SHURABA 2013 by Gio Basco

修羅場 2013

Contents

No Time for Pizza (A Pacific Rim fanfic)..................................................2 Traffic at the Intersection...........................................................................14 Heaviness.......................................................................................................26

“Shuraba” (修羅場) is a noun that originally refers to the place where Asura (triheaded, multi-limbed demigod reincarnation of souls cursed to a life of eternal violence with no hope of resolution or peace according to Buddhist teachings) and Taishakuten (or “Sakra devanam Indra”, the ruler of heaven in Buddhist cosmology) fought, and is a word used to refer to places where a lot of bloodshed has occurred. Literally translated to English, the word means “the scene of bloodshed/carnage”. Nowadays it is also used colloquially in Japan as both a noun and adjective to describe mayhem, chaos, difficulties (particularly in romantic relationships), and crunch time, especially for cartoonists. It is also used within the screenwriting industry in the country to categorize fight and action scenes.

No Time for Pizza (A Pacific Rim fanfic)

There’s only a steady, low humming, a mixture of television static and buzz of the air condition units, to be heard inside the Office of the Joint Staff Secretariat. It’s already 8:30 AM, way past regular government office opening time. That, together with the brightness of the LED lamps, gave the office a professional and antiseptic atmosphere—perhaps a little too much—that the feeling of emptiness stood suspiciously undisturbed for some time as the minutes were hummed away, a strange, sluggish tension filling the office's every corner all along, waiting for an interruption. The grey sky outside the office hinted at a minor interruption as majority of the office’s organic and support personnel are out early for work, taking care of different protocol duties that day. Important government officials and foreign counterparts are visiting Camp General Emilio Aguinaldo for a series of meetings and conferences, most of them related to national security concerns in response to a recent attack in San Francisco, USA. Officers, Enlisted Personnel, and civilian staff from the protocol, operations, maintenance, and the message center branches 5

were deployed earlier than the exact call time of those events. Except for a few people—including an officer and a civilian employee—only a silent handful remained in the office. “So, these choppers are...?” A female voice broke the uneasy silence, marking a concrete presence in the seemingly desolate office. “Those will be ours.” “And the fighter planes?” “And those too.” Rina browsed the contents of the file folder one more time with the same wrinkled brows and narrowed eyes like what she had on a few minutes ago, after seeing a couple of pizza flyers beside the correspondence folders and memos lying around on her boss’s table. Meanwhile, Major Conrado Marcos, Philippine Army, reclined on his highbacked swivel chair while playing on his iPad, practicing his aim on virtual structures of bricks and glass and green pig heads. “And the warning system and hardware components?” “Those will become ours, too. Ate Rina,” the thirty-five year-old officer in general office attire, glanced at the assistant researcher in her late twenties standing in front of his desk. Traces of the arrested sleep gingerly left earlier are still conceivable on his face. “Is there a new instalment of Angry Birds out in the Net?” “I dunno sir. Haven't played that game lately.” Rina replied without much thought, laying down the thick folder of communication papers on her boss’s table. “But sir, is it alright for them to provide that much to us? I mean, it’s only a provisional task force, right?” “Those are not new units, just refitted surpluses. After appropriating them we’ll have to spend on maintaining them. It’s really not that much. And besides,” Major Marcos paused for a while to concentrate on shooting down the last remaining cartoon structures on his screen. “I heard they are in the process of developing better weapons against that kind of monster. Basically, what they are giving us are their leftovers.” 6

Rina sighed. “Well, I guess we have to make do... Anyway, sir, we won’t be having additional work now because of this, right? I mean, there’s already a separate government commission monitoring it...” “We can hope, Ate Rina. But I have a feeling we’ll be required to submit more reports for the top three bosses after today in connection to that.” The officer stopped and let out a long yawn. “That comment from the Chief of Staff this morning sounds like we’ll be constantly asking for updates.” Rina moaned in disappointment, then continued fumbling with the edges of the folders on the table. “I wonder what would happen to our country though, now that there’s a joint task force and a presidential commission to monitor this new threat.” “You know Ate Rina, we’ll have no problem with the joint task force. Majority of the budget and logistics for that are shouldered by the US. But these commissions, their operating budgets drain government money just like those legislator funds in the news. That means budget cuts, austerity measures...” Major Marcos paused, his thick eyebrows contorting with a slight wrinkle after a failed shot in his game. “You know, it would be really hard to go through next year without any hope of an extra year-end bonus. If you know what I mean.” He continued without looking up. “I know that sir. But...” “Although yes, I perfectly understand what you think.” Major Marcos looked up from his game and stretched his back. “What happened to San Francisco changed the world’s security concerns. It’s unwise for a nation such as ours to not have at least a government commission with capability to monitor that kind of threat.” “Yes, I get that, sir, but what if...” Rina stopped and looked outside the large window to the right of the Operations Branch office, observing the late morning joggers and a few stragglers walking around the General Headquarters’ parade grounds under the gloomy sky. She gazed at the same peaceful, grey concrete tracks and the surrounding area where thick-crowned trees stood lush and strong. “What if...?” Major Marcos let out another yawn and slumped back on his 7

