“Shit! Sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you so hard!” cries Reader as I fell my stinging jaw, the AI’s metal form looming worriedly over me.

“Fuck, man. Did you have to?” I complain, testing my jaw to see if everything is still working.

“I was just so… excited!”

“That’s no reason to go punching me about. Just jump or something. Steel Mind my ass, you should have given me a Steel Jaw Ritual.”

“I’ll understand completely if you want to report my ac—”

“Ah, shut the fuck up. I don’t have to hear this shit, just help me up already.”

It does, looking at me with a weird expression. “Does that means… we’re good?”

“Oh, we’re good. But not even, laundry machine,” **BZZZT** “I’ll hit you when you’re last expecting it, and with good, hefty wrench or something!” I declare.

“Barro, you’ll never be able to surprise me, you’re just too slow and clumsy.” Ah, there he is, coming back to normal. Sometimes I can’t understand these fucking AIs.

“We’ll see about that, I’ll clock you good. Why were you so excited, anyway? And where were we going, again?”

“To the hospital. Follow me, I must have scrambled your ideas — it was a pretty good punch.” I just snort at its sass. “I was excited because they’re heroes! Boldly making first contact and protecting a primitive civilization — no offense…”

“Offense taken. We are a far more developed civilization than the average,” I defend my home planet. Go, Earth!

“Yeah, and so very close to a catastrophic environmental tipping point and unable to change course because you’re just too greedy.”

“Fuck off,” I retort with eloquence. “We’re…hm… go-getters?”

“Yeah, suicidal ones. Anyway, Walks Softly and Carries a Longcannon were so… accessible. He talks with your mother, for Christ's’ sake! She keeps watch over a billion sentient lifes, protecting them from the galactic predators! I’m… not sure what this feeling is.”

I have to agree with him on that point. And accessibility to big figures (read: politicians) was not a reality back in Brazil for a long time. They decided to build a whole new capital in the middle of fucking nowhere to escape the tight confines of Rio de Janeiro and its massive population. That was how Brasilia was born. There were other motives for the change, of course, like establishing the capital in the middle of the country, but I’m sure that granting themselves distance from the common people was a strong point for the megalomaniac project. Rio has always had people of every class and ethnicity mixing in the same areas, though in very different roles.

“I think, my robotic friend, that you’ve just met your childhood heroes. I’m happy they haven’t let you down.

“No, no! They never would!”

Our heroes died of overdose, or so Cazuza used to sing in ‘Ideologia’ before AIDS took him, leaving the world poorer for it. I smile at him and say nothing in response. The AIs are born with such intellect, but so lacking in emotional matters. They make humans look emotional stable — if you know us, you know that’s utter bullshit. Humanity is greedy, vain and reactionary most of the time… I’ll cut my depressing thoughts on humanity short this time.

“How long till you can get me the garbage bag drone built, Reader?”

“I’ll send the design for Dense Artificer to build, should be waiting for you when you arrive.”

“No, it will not,” I grumble, but Reader just ignores my complaints about the 1rst Regiment’s AI. It’s like there’s a little robots club and they don’t let you talk shit about one of them even when they deserve it.

It’s already mid-afternoon after the hours we spent on my enhancements, so I want to meet up with Diego and the guys and make haste for Pantera FOB.

“Are you okay to walk by yourself? I have to attend to other duties,” it asks as we approach the hospital.

“I’m good. Thanks for everything — well, not the punch —, see you in two weeks for our next Market visit.”

“Very well, until then.”

I keep walking as he takes a turn, and soon I spot Cainã’s truck - my truck, I mean. It’s only a block away from the hospital, parked in the closest space he could find. It’s a large beast, but half of it is filled with cargo. There’s another one sitting besides it, with a covered bed and benches for transporting troopers. I nod to the milling drivers as I pass them ignoring Cainã’s sniff. It’s been a very long day for me to worry about the asshat now.

I can already hear unusual, boisterous sounds coming from the large, gray hospital building I approach. There’s a crowd reunited in front of it, circling Diego and Jones who hand out some of the cheap and galaxy-wide popular gunnari-sticks I’ve bought on the market. They have shapes of weird Gunnari animals we’d never be able to name, but their sweetness and mild alcoholic fillings are a hit amongst the troopers.

Think of it like an alien street-food eaten somewhat like our churros — mine were always filled with chocolate. And man, just thinking about churros makes me remember about street-food back home. There are the widespread hot-dogs, meat-sticks and hamburgers, of course. But then there are regional dishes like acarajé, a fried bean and onion scone served with various feelings, brought by African slaves, very popular in the northeast. Coalho cheese, cooked on little charcoal grills and served on Rio’s beaches with a godly sprinkle of oregano is a classic and something I miss immensely. I was going to try the northern favorite tacacá before the Unity arrived and I was drafted; I heard it is made with cassava by-products, and a paste with shrimps and spiced with peppers and the mouth-numbing jambu. I miss very much the (meat) esfihas as well — brought by the many Arabic immigrants. Damn, I should see if we can organize a cook-out when things settle down.

