Cracked, peeling plaster marked the cream colored walls; large chunks littered the torn carpet floor. A large circle of decay rested on the popcorn ceiling in the living room, which consisted of little furniture. The glass windows had no curtains and were smeared with dust; completely covered with cobwebs. The only sound in the entire house was the air conditioning system that would come on and off periodically over a couple of days.

In the cabinets were several bottles of cheap red wine. I poured myself one glass after another, much too full until they spilled over the edges and stained the surface of the wooden table. With each sip I took the more dizzier I became until I was bumping into items as I blindly stumbled around the house. When my hand reached for another bottle it rolled off the table and landed on the tile floor with a loud crash.

I found the fridge to be overflowing with meat, bread, pasta, and fruit. Why were they still trying to keep me alive? Why didn't they hang or burn me at the stake? Baldwin was right; I was so pathetic I posed little to no threat. I had nothing to offer.

Dozens of guards, much more than I had seen before in one small place, surrounded the front yard and wandering back and forth like animals shut in a cage, grasping their rifles. It did not matter, rain or shine; these men were always lingering around, ready to shoot everything and anything that moved except for themselves.

I spied a large chocolate pie at the back of the stained icebox and reached towards it with both hands. The glow of the light spilled upon me. Slowly, I pulled off the plastic wrap and stared at it for a long time. Grabbing a spoon, I crawled and sat down underneath the kitchen table with my legs crossed and began taking one dainty bite behind the moth eaten tablecloth that hung around me. I took another one. Then another. Then another and another until I was shoving handfuls of crust and frosting and filling into my mouth, ignoring how the crumbs tumbled down my shirt and onto the floor. The spoon clattered to the ground. My shaky, heavy breaths were the only sound on the room. I was chewing so heavily my jaw hurt, but couldn’t really taste a thing; just let my dirty fingernails scrape against the bottom of the worn foil container as the pie grew smaller, and finally disappeared. My stomach lurched after sitting still for a couple moments. I quickly scrambled to my feet, knocking over the chairs and made it to the bathroom just in time, heaving out everything and nothing at the same time on my knees, coughing and choking. My bare feet curled against the cold tile floor as I rested my head on the vomit smeared toilet seat, watching a spider escape through a crack on the wall.

Each day I went through three packs of cigarettes, including thousands of burnt matches. I softly sang to myself, one bare foot hanging out on the side of the couch. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead and neck, and the floor was littered with many glass bottles. The aftertaste of bile lingered in my throat. My new hallway mirror was fogged with smoke, and I laid my head against the armrest, listening to static on the small hand held radio I had found in the downstairs closet.

* * * * * * *

Water pattered against the glass, mixing in with the faint sound of thunder outside. Empty pizza boxes, chip and popcorn bags, cookie containers—they littered every inch of the floor. I didn’t want to look at the empty cans of beers that were smushed against the carpet.

The brutal aftermath of my hangover settled over my throbbing head like stubborn clouds. My hands slowly ran against the cold texture of the sheets on my bed, which were tangled around my sweaty legs. I had lost track of how many weeks had passed, mainly because I spent most of my time underneath the blankets. There was no point in doing anything else. I could only lay on my back and watch as the shadows illuminated the walls, danced on the floor. A strange stench rose from me. I could not remember the last time I had even showered, because I did not want to turn around see the man that I had become.

When I opened my eyes in the pitch dark room, I found myself curled up on the mattress in the fetal position. Frost started to cover the carpet and walls; icicles formed on the ceiling. My stifled breaths were visible in the growing cold. I gradually sat up, the plaid comforter bunched around my waist. More than anything I wanted this to be all a bad dream, one that I could not wake up from. Lint clung to my oversized sweater sleeves as I tried to roll off the mattress for the first time in three days. When I stood, dizziness washed over me, and I gripped the edge of the bedpost with my hand.

The moment my bare feet made contact with the carpet, my left leg gave way, causing me to collapse on the floor with a heavy thud.

I killed them.

For a while I remained on my stomach, pain shooting through my knees and thighs. My arms shook beneath me as I struggled to crawl on all fours, feeling around in the dark, knocking over several items on the nightstand. Another bolt of lightning struck outside, bathing everything in the room temporarily in a thick, milky light.

