"So this is your last word, Lieutenant Geoffrey Robertson?" Colonel Cromwel asked me after a twenty-minute recap of my military resume.

"Yes, sir," I confirmed.

He frowned visibly, his mustache, deviating from all modern trends, successfully seconding the shape of his lips.

"Not that I'm surprised," he said at last. "You've done more than any other three men combined, and that's something to say."

The pen rustled on the paper, and his signature was added to the lower right corner of the form.

"Mr. Geoffrey Robertson, goodbye."

He stood up and offered me a hand in greeting.

"Goodbye, sir."

And that was it. After fifteen years I was free. Not that I longed for it so much, they offered me everything I liked - excitement, fun, fighting… blood. And I was still below the official limit for the exclusion of soldiers from the front line for a few years. But I didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to myself.

The few private things I've amassed over the years have been packed long ago. They didn't half-fill a sports shoulder bag, including two sets of underwear, a spare shirt, and a sweater that was neither nice nor great, I just got used to it. I was wearing stretch jeans, army boots, a loose short-sleeved shirt, and a jacket made of a waterproof and breathable material, the best you could buy.

And a kukri knife. About two centuries old, bigger and heavier than usual. But it fit perfectly in my hand. I picked it up from a guy, who knew how to use it damn well.

With all my meager possessions, I headed around the flagpole toward the gate. The soldier on guard saluted me, even though I was no longer in uniform. I was one of the oldest on duty, and the list of missions, though secret, gained me a reputation.

"Sir, I'm sorry," he began.

He didn't like it, but an order is an order, we both knew that.

I stopped.

"I need to search your luggage."

I could get upset, I could make him uncomfortable, but instead I handed him the bag.

"Search with regard to what?" I asked.

"With regard to firearms," ​​he replied.

"Please," I urged.

He did his job and saluted me.

And I was out.

* * *

The bus stop was not far, down to the town, as we always said, it didn't take even twenty minutes. I waved, the driver stopped, and I gave him a pound and left him a change. I would have to get rid of them at the earliest opportunity either way, they would ring in my pocket.

The bus was empty except for a few seasonal workers helping to shear sheep. I sat down in the seat by the other door, watching the swirling landscape, wondering why I had really left the unit, where I was missing nothing. Staying in one place for too long? It was impossible to say that I was in one place, Myanmar, Thailand, Afghanistan, Lombok… I knew the local area only from weeks of convalescence after injuries. I also spent holidays elsewhere.

Next stop, a guy in a tattered work jacket with rolled up sleeves approached. He paid no attention to me and slid into the seat across the aisle just in front of me. You could smell tobacco, horses, and whiskey.

Maybe I became part of one system for too long and became nervous about it: not paying attention to myself was the first law of my kind. What if someone became interested in how it was possible that Lieutenant Robertson had gone through so many missions with minimal damage, how is it possible that he was violating statistics? I have already encountered a similar approach. Before I stepped out, I was determined what to do; in fact, it's been maturing in me for a long time. I will sweep away the tracks as best I can without illegal practices.

And if someone still finds me, I'll be sure he had a lot of work to do. And it will be easier for me to decide what to do with it. But always one step at a time.

I had my last salary paid in cash, so I didn't need the money. Nevertheless, I immediately withdrew a larger amount from the account right at the first ATM. If someone looks for me and finds out that I was withdrawing money here, it won't help them much.

Who would look for me and why? It must be a chuunibyou synd… a persecution complex, right. It's high time to disappear, change places, then maybe I'll calm down.

At the box office, I asked which platform the long-distance buses depart from, and then bought a ticket to London from the vending machine.

There were two hours until departure, time for a beer or two and something to eat.

The train station buffet did not appeal to me, I headed for the alleys, where, as I remembered, you could find a few establishments with decent cuisine. And one in particular. Tucked away, with small round windows resembling ship's portholes. I ordered a double raw steak with a children's portion of french fries and no vegetables. I never got used to that thing, my digestive tract specializes in meat. It is simple.