comfortable chair, resuming his game. “What if monsters like that appear, before we even have the time to prepare?“ “We’ll...” Major Marcos let out another long yawn. “Ate Rina, honestly, I don’t know.” *** “...one of the key differences between this monster—kaiju—and current terrorist threats is physical size. It can be said that international security concerns have been significantly changed by the fact that the new threat to humanity is easily identifiable and recognizable, as opposed to the kind posed by terrorist organizations operating via networks of people who work under the radar. However, along with this visibility factor is the sheer force that comes with it—the unstoppable destructive nature of these monsters, which not even organizations such as the Al-Qaeda—” “Yo, Rey.” A young man in his early twenties peered over the cubicle divider, catching the attention of his bespectacled officemate who was busy watching a video on his netbook. “Yeah?” The latter pulled off the headset clamped over his ears and swiveled his chair to face him. “Watcha got there?” “A documentary.” The guy named Rey swiveled back to his desk. “What’s up?” “Oh. Right. Hey, listen,” the guy from the other side of the divider scratched his head and looked at the wall calendar hanging at the right side of Rey’s seat. “You got a few deliverables for the next two days? Can you work on this report from logistics? The Deputy Chief of Staff needs them on Friday.” Rey looked up from his laptop’s monitor and stared at the calendar where several notes of deliverable jobs are posted. The last week of October had more tasks noted on it, he observed, mostly speech draft deliveries. There was almost nothing written for the earlier weeks, with majority of the squares in the two rows of the grid empty.

“Sure. Lemme see ’em.” Rey extended his hand towards his officemate, who promptly disappeared and came back with a thick communications folder in his hand. The name Michael and a string of numeric calendar date is scrawled with pencil on the sticky note stuck on the clear cover. “Here.” “This?” Rey blurted in disbelief as he received the heavy folder over the divider. “I know. That’s just from Air Force logistics, about the turn-over of equipment for the Provisional Joint Task Force.” Michael, the guy who handed Rey the folder, said apologetically as he glanced at the assignments board and calendar on the wall near the conference room facing the assistant writer-researcher’s area. “I don’t want to imagine the Navy’s and the Army’s reports.” Michael let out a sigh after glossing over his name and deadlines on the board. “Man, seems like I don’t have much time myself. Anyway, the Deputy Chief wants to get a summary review first before that communication gets to the Chief of Staff.“ “The old jeezer never lets slip a report, huh. Yeah. I’ll work on this soon.” “Thanks a lot. I’m on full load right now. All the meeting transcripts from today are needed ASAP.” “No worries. We have to make do. Since Ate Arlene’s not around yet.” “Yeah. And now that you’ve mentioned it.” The guy over the divider moved away and looked at the empty cubicle beside the glass window of the office. “I wonder if her family’s alright. I mean, it must be scary living near a danger zone.” “I only hope they’re not over-reacting.” Rey started browsing the contents of the compiled report after closing the web browser on his computer. “Hey look, we’re getting HORNET Squad and EAGLE Squad aerial units according to the joint memorandum. This is great.” “Not brand new choppers and planes, but good enough, yeah. We do not have direct assault combat units and stuff against a thing like that monster in the news.” 9