Although my fingers were sweaty, I struck a match and watched the flame flicker, before lighting the mishapened, blackened wick of a candle, instead of a cigarette. The warmth was welcoming to my cold hands, glowing between my palms. Dull yellow and orange light reflected in my eyes. I slowly sat down on the floor, causing a shadow to fall upon my wet face as I stared at shaky flame behind my disheveled hair.

I'm a murderer.

The wax started to melt, a thin puddle forming on the dirty carpet. A weak sigh escaped from my lips as the flame quickly extinguished, leaving behind a twisted trail of smoke that rose in the air.

* * * * * * * * *

The heavy knock on the front door startled me.

I wasn't even sure if I had dozed off or not, but specks of dust streamed from the window. Crust settled around my eyes, nose and mouth as I struggled to get up from the floor, grabbing my crutch with one arm. The pounding grew louder. Awkwardly I stumbled down the stairs, wrapping the blanket around me like a cocoon. I had made it in the middle of the hallway when the edge of the door suddenly cracked, splinters of wood landing on the floor. It swung open, banging against the wall so hard that it left a dent against the surface. As sunlight spilled on the floor, I squinted my eyes against the sudden light and moved back.

Behind the three guards that had their weapons pointed, stood a short older man with glasses. Thin wisps of white hair stuck out of his head as he took a step forward, scowling at the dark house, before his hand rested on his own gun. Someone whipped out a flashlight, holding it out.

"Show yourself, Private. We have no time for games, nor do we want to act foolish."

My heart was racing; I gripped the blanket around me a little bit tighter, hesitating. His voice was cold, unfeeling. It caused chills to run down my spine. Was this the psychiatrist that Baldwin had sent for me? Perhaps he was a general, since he wore the same uniform as the guards.

"I said, get out here."

I slowly stepped into the light, my bare feet barely making a sound against the carpet, looking down. One of the guards flinched in disgust as his eyes settled on me, making me want to disappear. The old man stared at me for a moment, looking me up and down, slightly gritting his teeth. He tossed something on the floor; a heavy orange folder. It landed with a thump, causing some pages to spill.

"You are being charged with treason, meaning that you must pay the government twenty three hundred rupees. Failure to comply may result in jail time. Furthermore, you will start classes within the program you must retake in a few weeks, after we go over some medications prescribed for you. Once you have completed treatment you will be assigned for one of our main missions, with very close supervision. If you violate any rules or attempt to use your abilities without permission, further disciplinary action will be taken."

His words echoed in my ears.

"Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," I whispered.

"In order for you to make the payments, you are required to work at the recruitment camps. Fifteen rupees per hour. Monday through Friday, every day, from sun up until evening, underneath strict supervision. This schedule will change once you start taking classes again."

Thousands of questions crossed my mind. But before I could even ask one of them, he had slammed the door so hard the walls vibrated.

* * * * * * * *

Limping in the rain at gunpoint for the first time in months felt odd, since I had not been outside in forever. Mud clung to my boots and plain gray uniform, and water dripped down my hair and traveled down my neck. I followed the guards past the security lines, where new recruits were getting off the buses. I didn't dare make eye contact with anyone else; all I could hear were whispers and stares from those around me as they began to line up for their first drill.

A clicking sound of a rifle echoed in my ear; I could barely make eye contact with the sergeant who had the barrel brushing against my back. I held my hands up as we began to walk across the fields, past those who were training and running. When an old gray building came through, he ushered me inside. Down the long, dimly lit hallway were several empty classrooms, sunlight spilling through on the desks inside each one. It smelled of asbestos and dust.

He pointed to a bucket full of warm, soapy water and a rag nearby, before shoving me down so hard that I stumbled on the ground and fell on my stomach. The tiles felt cold against my arms.

"This better be clean from top to bottom," the man hissed. "I want it to be so spotless that I am able to eat off the ground with my comrades."

I kept my head low, barely looking at the wadded pieces of paper and other large chunks of dirt and garbage. His shadow disappeared down the hall. Cameras from the top corner of the ceiling looked down on me from each and every angle. Slowly, I got on my knees at the edge of the filthy checkered hallway floor. I noticed my reflection in the water, mixed in with soap residue and bubbles that rose in the air as I wrung the rag out. It clung to my fingers when I began to gently scrub and pick at the stains on the surface, the tiny pieces of trash settling between the crevices on the floor.

