The soldier had wheeled Arnel out into the garden, which was less of a garden, and more like an emergency landing pad for VTOL craft. But for now, the place served zen purposes. It wasn’t quite often, but people spent time here, in this Eden populated by birds of paradise and butterflies — all of which would suffer catastrophic failure in the event a VTOL craft landed here.

Even so, one could not see the sky from even within this garden.

Neither sun nor moon shone upon the Arcologies and its inhabitants, as if they were creatures cursed by celestial bodies for deciding to take control over the whims of nature. Neither sun nor moon graced the Arcologies, but neither could tsunamis, earthquakes or starvation hinder them. They were proud monuments to the ingenuity of Humanity — an obsidian altar, with glowing white crowning jewels, upon which the concept of natural disaster was sacrificed. Perhaps less sacrificed, and more butchered.

In this place, even the natural calamity of nuclear warfare — an invention of mankind — was impotent here. Humanity was immortal here. Perhaps one day their bodies may wither away, and all traces of civilization could be wiped out but Humanity would remain in the form of these immortal megastructures that would, unto the countless eons, remember its inhabitants, their cultures, vices and sins. The Arcology was the world now — mother Earth was just a forgotten, empty shell.

While they were going down the corridors, before they got to the park, Arnel overheard a piece of a conversation. A couple of nurses were discussing the strange incident that took place in Arnel's room. Apparently, his invader was a drone. A delivery drone.

“Delivery drones don’t have jets,” the soldier said, in the hallway. “Your room — you saw the state of it. There were burn marks from the jets all over the place. That’s military tech. But don’t worry about it. Sometimes drones get confused. It happens.”

Arnel smiled awkwardly. He didn’t reply. What could he say to that? Admit that the drone was not, in fact, confused? That it had carried out its orders to the letter — the literal letter. A heavily armed drone delivered his pizza.

He was lucky it was a drone and not a missile. Or an orbital strike?

Secretly, Arnel sympathized with himself, by making silly mental statements like: Those military AI sure don’t know common sense! Use the door next time or knock!

But in reality, nothing helped. He felt like there was a void in his stomach that had devoured all his bravery. A stark reminder of this fact was the noisy way the soldier was eating the pizza the drone delivered. Arnel wished the soldier would at least read the mood! He was traumatized! He would probably be having nightmares about that incident for years to come.

The soldier didn't seem to care or realize.

“Oh dear goodness,” the soldier said, swallowing mouthfuls of pizza. “I haven’t had... pizza in ages. One time, I snuck off base to this joint in the outer territory, risked life and limb, for some spaghetti and when my Cee-Oh found out, he gave me a recon mission. Top secret.” The soldier licked his fingers. “Discover and retrieve the most agreeable, natural or unnatural, wedge-shaped carbon biological supplement of Italian persuasion and if in doubt, bring all applicable items for further testing.”

Perhaps noticing Arnel’s confusion, the soldier smiled, reaching for another slice of pizza. “I said: You just want a lot of pizza?” The soldier bit off a mouthful, and mumbled. “Your mission is for you to interpret, but off the record, yes, I want all the pizza you can find, he said!”

Arnel couldn’t help but snort. He didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. He wasn't in the mood for stories, but that wayward ember of warmth he felt from that storytelling style got him curious.

“I actually came under fire,” the soldier said, as he shoved the rest of the pizza slice into his mouth. “There I was, in the transport, packed full of pizza. Just me and the driver Jenkins. This bulldog, an antique, one hundred year old tank, comes out of nowhere. Blam!” The soldier clapped his hands together. “A huge shell comes right across the hood of the transport. Leaves this nasty gash. The whole time I am thinking, shit; if that gash doesn’t buff out, I might get demoted, but if I fail to deliver the pizza, a fate worse than death awaits me!”

“What happened?” Arnel asked, leaning forward in the wheelchair. He was enthralled now. He had almost forgotten about the incident.