I wade through the group, greeting some of the people I recognize — a healed, smiling corporal Cariri among them — until I’ve made it to the two assault troopers, promptly availing myself of one of the gunnari-sticks.

“Barro! Did you pick anything good,” asks me Jones, jolly. Diego grins at me.

“Sure, I’ll tell you later. I want to get this show on the road. Have you made all the arrangements?” I ask, smiling back at how many of our people are back on their feet so soon.

“Yeah, we shouldn’t dally too much. But I think there’s someone you should meet inside before we go,” Diego says with a serious countenance, sobering me fast. “And Cariri is not ready to go back yet.”

“Of course, lead on. And that’s a shame.”

I take more of the stickers, and we move out from the crowd, entering the hospital. The doctors and nurses scowls disappear quickly as I hand out the delicious sticks. Diego grins at my smooth move and beckons me after him, marching resolute to a secluded area on the back, nodding at the gate-keeper.

“What is it?” I ask as we walk unperturbed through the corridors, passing by medics and doctors of all races — some of them must be aliens from the Unity, because I don’t think we have living and breathing, civilized dinosaurs back in Earth — yet at least. Besides the mechanical devices I’m used to — well, not these sleek, top notch ones — there are a lot of magical equipment to diagnose and treat a host of conditions we never knew even existed before the Unity arrived. Well, some might have been know before the rising of the Veil, but widespread magical knowledge was soon lost, vestiges remaining only in the form of superstitions.

“Did you hear about Lieutenant Colonel Valente?”

“Geni said he got smoked in the attack. Is this about him?” I say. Smoked as in getting shot to the head — not dropping down and giving 20 push-ups in drill training. We say “smoked’ because your destiny after having your brains blown out, burned, crushed or otherwise means you’re probably gonna become smoke and ash. The dead are cremated and sent back home in an urn.

“Yes. Only a dozen of our undead were rebrained, and a third are being discharged voluntarily or because their recovery was under the threshold. The LC… he has 89,5%,” Diego tells me. The minimal threshold for a successful rebraining is 90%, but to stay on the Army they demand 95%. Doctors are loathe to “put to rest” people who get too close to the threshold though. I should clarify that the numbers we’re dealing with are not only about brain recovery, but the soul’s as well. Who would have guessing that bringing people back from the dead would be so complicated?

“That’s good, isn’t it? I thought he was a goner. I’m sure they will allow him to stay if he insists on it.” Higher ranking officers are hard to get by — the Unity wants people with both previous military experience and high Chip sync rates.

“They would. The problem is… he’s lost his recent memory. He doesn’t remember anything about the Unity, the mythics, his volunteering to the 413th… And he doesn’t have a clue about the fight that got him here either. He thinks he’s hallucinating,” says Diego.

“Well, fuck. That complicates things,” I answer, face-palming — a double one, for good measure.

“No shit. The psy-doctors asked me to bring every officer he interacted with to see if it jogs his memory and helps the specialized nanites and spells to recover more of it.”

“I’ll be damned…”

Brain and psychological damage have clear if not all solving treatments now, but that was not always the case. In fact, Brazil has a pretty terrifying record of treating its own mental patients; one of the cases came to be known as the Brazilian holocaust after a writer investigated the nearly forgotten history. Sixty thousand dead — and not even the majority actually had psychological problems. The estimate was that 70% of the dead were not actual patients, but the undesirables of society. A gruesome tale that I hope never again will happen in this brand new chapter of our history with aliens, mythics, magic and space-exploration.

I’m shaken out of my thoughts as Diego points out the room to me. LC Valente is being held in a windowless, secure room, and a huge, black-furred werewolf in a nurse’s apron guards the door. We approach the mythic and he nods at us. “The doctors have instructed that he shouldn’t get too excited. I’ll stop you if it happens,” he says, showing a tablet with the Major’s vital signs — old-fashioned of him, most people would just transmit it to their internal PCs. After we give our acknowledgment, he knocks at the door before opening it and gesturing us inside.

What? You thought werewolves were blood-lusting creatures? I’ve told you before they’re as ordinary people as most of us, getting jobs as regular blue-collar workers, lawyers, doctor. Well, they make for regular doctors and nurses, but the area they really shine on is oncology. I don’t care if we have specialized nanites and machines to do it now — being able to sniff out cancer is still an amazing skill. Once they realized it, they became pioneers in the field.

Laying on a bed, the Colonel half rises and peeks under his blindfold, taking in the two of us and the nurse. His slightly above-regs’, stylish black hair was the only distinguishing feature on an otherwise bland men, and now it’s been all shaved off in the process of treating his brain injury.