Outside, I could hear yelling and the sound of a whistle being blown. My hands were blistered, sore, and I ended up slicing one of my fingers from a sharp piece of tile that poked out from the ground. A dark red drop slipped down my hand, smearing with the soap. I didn't feel a thing with my numbed wrists, being only halfway through with the floor. Callouses had formed on my knuckles. It was the eerie silence that settled over me suddenly being broken as the sounds of shoes scuffing against the ground filled the air.

The sensation of something slimy and wet splashing over me made me freeze for a moment, followed by a man chuckling and a series of voices. Mayonnaise dribbled down my cheek, getting in my mouth and eyes as someone began to hoot loudly. It coated the entire left side of my face. For a moment, I stared at my palms. I couldn't make out what they were saying, nor could I look up. Their shadows came closer, drowning me.

The chants grew louder.

Another wave of warm clam chowder soup sloshed against my forehead. I began to raise my arms out, trying to shield myself from the oncoming avalanche of food. The toe of someone's boot collided against my ribs. Two dark hands grabbed the bucket and dumped it over my head, causing the laughter to grow louder as I was completely drenched, trembling from the sudden cold. Soap bubbles clung to my hair. A large gray puddle gathered beneath me; I started spitting up water. Pain rushed to my face when a man's fist collided against my mouth; blood trailing from my lips and down my chin.

The recruit slammed me against the cinder block wall, his powerful hands causing me to hit my back and slide to the floor. Someone pinned my arms back and kept delivering blows on end until the world would not stop spinning. Saliva flew on my face, my arms. There were so many legs around me, their feet shuffling and squeaking against the floor. I felt his hand wrap around my shirt collar, bunching up the material. When I looked into his face, I could only see his dark eyes and smell the tobacco on his breath.

"Ou se yon wont," he sneered.

He kicked me in the stomach, before shoving me back against the wall again. A strawberry milk carton collided against my head and rolled on the ground, along with a styrofoam container of lukewarm spaghetti. Another person chucked applesauce at me, which splattered on the cinderblocks. I kept my eyes on the dozens of laced boots that surrounded me, tomato sauce and milk dripping down my face. Wet pasta stuck to my face and clung to my hair as I slowly curled into a ball against the wall, listening to their voices.

As I buried my head in my arms, something smashed against my cheek, chunks clinging to my skin. Egg yolk slowly hung from my nose and lips; the sensation of someone pouring a whole bottle of root beer on my head made me shiver. My breaths were shaky, and the shadows of the recruits became distorted, their voices transforming into one. I shut my eyes, my sticky fingertips digging in my arms. Water dripped from the tip of my nose.

When I finally had the courage to look up after a few moments, one of the guards stood in front of me. I glanced at the trails of footprints leading to the double doors, ones that I had failed to hear fading away. The man's hand rested on his weapon, fingers curled around the magazine. For a moment, he swore, looking around at the food splattered on the walls and the now ruined floor, before noticing I was covered head to toe in it. A chill ran down my spine as he kicked at the bucket, causing it to clatter against the ground. His face turned as red as a beet.

"What are you doing just sitting around, wasting time? Do you not see this mess around you? Clean it up. Now."

* * * * * * * * *

The guards and drill sergeants didn't notice a thing as their students dropped their lunches on the ground, smashed bread and fruit all over the floor I spent an hour working on. In the baracks, mud was everywhere. The bathrooms were no easy task either. What had been fairly clean before I came into the picture was now smeared with feces and toilet paper. Urinals were jammed and overflowing as water spilled over the edges, and large globs of toothpaste and deodorant were stuck from the cracked mirrors. In fresh red paint, the word traitor was scrawled on the stalls, each letter oozing and dripping.

I stared at it for a long time.

* * * * * * *

The doctor said that my leg wasn't healing properly, and that I would have a permanent limp as a result. That was the least of my worries. I could hardly think as he gave me more prescription drugs. When classes soon started, I was grateful my hours on the job were shortened, although I was the only person in the classroom during the lectures. They had explained, for my safety and well being, it was for the best if I was separated from the others.

