This day had begun like so many others did for Theodgar Müller. The sun hadn’t yet had the time to rise over the endless, dead, and sand-filled plains of Central-America. The man, who had never truly likes that place, had spent a few minutes thinking about he could escape it. He wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, really, but after the War his love exploring picturesque places had dies almost as fast as his love for living.

Having no work to do thanks to his high position within his current organisation, he finally came to the conclusion that he would be called on when or if he were needed, and hence, he decided to play into this nostalgia that had overtaken him this morning. After cracking a small crystal, he found himself in the busy train station of the city where he’d met his first love; Geneva.

He strolled through the streets, reminiscing of a time where buildings weren’t quite as tall, and people didn’t dress quite as plainly. He didn’t look old enough to have known those times, and if anyone were to ask, he’d reply that all he knew of the war were the tales his parents told him, and the propaganda he’d been shown at school.

Following the flow of tourists, he found himself at the ‘place de la Victoire’. Before the War, this plaza had been occupied by a row of houses, the skeletons of which could still be somewhat seen where cobblestone and concrete clashed. Now, an imposing statue stood in its centre. Theodgar almost lost balance, and would have fallen over if not for his cane, when he saw who the statue was of.

A woman; taken before her time. Long, light, upbraided hair, eyes full of hope and determination, skin of that sickly white characteristic of those who stayed too long within the dead-zones. Well, that was how she’d look when she was alive at least. The metal statue did not portray her as such. In fact, it portrayed her standing over the corpse of a phoenix, and accompanied by people Theodgar did not recognise. Nathalie did not enjoy walking, even less so over a corpse. She would fly or hover, defying the most essential law of the universe by her mere existence.

A group of tourists approached the statue, and their guide began rambling on in a broken Italian about the history of this plaza.

“This figure was given to the city by the director of Red Tiger Bank. Are any of you members there? Or perhaps work?” The guide repeated well-rehearsed words. “Well Red Tiger Bank has sponsored a lot of post-war renovations around the world, and that was even before they expanded out of Asia.”

Theodgar nodded, as things slowly began to fall into place. After what the European Alliance had pulled off during the war, if did surprise him that they’d put up a statue of Nathalie out in the streets. But if it was a gift from Red Tiger, then there was a really good chance that the man who’d given his name to the bank was the one to force this tiny tribute to his ex-team member into the streets of Geneva.

“The four people around the woman represent each of the four big powers, and the woman is symbol of the peace that they brought by working together.” The tour guide continued.

“Are they not all five anti-mages?” Someone in the crowd asked. “I heard there was a tribute statue of the anti-mages in Geneva.”

“Yes, but not this one.” The tour guide replied. “The one on the southern bank. It had the names of all the known anti-mages engraved in it. If you want to visit, don’t go at sunset. From time to time crazy people who want to bring the anti-mages back gather there for magic rituals.”

“Oh, that is forbidden on Accra.” Someone from the crowd spoke.

“Yes because people are not crazy there.” Someone else replied.

“Freedom of belief is a big movement here in Europe.” The tour guide attempted to explain.

“Yes, but if their freedom is preventing us from exercising our freedom of access, then can it still be considered as such?” The visitor from Accra continued.

Theodgar had heard enough. They weren’t teaching people the truth about the War, about what it had cost to win it. But then again, wasn’t that the whole reason why he’d move to the Americas in the first place? Unlike Europe they did not outright lie about what they had done during the war. The simply presented things in a way that made people un-interested in them.

Occasionally leaning onto his cane, the man continued his walk to the northern embankment. The thing had been made of wood even back in his time, so he knew it would have changed, as things always did with time. Despite the time that had passed and everything he’d been through, despite now being an adult, and knowing he should not get attached to such simple things, Theodgar hoped for that embankment to remain the same. Because if it were, it would be an anchor for him. He could look up at the sky, just like when he was a little boy, and spot a dragon, flying far, far above his head, just like he had all those years ago. And no one would believe him when he’d tell that story. No one would want to dream and hope for a world where ‘magic’ was more than a synonym of ‘skill-induced’.

The embankment had changed.

The wood was new, and the benches were pained an ugly green.

The sky was empty of everything but the occasional and those ugly straight lines that tailed behind airplanes. All this scenery did was remind Theodar of his complex and mixed feelings towards the change that the world had undergone after the war.

But the man quickly realised that some thing never changed, as he spotted a young artist scribbling down a distorted portrait of reality. He observed from afar, not wanting to disturb the artist’s flow of creativity. But as soon as the sketchbook and pencil had been put down, Theodgar rushed in with a greeting.

“It is very avant-garde.” Theodgar commented, wanting to come-off as a man with certain expertise, rather than an annoying passer-by.

The artist turned around. For a moment Theodgar could have sworn that it was Nathalie. But his friend had never picked up a pencil in her entire life, definitely not in this context, and very likely not with her hands. The more he looked at this young woman, the more he realised she looked nothing like his friend. Her hair was the wrong shade of blond, and her eyes, although the right colour, were too wide compared to Nathalie’s.

“Thank you. But I was going for realism. I think I still need more practice.” The young woman replied in French.

After a brief exchange, Theodgar realised that she had one of those translation skills, and, since it was all the same to her, switched to his mother tongue as he began explaining how spot-on she’d been in her portrayal of reality.