“Yeah. We have to make do with those around.” Rey replied half-heartedly, still reading the contents of the report. “Hey, thanks again, man. I really appreciate it. Oh,” Michael prepared to move away from the divider when he glanced back. “Also, can you send Ate Rina a copy? She might find it useful.” “Is she making a general report?” “Preparing one. You know the Chief of Staff. The jeezer’s probably gonna ask for a detailed summary about the joint commission instead of reading the entire report itself.” “Hah, right. Sure, will do.” Rey opened his internet browser. “I just hope I can finish this on time.” *** “Ate Arlene called in today during lunch break. She’ll be back after a day or two. They’re relocating her younger siblings here in Quezon City.” First Lieutenant Lou Tanjencia, Philippine Army, adjusted her glasses as she spoke. She and the other officers were already back at their respective posts after the early morning conference. The meeting ended earlier than expected, sending all the office’s personnel scurrying back to their cubicles to either grab a little nap or freshen up a bit. “She said they’re fine, but they made arrangements just in case of an attack.” “Man, I miss her already after just a week.” Michael stood in front of the office task board interface opposite his boss’s desk, marking the virtual grids of his deadlines red on the LCD screen. “We should order pizza when she gets back.“ “That’s a good idea, but I’d rather have anything except pizza.” The young lieutenant gave him a pale smile, and took a sip from her mug of coffee. “We’re always ordering pizza, kuya Michael.” “Good morning everyone—oh, are you alright, ma’am? You look unwell.” A little woman in her fifties carrying a small bag appeared at the branch’s doorway 10

and quickly approached Lieutenant Tangencia’s desk. “Good morning, Tita Lita. Don’t worry. I just feel somewhat strange. Maybe it’s the weather. But I’m fine, thank you.” Lieutenant Tangencia replied cheerfully, looking at the sky through the nearest window. “I hope it doesn’t rain today though. I didn’t bring my umbrella.” “Anyway, ma’am, don’t you think Ate Arlene is making decisions too early? I mean, there’s no imminent threat report so far anyway.” Michael reached for a far grid at the end of the virtual task board to highlight it. “Well, there’s nothing wrong about making an advance call, I guess.” Lieutenant Lou turned to the sheet of deliverable tasks for the week. “Since she will not be around until Friday, let’s all do our best and finish our assignments on time, or earlier.” “Assuming they don’t get ordered to go back to Bicol, that is.” A man in his early forties, sitting on a computer terminal across the room, interjected as he rubbed his stubble-laden chin. “Quezon City rules are becoming stricter in transportation and residency. I’m guessing it’s because of the panic forming in the provinces.” “Come to think of it ano, it is relatively safer here in NCR than anywhere else now, with the threat on coastal areas.” Lita chimed in, speaking from the table at the left side of Lieutenant Tanjencia’s desk. “It’s better if they can relocate their entire family here...” “But Ate Lita, they can’t do that with NCR’s new emergency residence ordinance. Also, Arlene’s living with her family in a rented house right?” The guy with stubbles replied. “There are stricter rules for them now too.” “Is that so? It really is unfortunate.” The old woman replied, disappointed. “They can actually find loopholes in those regulations. For example, they can ask their landlady to represent for them if they are found out.” Major Marcos cut in the conversation as he strode into the Research and Documentation Branch area. “Residence issues have always been very hard to monitor here in NCR anyway.” “Sir.” Lieutenant Tanjencia stood in attention and gave a salute, to which the Major quickly responded with a curt nod. 11

“If you ask me though, I’ll remove those emergency city regulations and focus on strengthening critical areas.” Major Marcos continued as he sat on a chair in front of Lieutenant Tanjencia’s desk. “There are a lot of things to sort out after the mess caused by international panic, but most of the problems have been there ever since.” “I agree sir. That issue with informal settlers, the shifting traffic schemes, urban planning...” Lieutenant Tanjencia took another sip from her mug. “It was fortunate enough that we haven’t heard of any immediate threat after the San Francisco attack. But then again, the alarm it caused added a lot to our existing city problems.” “Right. But that’s what the local governments should be taking care of. What the national government should do is, leave the city problems to the local governments in the cities, then focus on making shelters for the communities in the coasts and fortify our defense capabilities there ourselves. The joint task force and commission are good enough, but we need a better structure for that.” Major Marcos continued, waving his hands as he explained. “It’s just like Angry Birds, you see. We have to make do with what we have, even if all we have are regular red birds. A few levels after we’ll get better birds to use.” He concluded, grinning. “We have new planes and choppers coming from the US, but it would be better if we had more warships. We only acquired two during the last three years.” The man with stubbles quipped without moving his eyes away from the computer monitor. “Large water vessels are risky Kuya Bong,” Michael butted in. “I mean, if you compute the cost against the success rate of defence. Rey said his contacts from the Navy Base told him they’d probably have a hard time if we get attacked by that kind of monster. Imagine all the resources we would use, all the ammunition and fuel and maintenance...” “Oy, Kuya Michael.” Major Marcos beckoned the young man. “How’s the report for the Deputy Chief coming along?” “I passed it on to Rey, sir.”