I began to study long hours, cramming my mind with useless information. I memorized all of the dates, strategies of war, the history of the civilians and the Khonie. I went over the PowerPoint slides and the lectures at home, and did all the training sessions. I didn't skip a single one. Not only did I pass my tests and quizzes with flying colors, but received decent scores on my physical exams. I froze whatever objects they wanted me to, shot great distances with the rifle and machine guns they trained me on. The old man gave me pills, which I hid underneath my tongue and spat them out when he left after my sessions ended.

Yet I could not remember the last time I had spoken to anyone face to face. Every day seemed like an endless cycle; a CD player left on repeat constantly. Usually when I arrived back to my empty, dark house around sunset, I stripped off the uniform covered in food stains, excrement, and urine, stumbling around in a daze before my hands finally made contact with a sink.

The bar of soap in my palm felt soggy and mushy as I began to lather up, scrubbing so hard my skin became pink. My chest and arms glistened as I sloshed the water over myself, my fingers turning the faucet all the way it could go. I could not see my face in the pitch black kitchen from the mirror, my nose and eyes were hidden. Chunks of pasta and meat sat in clumps on my soaking wet hair and plopped to the growing puddle next to my bare feet; the vertebrae on my back bulged through my skin. I closed my eyes, tasting the salt water that ran down my face, before slowly sliding down on the cold floor, breathing heavily. I sat there naked for hours on end, hugging my knees, listening to the leaking sound of the faucet above.

Each night I had to wash my uniform; soaking it in a bucket full of laundry detergent and bleach in order to get the foul fluids out of it. Slipping on a clean sweater and jeans made me feel a little bit more human, although the ache in my chest remained as I wandered to the foggy window. The guards outside were laughing, joking amongst each other.

I placed a hand against the surface, patterns of frost escaping from my fingers. It made sleeping at night impossible, and I knew that whoever came inside this house did because they were ordered to by a higher authority, and only because of that reason.

* * * * * * * * * *

Like a drug addiction, watching people became a habit. They smiled and laughed with their children and families, and for a moment, I imagined it. That I was one of them. That I could belong; I could be loved too. I wanted to imagine they were my friends, or that we were cousins or brothers.

When I finished cleaning up the classrooms, I couldn't help but stare at those who were training outside. I leaned my head sideways against the glass, a deep pain settling in my stomach. As soon someone accidentally made eye contact with me they immediately recoiled in disgust, and I would quickly move away to the other side of the room before they could point it out to their friends, my face turning red. From the shadows, I could see that they began to walk away faster.

I began to estimate the times they were the most busy, when no one was likely to see me. Soon I became a little too good at it. It got to the point where I would sneak to their barracks, just to hear human voices, to smell their scents, to know about what they said to each other. I learned the schedules of the sergeants, so I knew exactly when to be in and out of the hallway.

After making sure the coast was clear, I knelt down by the double doors leading to the cafeteria, peering in with one eye through a crack in the wooden surface. Hugging my knees, I stared at them playing cards and laughing with each other during their free time. Cigarette smoke rose in the air, mixed with the smell of food being prepared. I slowly looked down at the floor. If only I could see a human being, perhaps have a conversation with them. I didn't care who they were, if they despised me; they could even cuss me out if they pleased.

* * * * * * *

Broken shards of plates and bowls littered the worn kitchen floor in my empty house. Cabinet doors hung off the hinges. I screamed things without words, threw chairs against the walls. When I picked up a hammer and chucked it against the mirror, a shattering sound rang in my ears. My reflection was divided into several pieces. I stared at the frozen mess around me, struggling to breathe as hot tears slowly slid down my face.

The numb, dull sensation that had settled over me these months faded away, and my sobs started off softly, before gradually getting louder until they echoed in the entire house. I sank to my knees, ice crawling on the ground and my skin.

* * * * * * * * *

The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon when two guards ordered me to come with them. My boots crunched against the gravel road that led up a long winded hill, right up to a large mansion that towered over me. I hadn’t changed out of my work uniform for days; food stained my jacket, face, and hands. In the distance, three guard posts were located opposite sides of each other, the flags blowing in the wind.