“Yep, I’m still hallucinating,” he grumbles and lies back down on his bed. “One of you did look normal, though.”

“LC, I’m Lieutenant Barro and I serve under your command…” I hesitantly introduce myself, entering the room with Diego.

“Barro? Never heard of you. And I’m a Major, not a Lieutenant Colonel. What are you trying to say, boy? Or is my mind playing tricks me at again?”

“Colonel, the psy-doctors have had this conversation with you,” says Diego, trading an apprehensive glance with me.

“That was ridiculous. ‘Psy-doctors’, ludicrous. What a bunch of utter non-sense — I didn’t think my mind was so fertile,” he says, speaking more to himself than to us. “Everyone one knows werewolves have either brown or black fur, not fucking caramel…”

I snort, struggling mightily not to laugh out loud while Diego gives me the evil eye. I should clarify that both psychology and psychiatry have been folded into psy-sciences, which includes the study of magical diseases of the field. After I stop myself from laughing, I look again at the voluntarily blindfolded officer, the pity on my eyes fortunately not visible to the harried man.

“Fuck, LC. I know it’s hard to believe, but you must have seen your own personal message, right?”

“I don’t remember recording that,” he says, grunting. “And I didn’t say anything about no monsters or aliens in there!”

I look at Diego and he shrugs, whispering to me: “The Colonel used euphemisms and now he refuses to believe them. The Unity didn’t take into account our stubbornness, but the doctors promised they’ll review all of the messages and have anyone in a similar situation record a new one.”

“Doesn’t fucking help us much now, does it?” I say, pissed at the oversight. The Unity told us from the get-go that small fuck-ups were unavoidable while we got used to each other, but it’s incredible how many pop up out of nowhere. Alien perspectives and such. They didn’t take into account our prodigious capacity to deceive ourselves — amongst the greatest in their records from what I’ve heard.

“Look, Colon—”

“No, I will not look! Not if I’m going to see a fucking werewolf standing besides you, and God-knows-what other bizarre hallucinations,” the man says, resolute. It seems he’s reverted to being the annoying bastard he was when we first arrived. With time and familiarity, he had become a lot more easier to deal with.

“I meant hear me, LC. I know the doctors won’t release you for a long while. But it might be good for you to visit our base, Pantera, again, Everyone is cheering for you to get better. We’ll organize you a party when you do,” I promise.

“I suggest you don’t try to rationalize things in one go, Colonel. It took everyone back home months to get around to it, and many are still trying. Visiting us is really a good idea,” Diego supports me.

“I— errr… I’m not that… sure. Maybe?” the Colonel is starting annoying me, though I can sympathize.

“I can have the werewolf dyed black if you’d prefer, Colonel,” I offer cheekily, trying to calm him down. But that earns me a growl from Diego, and the reaction scares the terrified man even further. Can’t say I blame him, I nearly shat my pants the first time a mythic did that next to me.

“Shit! Don’t do that!”

The nurse opens the door, looking at us disapprovingly. “I think it’s been enough!”

Chastised we nod, turning to our former commanding officer to say goodbye.

“Sorry, Colonel,” Diego offers. “We’ll be leaving, now. Goodbye.”

“Yes. We’ll see you later, sir.” I say.

As we’re turning to go, the Colonel asks one last question, “Wait— If I’m not going crazy… What should I expect, how do I deal with all this?”

“Believe the doctors, a lot of things have changed. And I’m sure they’re reaching out for your family to help,” is Diego’s take on the way forward.

“The world was always fucked up, LC. Now we just know that that’s true in even more ways than we could have imagined. You have to accept the things you can’t change and do the best you can,” I say before departing.

We exit the hospital in a lot more somber mood than we entered to see darkening skies, we’ll be late at this rate. The happiness of the ones that recovered outside seems like a small comfort compared to LC Valente’s doubt and fear. For all that I joke about the importance of this war and how I talk about the medical advances of the Unity… this is still war. And we lose people, good people. Ninety died in the Barkers’ attack, counting the ones they couldn’t bring back; others like the Colonel might survive and be scarred for life. It’s so frustrating and it seems so pointless to fight somewhere I don’t give a shit about and for causes no one thought to tell us about. But even if this is all fucked up, besides having signed up to it, my mother’s joyous messages about how things are beginning to change for the better back home give me what I need to carry on. It might not seem like it, but we’re a cog in the machine that’s making human life better. **BZZZZT**. Yeah, and mythic life too, shut up.

In short order we get everyone squared on the two trucks, and I thump on the truck to order Cainã to begin our way back to base — it’s a lot cooler than messaging him, don’t judge me. Before we exit the base, I remember to stop by the Enhancer’s Lounge and get the special order Cook has prepared at my request. We’re carrying twenty people back, and I think we’ll make it in time for me to set up the nightly celebration Geni wanted.