“We need it this afternoon alright?” “I thought it’s due after two days?” the young man said, scratching his head in disbelief. “It’s due after two days for the Chief of Staff. The Deputy Chief wants a report two days before that.” “Oh no. I’ll tell Rey, sir. He’s at the extension office.” The young man replied, and then promptly left the room. “I really don’t get the point of another report sir.” Lieutenant Tanjencia stared at the office task board interface. “Not to mention why they want those reports ridiculously early. Other reports are already being written for official use of the Chief of Staff.” “That’s because they think we have a lot of time for those things.” Major Marcos chuckled. “If an attack happens right here in the middle of the city I doubt they’d still have time to ask for redundant reports. By the way,” the senior officer shifted in his seat and turned serious. “When will Ate Arlene start reporting for work again?” “A day or two from now sir. Michael suggested we order some pizza on that day.” Lieutenant Tanjencia replied, smiling. “That’s a good suggestion. Anyway, I have another question, Tangencia.” Major Marcos followed up, still serious. “What is it, sir?“ “Is there a new, downloadable Angry Birds instalment online?” *** “Well, it’s settled then.” Arlene laid down her cellphone beside the TV remote and looked at her two-year-old daughter as she played with a milk bottle on their living room sofa. The mild buzz of the TV’s lowered volume filled the slightly dark house. Outside, the sky hinted at the arrival of rain. “Is it really alright, Ate?” A teenage girl appeared from the dark part of the 13

house, holding a stack of clothes. Around Arlene and her child, a backpack and a few open gym bags laid, waiting to be filled. “Of course. And don’t worry about the landlady, I already notified her a week ago. She’s a good person. She’ll take care of everything.” “Yes, but are you sure? I mean, Biboy and Letty and Flor are coming too. And you’ve been absent from work for too long...” “I said, don’t worry about it, alright?” Arlene smiled at her, then lifted her daughter playing with the remote control and settled her on her lap. “Everything will be fine. Kuya Mario will bring our parents with him. It will be hard leaving this house, but we have to make sure we’re all safe and away from any kind of danger.” “Yes, I understand that.” The young girl settled on a separate chair and started fixing an open bag of clothes. “I hope we can still go back here someday. Or soon.” “I hope so too.” Arlene looked at her sister sadly, quickly glanced at the open door, before staring at the TV. “It looks like it’s going to rain. Good thing I postponed our travel back to Manila today,” she quickly added. “What does it say in the news?” Arlene took away the remote from her child’s hands and increased the volume. A flash report was just starting when they focused on the TV. The remote almost fell off her hands after seeing the news. “Oh my God.” *** “Yo, Ate Rina.” Rey slumped on the green sofa facing the large glass window looking out to the city, near the desk of the woman who was busy typing something on her computer terminal. Aside from the sound from the keyboard, the low droning of the television from the conference room near them filled the otherwise silent extension office. “Hmm?” 14

“I came across this documentary about studies concerning the appearance of those monsters in history.” “Yeah?” “You’ve heard myths and legends about huge monsters rising out of the sea? This documentary says they might be actual records of kaiju attacks in the past.” “That’s purely speculative though. Can’t really prove that.” “Yeah, but isn’t it cool? I mean, we have stories about monsters that threaten to eat the moon in our own folklore tales, right? The bakunawa, for one...” “That’s interesting. But you know, I think we should focus on more important things right now.” The sound of rapid typing continued as Rina spoke. “I mean, aside from national defence and security. People should be thinking of economy, international trade—things like that.” Rina paused and looked outside the window, and gazing at the building construction a kilometer or so away from the window for a while before returning her eyes on her computer monitor. “The devastation in San Francisco had a powerful effect worldwide. Just look at how employment suddenly went down after that. Tourism took a plunge too.” “Yeah, I know...” Rey gazed at the unfinished buildings, then moved his eyes to Arlene’s desk, opposite of Rina’s. “But you have to admit, since that attack years ago, a lot of things have changed in various fields of academic study. We’re seeing new possibilities in looking into the past—” “—and future. More importantly, the future.” Rina said, carrying on with what she was doing. “Don’t you think you’re underestimating the entire issue? I mean, this is not just some newly discovered animal. It’s a monster. Attacking cities.” “Not saying I ignored that fact, you know... I’m just... I dunno. Still fascinated, I guess. Anyway,” Rey tried to sound nonchalant as he stood up. “We’re lucky we’re not part of the industries immediately affected after that day.” “Nope. We’re affected just the same. I hate working on reports and summaries that need to be delivered a few hours after they’re asked for, you know.” Rina 15

chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Me too.” Rey responded with a grin when the extension office’s door swung open all of a sudden. “Rey, the report’s needed ASAP.” Michael blurted out as he burst into the room. “Yo, Ate Rina, what’s up?” “What the hell?” Rey replied, frowning. “Hey, Michael.” Rina waved from her seat without looking. “I’m really sorry man, the Deputy Chief wants the report two days before the Chief of Staff reads it.” “What a pain in the—hey, wait a sec.” Rey walked away, pulling his mobile phone up to his ears. “Hello? Dad?” Michael stood near the green sofa and leaned on the divider. “Ate Arlene called Ma’am Lou a while ago. She’ll start reporting for work again on Friday.” “I know, she texted me just a moment ago.” “Let’s order some pizza then. You got a discount card, right?” “It just expired last month.” “Aw ma—whoa.” Michael felt the divider move, disturbing his balance. “Did you feel that?“ “Huh?“ “Where’s the remote?” Rey suddenly darted past between Michael and Rina, hurrying towards the conference room door a few meters away from Arlene’s desk. He quickly turned on the TV upon getting inside. “What’s up?” Rina stood up from her desk after saving the word document she was typing, and followed Rey inside the room.

“Something happened?” Michael entered just as Rey tuned in to a flash report on the TV. “And hey, Rey, did you feel that something just n—” “What is it?” Rina walked in when suddenly the TV died out before she could see what’s on the news, along with the aircondition unit and all the lights in the extension office. The room turned dark, the faint light from outside failing to replace the illumination of the dead LED lamps. Awareness of the abrupt silence slowly crept around the three writers until Rey spoke, barely hiding the anxiety in his voice. “My dad called, says they saw it moving quickly from the bay area. They’re on red alert at the Navy base right now.” He said, trying to suppress his trembling. A slight tremor followed shortly, sending a few swivel chairs moving, rolling on the tiled floor of the dark room. “That thing, like that one in San Francisco—it’s coming.” §

Traffic at the Intersection At the exact moment the timer changed color from green to red on the traffic signal post, a woman of around twenty five years of age entered one of the jeepneys stalled at the intersection of J.P. Rizal Street and Kalayaan Avenue, Makati City. She effortlessly slid through the small aisle afforded by the half-filled jeep, distributing small paper envelopes printed with some dubious charity organizationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s logo and details to the passengers. She crouched, gripping the small shoulder bag hanging over her left shoulder, as she moved towards the farthest spot, behind the driver seat where an old man and a woman, together with the driver, sat lethargic, looking at the stalled traffic with tired eyes. The passengers moved their legs as she passed by, a few jerking motions from those who did mind her presence, while ignoring the small paper she placed on any exposed flat surface they had near or on their bodies. Some, like the plump, chinky-eyed man in a sweaty polo shirt sitting 18