I followed the men past a large, brightly colored garden filled with all sorts of flowers and plants, where two older woman were working. Birds chirped in the air as I stepped into a back patio that overlooked the city of Jova, which led to a living room full of expensive furniture, paintings, and rugs. A few maids had finished wiping down the window. Baldwin was seated at the patio, underneath a brightly striped umbrella. Warm sunlight streamed in from the window, and he took off his shades. A wine bottle rested on the table, nearby a platter of fruit and crackers. The two guards stopped walking and saluted him.

He raised an eyebrow. “Gentlemen.” I could feel his blue eyes studying me for a moment. “Won’t you give Private Mouse and I moment alone, please?”

The men left, their shoes thumping against the wooden floor. After the door closed, he poured himself another glass of champagne and leaned back into his seat. He smelled of cologne; his blonde hair was neatly combed; only a few strands were out of place. I began to sweat underneath my clothing.

He wrinkled his nose. "You're a mess. When was the last time you bathed? And is this how you plan to present yourself in front of the authorities?”

I looked down.

“Do you know why I have summoned you here?”

“No.” My voice was barely audible.

"For pete's sake, would you stop that? I'm sick of the mumbling. You must learn how to enunciate."

I continued staring at the ground.

Baldwin smirked as he rose to his feet and came towards me, holding out the wine he had poured out. The dark purple liquid began to swirl as my fingers gently wrapped around the cold glass. After giving me a light pat on my left shoulder, he then returned to his seat and grinned at me.

“Here. You definitely deserve that. I just got the reports from Colonel Lockwell. You have been doing remarkably well with your studies in the program. You see? I knew that giving you a couple months off would be good for you, get your mind straight. And how is Benson?”

"Who's Benson?" I whispered.

"The psychiatrist, what's wrong with you?" He paused and took a swallow of his drink. “Have you been seeing him every week? I received the security footage, and you have improved marvelously at the program. I have a new mission set up for you. There are two more cities that are being overrun by Khonie that are resisting us, on the east coast. You will be deported down to Lihu and Tolawi in three weeks, and you will be working part time in the meantime to pay off the rest of your charges. These are the lessons each of us have to learn, son."

“Yes, sir,” I replied, feeling like the walls of the room were closing in on me.

Baldwin pulled out a thick cigar from his breast pocket and lit the end. “Don’t tell me you’ve gained all of the weight back already. I mean, look at you! Yet, even with the healthy options I have provided, the meat, the vegetables, the fruits— you still seem to lack control. That’s not acceptable, especially not for any member in our program. There’s more to life that stuffing your face, Adlai. Eating all day is not going to solve your problems. You need discipline.”

I did not respond.

”Perhaps we need to try a different diet for you. You need to lose weight. A good seventy to eighty pounds at the very least.” He sighed, allowing a thick stream of smoke to escape from his mouth. “And you’re going to be twenty soon. Folks aren’t going to remember what did you when you were involved with the subhumans forever. There are plenty of other people at the program who are your own age. Or maybe you should meet pretty girls. You spend far too much time by yourself, shut up in that house. You are free to explore the city, you know, as long as you are underneath the supervision of the guards.”

My hand slightly shook as I slowly raised the wine glass to my lips and took a small sip. As the flavor coated my tongue, I imagined a noose wrapping itself around his dainty neck, leaving marks on his pale skin, his eyes bulging, fingers clawing as he desperately fought for air. Or I could drag him out of his chair and horse whip him in front of everyone until he understood how Honda and the others had suffered.

"Private?"

Baldwin had put his shades back on.

“Of course," I whispered. "I'll think about it."

A pleased look appeared on his face. I downed the wine and took a few quick steps forward, pouring myself another glass, taking a hearty sip before leaning against the table. Some drops spilled on the white tablecloth as I set the glass down with a heavy thump, picked up a cracker, and shoved it into my mouth. My heart was thudding in my chest like a drum.

“Good. Take this weekend off and enjoy yourself. Continue your work in the recruitment camps, and do not skip your therapy. I will make sure to increase Benson’s pay.” He handed me an unopened bottle of wine sitting in a pail full of ice cubes next to him. "For your birthday."

