still on. "No value in the fight."

"What about respect? Honour? Decency?"

"Hmph, those kicked the bucket a while ago."

"We're doing this for Eden. We'll get no recognition as a republic without a victory."

"Well then, what will staying *there* do? Face it. We're fighting a meaningless battle, and countless casualties is all we'll have to show for it. It's time you got yourself out of that self-induced 'dream world' you always hang out in."

"What happened to you? What happened to fighting till the end? Never admitting surrender? Isn't *that* what got us this far?"

"The chaotic sanctity of the battlefield is gone. No point in fighting. The past, it had heroes. Men fighting with broken legs, cracked ribs, shattered ankles. Why? Because they believed in a cause. *Their* dream. Their pursuit of happiness. The dream they shared with their fellow man. We don't have that anymore, Dante."

A long silence penetrated their discussion. The cold snow from the winter outdoors was collecting on the glass of the windows, creating webs of ice.

"All is left are hypocrites. Hacks that don't even believe in their founding laws. But I can't blame them. No one can. Our leaders are to be *our* servants. Instead, they see us as obstacles. Nuisances they must overcome to reach complete control. Behavioral control. Emotional control. Battlefield control."

"The world needs a haven. That can be New Eden. We can define history."

"And sacrifice free-will?" Gordon questioned. "What have we done throughout history? Progress. And for what? To have a convoluted society filled with hatred, promiscuity, bigotry, ignorance. For years, humans have tried to see light within themselves. We've forced this lie down our throats, 'Maybe there's still hope'. There isn't. You can try to say that we are above the animals that we kill, sell, skin, humiliate; we aren't."

Dante stood silent. The longer they waited, the more intolerable the tension became.

"So there is no hope?" he asked. "This is the philosophy you live by *everyday*? How can you look at yourself in the mirror? How can you stand to stay alive?"

"You can educate a man, Dante. You can show him the truth. You can transform his ignorance into intelligence. You can turn him 'classy'. But when he cracks, there's nothing that'll stop him. He'll go and create sheer chaos on will alone. A utopia can't exist within this world. There will always be a rebel. A jackass that screws it up for everyone else."

"You're wrong," Dante resisted. "You're a pessimist that'll never see what the world can become. New Eden can exist, we'll conquer the battlefield and history."

"He who controls the battlefield controls history. I'll tell ya one thing, kid. Someone controls the battlefield, and he sure as hell isn't on our side."

Dante wore a mournful look on his face. Inside, he felt as if a bit of the Gordon he knew was dead.

"I don't need to convince anything to you," he told him, "all I know is that there's still hope out there."

He headed towards Gordon's window, opened it carefully, and placed a foot on its apron as if about to leave. He looked back at his "friend" once more.

"When you want to help...*if* you want to help, you know where to call. Till then, have fun stewing in your own hate. There's a war to be won."

With that, Dante jumped out the window, and parkoured through the cold city-scape with catlike agility. He disappeared without a trace.

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