“Jenkins gunned it. Pedal to the metal. Slow down, I shouted! We are losing pizza! Jenkins is screaming into the radio, requesting close air support and med-evac for Private Rafaelle Esposito. Who the hell is Private Esposito!? I shouted — by the way, do you know who that is? At the time, I didn’t — Anyway, somehow, we made it back to the base. The whole transport is shot to hell; it’s a miracle it even drives. Pizza? All over the place. The soldier at the gate takes one look into the cabin, I have pepperoni on my cheek, Jenkins is eating an olive. What’s in the back? Classified, I reply. He checks his papers, nods. Welcome back. The transport practically broke apart when Jenkins parks it. The whole base was on alert. It was biblical. All because of some pizza.”

“Did you get demoted?” Arnel asked.

“Oh hell yeah,” the soldier said, nodding as he reached for another slice of pizza. “I got demoted twice. Once for improper conduct — sneaking off base in the first place — and once for catastrophic and gross incompetence. I don't think anyone did not get demoted.”

“What about your Cee-Oh?” Arnel asked. “Did he get demoted?”

“What do you mean? He demoted us!” the soldier laughed. “But then I was promoted twice, I even got a medal. My Cee-Oh, in the same breath, gave me the Medal of Bravery, for saving Private Esposito, and then told me and Jenkins to clean the entire barracks with our toothbrushes. We went through thirteen toothbrushes, while the rest of the guys ate the pizza we almost died for. I didn't even get a taste of it.”

Arnel roared with laughter. Perhaps the military was the life of adventure. Put together enough bored soldiers, and anything could happen.

“Anyway, my point is,” the soldier said, putting the slice of pizza back. “In life, pizza happens. You never know when you are going to get bulldog’d out of the blue. But things generally tend to work out. For every minus, sometimes, there’s a plus. And even when you are at your lowest point, you can take solace in knowing that at least someone is eating pizza while you suffer.”

“Was that supposed to cheer me up?” Arnel asked. “For every minus, sometimes, there is a plus?”

The soldier shrugged with a big grin on his face. “That’s how it works. You don’t get to choose, and there are no guarantees. Life is pizza. You just go with the flow.”

Strangely enough, Arnel could actually accept such ludicrous logic. Even the bravery-devouring void in his stomach disappeared. Perhaps not entirely, but he felt slightly more at ease now. He never thought that the day would come when he could feel comfortable around a soldier.

“What’s your name?” Arnel asked.

“Thomas,” he said. “Sergeant Thomas Stone.”

“Arnel Weis,” Arnel said, extending his hand to Thomas, which the soldier accepted and squeezed.

Arnel finally reached out and took one of the remaining few slices of pizza. “Pizza happens, huh?”

“Yup,” the soldier nodded.

“By the way,” Arnel asked, as he took a small bite of the pizza slice. “Why didn’t you just order pizza?”

The soldier glared at Arnel, but didn’t say anything.

“That whole story is bullshit, isn’t it?”

“You can choose to believe whatever you want to believe,” Thomas said, taking the last slice and then laughing.

The two finished off the pizza, and then drove around the Arcology. At first, Arnel was surprised they could leave the hospital, and he suspected that he was, in fact, confined to it. But Thomas did not seem to care. What was Arnel going to do? Run? He could barely sit normally.

There weren’t many fun places to go to in seven, or so Arnel thought. It turned out that most of the upper levels were entirely dedicated to luxury. There were maid cafes, cat cafes, ordinary cafes, lumberjack cafes, cyber cafes; basically, every variant of themed cafe one could think of, and at least a few of them had rotating themes — like the lumberjack cafe — then there were casinos, arcades, indoor soccer fields; there were young people, old people, rich people and, with the appearance of Arnel and a soldier, now there were poor people too.