It was impossible for me to make eye contact with him. As my left hand wrapped around the neck of the cold bottle, I fought the temptation to bash it over his head.

"You may go," Baldwin said, taking off his hat and leaning his head backwards against his chair. The cigar hung between his fingers. A cool wind blew between us as he closed his eyes and cleared his throat.

Feeling a bit tipsy from all the alcohol in my stomach, I saluted him before leaving the warm patio. The moment I was out of his sight, I unscrewed the cork and poured the dark red liquid all over the ground until the grass was stained with it. A sour aftertaste settled in my mouth.

* * * * * * * * * *

The stench of decomposing human flesh filled my nose as I parked one of the army trucks I had successfully managed to hotwire by the gate of a nearby camp. My hands were shaking as I gripped the steering wheel. I needed a moment to take several deep breaths, hearing gunshots and screaming in the distance and the barking of ferocious dogs tearing the prisoners apart. Fortunately it was dark enough so that my face was hidden from sight. As I pushed open the door and stepped out, the smell grew stronger in the air.

I managed to blend in with a group of guards making their way past the posts where other soldiers stood. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight that met my eyes once I stepped in. Corpses were piled in long, horizontal rows by the fence, doused in gasoline and being consumed by the hungry, orange flames that left smoke rising into the air. Blackened arms and legs were strewn all around the ground, being dumped in deep holes.

It took everything inside of me to keep walking.

Those still alive dug and lifted heavy rocks, the K shaped scars on their faces glowing in the light from the small fires. The guards paced back and forth, screaming profanities at them. Children as young as four worked side by side by each other and mixed a wet clay substance before shaping them into bricks, so that they would be dry by the next day. Women were busy pushing wheelbarrows up a hill, their faces covered in soot alongside the men who wielded pickackes, swinging them against the rocks.

A soldier struck a prisoner who was too weak to walk in the head with the butt of his rifle, causing her to fall. She did not get up, a pool of blood settling around her hair like a halo. Two men immediately dumped her lifeless form against a pile of bodies before immediately pouring kerosene over them.

When I finally tore my eyes away, heart pounding, I fought to make sense of the map of the camp I had stolen from one of the classrooms. Headquarters and communications was my best guess towards where the high ranking officers might be. As soon as the next group of Red Mambas came in, I walked with them side by side up to one of the long brick buildings towards the western side of the camp, right by the electric fence. As soon as we passed the door I slipped in, holding my head low, studying the folder in my hands. More men came in, smoking cigarettes and wearing golden badges on their uniforms.

The room towards the end of the hallway full of wires and a table stacked full of papers met my eye. One of the older colonels was typing furiously on a typewriter, his eyes bloodshot and full of exhaustion. When he stared at me, I suddenly understood where I was. His stomach bulged from above his pants, the bald spot on his head looking shiny from the ceiling light.

My fingers silently wrapped around the handle of the door, causing it to close.

Before the colonel could even look up, I gently placed a hand on his shoulder. A wave of euphoria washed over me as I felt his muscles, organs, and skin starting to transform into a thick block of ice. His face contorted with pain as crystals began to form over his body, his skin turning blue as his bones starting to snap and break. I knew he wanted to run, but he could barely lift a finger. After some weak gasps, his eyes stared lifelessly up at the ceiling, pieces of his bone portruding through his hardened, frozen skin.

A drop of blood traveled from my nose to my mouth as I sat down at the typewriter and studied the papers in front of me. It was a chart, a schedule. The last names of every soldier in the two units that were responsible for keeping the neighboring camps underneath supervision. Two units. I ripped the paper that the colonel had been typing to shreds, pieces of it fluttering all over the ground and grabbed a new sheet.

Due to a shortage of men in Jova, Units D and A are to be send to Selva to provide more security for the camps down there in two days around one fifteen pm. Colonel Lockheart informed me about this emergency. Violent encounters have worsened between the Khonie and our men, and it is mandatory to have more security available. Units F and G will cover for these two locations.