The radio played softly, the pen rustling on the paper as the waiter solved the crossword puzzle. Quiet, and except for me, there was only one guest. He did not eat, seemingly just looking at the glass of water in his hands, as if he was studying the change in the water level every time he took a sip. But I knew better.

"This is the second pub where I tried to find you."

Maulsari Dabah moved even quieter than I remembered. I swallowed the swear word and replayed in my memory the last ten seconds, to see if I could hear it. You bet I could, and he even dragged his damn soles on the ground as he used to, but for some reason I could only notice it now. How the hell does he do it?

"Why are you looking for me? How do you know where to find me? ”I asked him instead of greeting.

"It occurred to me that sooner or later you would want to change the air. I check every guy who leaves the base. Save for those who are going on a vacation, "he smiled.

His teeth were whiter than I remembered, and he was dressed better too. Although his dark Indian face kept the same oval features.

"Because I wanted to say goodbye to you," he answered the second question to my surprise.

"Why?" I didn't understand.

"In case you would ever need anything."

He handed me a business card with an email address printed on it.

"Why?"

I've never been fond of longer than needed conversations, and Dabah knew it.

"You saved my life."

That was true, but most people don't take their debts that seriously. Even though he wasn't really human in the true sense of the word.

"You seem to be doing well," I said.

"Yes, I found," he searched for the right words for a moment, "a new family. They can properly appreciate my talent. "

I hid the business card and suddenly I found myself sitting at the table alone. The perception of an expensive, albeit ready-made suit making noises was again delayed. Was that the ability that Dabah's new family could properly appreciate? I had no idea.

I saved Maulsari Dabah's torso from hitting a tanned aspen pole. The uneducated inhabitants of the village drowned in the Bengal jungle wanted to get rid of the dangerous vampire. It wasn't until much later, after the canned blood began to be lost in the hospital where I had taken the impoverished Dabah, that I realized that the villagers were not stupid or restricted, but actually right. However, there was nothing more I could do about it. I saved him. One of his hidden abilities was that I did not recognize a member of his species in him either.

I ate all the meat, rummaged through the fries, washed away the too strong spice flavor with another beer, and headed back to the station.

* * *

London hasn't changed since the last time I visited it, only the number of cars on the streets increased again, and their coktail from exhaust gases was richer with a lot of ingredients I hadn't felt in it before.

I didn't like this city, but I needed to pick up my other identities from a bank safe, and I also needed to check dead boxes. I didn't think there was anything in them, but I just wanted to see for myself.

In the evening, I looked at my old-new documents in the hotel room, I hid the original ones under the false lining of the sports bag. I actually learnt to sew, and very well at that. A more useful ability than many people would expect.

I turned on the TV, opened the laptop I had bought at the supermarket a few minutes ago, and waited for it to start. I needed to be in the picture, to know what was going on. In today's orderly world, I felt best where there was violence and chaos, and it was in such places that it was easiest to disappear and emerge with a new identity.

I went through the BBC news one by one, concentrating on places of local conflict, unstable governments and so on. None of this appealed to me, the restlessness that usually drove me from place to place disappeared. Maybe I deserve a vacation, a few months of doing nothing, lounging. I could dive somewhere warm, looking for places no one has ever been to before. Or at least for a very long time

I'm going to take a vacation, I've finally decided.

I got up and pulled a shot of hennessy out of the hotel minibar. For this price, I could get a whole bottle in the store. But why not, I just declared a vacation.

I kept surfing, now solely for fun, without following a certain goal. There was no other hennessy in the fridge, but smirnoff vodka looked like it could continue the job. Just before I finished, I checked my old email accounts that I used to buy and sell interesting things that I sometimes came across. For security reasons, usually only a few times. In the last one, however, whose password I hardly remembered, I found a brief message:

Come, we need help.