In fact, Arnel, in his patient gown, and the soldier, in his uniform, stood out like a sore thumb. Arnel still wasn’t sure if the bouncer didn’t let them enter the “cabaret place with adult themes” — as Thomas called it — because they didn’t dress up for the occasion or because they didn’t meet the Citizenship class to be allowed entry — a hefty class H.

In the end, they wheeled off into one of the arcades, and Thomas, using his cybernetic implants — not like Arnel’s though — to achieve a perfect shooting score on some targets, ironically, won Arnel a plushie of Deucalion. It was so ridiculous that Arnel actually lost a bit of his existential fear of Deucalion. In the real world, Deucalion was a machine that could glass the entirety of Sector-9 a dozen times over. In Arnel’s hands, it was an eight-legged, purple colored stuffed toy that either said “For the Commonwealth” or “Target locked” in a cute, but robotic voice.

It was so surreal. Arnel half-suspected that he was just having a dream. All these events, amidst the crumbling ruins of his life, seemed so out of place. He almost felt as if he didn't even deserve them, as if he was stealing fortune from the heavens.

Begrudgingly, almost, Arnel had to admit to himself that he actually had fun. He could not remember the last time he had fun. Fun seemed to be as scarce a resource as pizza was in the fictional world — and apparently diet — of a Commonwealth soldier. If someone told him, the day before, that he would have a fun time with a soldier, Arnel’s only option would be to retort with “as being used for target practice?” Never — not even once — would he suspect that something like this could happen. In fact, there even was target practice. Except Arnel wasn’t the target.

But eventually, it all had to end. Thomas drove Arnel to his new room, saluted Arnel and wished him good luck.

Then, all alone, contradicting thoughts crawled into Arnel’s mind. Could he be friends with soldiers? The one time Arnel had a premonition, he was pretty sure that it was Thomas that put three bullets into Arnel’s chest. He was not entirely certain — it happened a long time ago from Arnel’s perspective. But maybe, just maybe, he did not have to think about whatever ultimate destiny awaited them. The events of that day were more than enough evidence towards proving how enlightened the meaning of those words were: Life is pizza, Thomas said. Life is nonsense.

Just go with the flow.

From this new room, Arnel stared out into a different section of the Arcology. The tallest building across from this side of the hospital had a giant neon advertisement for Fubuki Heavy Industries, and its subsidiary, Fubuki Vehicles, replaying a soundless ad, over and over again, of a man gesturing to an APV, and the words “Safest transport mode in the world” appearing in the corner.

More and more, Arnel not only found the advertisement distasteful, but downright insulting. It was their APV that put Arnel in this situation. Safest transport mode in the world?! Yeah, right!

And at first, he ignored it. But there was a limit to a person’s tolerance, especially if the offensive content was something this personal. It was like being in jail, and his cell-mate was his greatest enemy. More than ever, Arnel regretted his meeting — if it could be called that — with Deucalion. He definitely preferred the previous room.

Between the hospital and the tall building was a lane for drones — delivery drones, maintenance drones, service drones — and idly, and not entirely seriously, Arnel wished that one of them would just plow into the advertisement.

After everything he had seen, heard and experienced, Arnel was surprised he could still get shocked. But without a doubt, a drone responded to his wishes, and swerved off the drone lane and plowed right into the advertisement. Electrical sparks shot out from the framing corners, and then a bolt of lightning ran straight through the middle. The screen glitched out, at first, became pure white and then pure black. Embedded in the middle of the screen was the burning and smoking wreckage of the drone — ironically, it was a Fubuki Heavy Industries drone.

Slack-jawed, Arnel stared at the accident. Disbelief and reality mixed together to create a powerful cocktail of… a little bit of everything.

His mind broke.

He laughed. He laughed, not because he was feeling joy, and perhaps not even because he was overwhelmed with sorrow. He laughed at himself. He laughed at how broken he had become. He laughed, because he didn’t even know what he had become.

He laughed, because he didn’t know what else to do.