The keyboard of the typewriter was slick with perspiration. I fumbled through the records, trying to find the location of the other two units. They were stationed in Flanders, which took about two days to reach Jova. I grabbed a pen, and traced the colonel’s signature at the bottom of my note, my breathing unstable. I sent the note through one of the tubes and began folding as many papers as possible, stuffing them underneath my jacket. Slowly, I held my palm out to the colonel. Water dripped from his corpse, and he collapsed on the ground as he began to thaw out.

A half wrinkled piece of paper fell out though one of the tubes. As I opened it, I could make out quick footsteps coming down the hall. I grabbed my folder of invitations and slipped out of the door, keeping my head low. Although there were only two words on the page, a wave of relief and anxiety washed over me.

Understood, Colonel.

I wiped my bloody nose with my sleeve as I continued down the hall, ignoring the confused shouting as three officers placed the colonel’s lifeless body on a stretcher. Someone said something about a heart attack, and that was the last thing I heard before I slipped inside of the conference room. Around eighty men were gathered around a long rectangular table, drinking and talking. The air reeked of cigarette smoke, and several pairs of eyes focused on me. I gripped the folder in my hands.

"How dare you interrupt this meeting,” one of the white haired generals barked as he pointed a veined hand at me. “Leave before we call for the authorities to come and arrest you.”

Despite feeling the blood rush to my cheeks, I gave him a polite smile. “My apologies, sir. I know you all are busy. But if you can perhaps spare me a moment of your time, I would surely appreciate it. I am planning a party at my home that is not too far away from here. It would be nice to have some company; you all are invited."

"Get out. Now."

I bit my lower lip.

"Leave, Private."

"But I'm going to have cake and ice cream," I softly said. "Come on. How can you resist that?"

A deep murmur circled amongst the men, before the general spoke up again. I flinched as his green eyes studied my face. “Don't insult my intelligence. We do not associate with Khonie lovers. And you are not supposed to be here. Baldwin does not—“

“He knows I am here. I came here to deliver the invitations myself. He has ordered for you to take time off and come to my party. And I have retaken the program, sir. Khonie are my worst enemy.” My voice shook a little as I delivered the last sentence.

"I find that hard to believe. You're lucky you're not hanging in the gallows for what you did."

I looked down at my shoes for a moment. "I only ask for the company of you and your comrades. I will provide for you whatever you want. And...and I want..I want to learn more about your achievements...sir." Hopefully stroking his ego would loosen things up. My hands were sweating like crazy. I needed to get the hell out of the building soon before they made a connection with the dead man who was lying on the ground a few rooms away.

The general gave me a wide smile, yellow teeth appearing underneath his thin lips. “Very well. Since you want to learn a lesson, I'll give it to you. We will all be there. Not for long, maybe an hour or so. Gentlemen, how does a nice glass of champagne and a good pack of smokes sound to you?”

A light chorus of voices filled the room.

* * * * * * * * *

The night before my morning shift at the recruitment camp, I examined the map in my hands, the records I had stolen. I tried not to think about the man's life I had taken, nor his family, or the woman at the security camp. I had to shut out these thoughts, before they consumed me completely.

Chills ran down my spine as I lightly placed my fingers over the designs of the camp, the number of people who were in there now. The gray shapes on the page caused my heart to sink. I had been foolish. I had not thought this through, as I was supposed to. It was as if I was going to make another mistake, the same one as before. Certainly not everyone in the city acted the same way or believed the same things, even if they appeared to be.

I arose from the table and paced back and forth, running a hand through my hair.

It was well known, even among us, that civilians despised and feared Red Mambas in general. They wouldn't trust me; rather, they would flee at the sight of me. But then I remembered how invisible I truly was. People didn't see me that often, or when they did, they would try to get away as soon as possible, because my appearance was enough to traumatize anyone. I stood still, before staring at the security cameras outside, pressure gathering in my head, observing it from behind my hair.

I thought about the girl with brown sugar sprinkled on her skin, ink stained hands, magic in her eyes.

A drop of blood leaked from my nose, trailing down to my upper lip as frost formed around the camera lens. The sound of its glass shattering and falling onto the porch was music to my ears as I slowly opened the door. Crickets whirred in the air, and a cool wind blew the hair out of my face. Water beaded in my eyes, the lights in the city glowed orange as ice crawled on my skin.