near the entrance, stayed his slacks-covered legs splayed lazily on the jeepney floor, forcing the woman to stride to be able to pass through. “Magandang hapon po. Mga kaibigan, kami po ay kumakatok sa inyong mabubuting kalooban upang humingi ng kaunting donasyon...” she started, to which majority of the passengers reacted with less attention compared to what they might give to, say, a fatal road accident. Her words were respectful but direct, calculated and fixed according to the intention and time constraint, but they did not turn a single head, not even for a fake show of half-assed interest or sympathy. A red and green motorcycle abruptly stopped beside the stalled vehicle as she spoke, pulling her eye away from the jeepney entrance and towards the helmeted person sitting on it. The couple behind her glanced at it too, the old man letting out a dry cough thrice before looking back at the bumper of the all-purpose truck in front of the jeep. The passengers’ attention, likewise, was arrested by the motorcycle for a moment, but was immediately restored, the indifferent people resuming their indifferent, individual actions after just a few heartbeats, the talking woman still out of their immediate concerns. The woman did not mind being ignored, though. In fact, she wanted the same kind of treatment to last a few seconds longer later after she finishes her job. That would make things a little easier. The unsolicited pleading went on for less than a minute, the woman holding on to the script’s timing strictly, making sure not a single moment would slip through the limit set by the traffic timer. Twenty-five seconds before the red numbers started blinking to zero, she started on her way out of the jeep, plucking off the envelopes from the passengers’ bags, laps, and seats. At fifteen seconds, she’s already at the entrance. At ten, she was pulling a 9mm handgun out of the small shoulder bag hanging on her left shoulder, effortlessly holding it up and directing its muzzle towards a specific, planned target. At five, a bullet has already made an entry-exit journey through the head of the plump, chinky-eyed man in sweaty polo shirt. The woman stepped out of the jeep before the traffic counter hit zero and made her way through the stalled vehicles nearby, casually leaving behind a bloody 19

mess and a few gaping mouths. She walked nonchalantly towards the red and green motorcycle, took a pained glance at the old couple sitting beside the bewildered jeepney driver, and gave out a sigh of relief before depositing herself behind the rider. *** An old couple alighted from the stalled jeepney as the red and green motorcycle weaved easily through the busy highway, away from the scene. From afar, the old man looked calm and composed, but his companion, a woman of around fifty to sixty years, was conceivably nervous. At the exact same time, the motorcycle and its two passengers—a woman in plain shirt and jeans and a helmeted man wearing a dark grey jacket—discreetly got away, leaving nothing but the sound of the motor and wheels screeching. They were out of sight even before the green timer on the traffic sign reached five, as if the helmeted rider can seemingly make his vehicle vanish from horizontal vision in an instant, as he turned at every possible opportunity and positioned behind covered spots, beside jeeps, trucks, and private cars as they traveled along with the traffic flow. At every turn, his red and green motorcycle faded away into oblivion. The motorcycle traveled that way from the main highway to the narrower streets further into the city, like a spectre haunting the roads, moving and disappearing at every turn. The red signals seemed too easy to beat with the way he drove, the motorcycle crossing an intersection before they hit red. They successfully did so through the last three points they passed by a few minutes earlier. The stoic woman behind is slender and small in frame, but had steady arms and legs that remain unaffected by the violent shivering of the vehicle. She remained calm and expressionless as they drove away, her hold secure and unflinching. Pressed between her body and the rider’s back is a bag containing a gun, recently used. The heat was still there, seeping through the cheap, black fabric. The driver kept looking at the side mirrors to check if they were being followed, or if danger was imminent, alternating with quick glances on his motorcycle’s digital timer. His trade requires observing the movement of cars and people in his immediate vicinity while in high-speed transit to different kinds of setback, but he is fully confident that no trouble will happen. He has transported a lot of things before, an assassin is no different from a fairly sizable cargo of illegal drugs. He should know. Couriers like him should know how it’s done, and they 20

should be professional about it. What he was gravely concerned with is the time. She smelled less like a hired killer, he took note as he slowed down to turn right towards a seemingly abandoned street between dilapidated buildings with worn-out signs written in both Chinese and English. She has short hair, the transporter also took note, remembering quick flashes of her streetlight-lit face from the side mirrors. She looked normal, whatever normal meant in nonprofessional terms. He wondered what sort of person hired her as he guided his motorcycle to a complete stop opposite the building indicated in the address he was given. A loud phone call alert issued forth from one of the dusty windows on the building to their right after the transporter dialed a mobile number on his cellphone, shortly after him and the hitman alighted from the motorcycle. A silhouette of a person with a large body appeared briefly behind the dirty, frosty square of rusting metal frame before it disappeared in the darkness inside. A series of three slow knocks from inside the door beckoned the helmeted rider, who immediately walked towards the building’s discreet backdoor near them. He lifted his visor upon reaching the spot, then pulled his jacket’s right sleeve, revealing a smaller version of his motorcycle’s analog timer on his wrist. Twentytwo minutes. Three minutes early. “Yeah?” a gruff, low voice demanded. “Nandito na si Mary.” He curtly responded with the agreed code. He pulled down his helmet’s visor as a series of metal clinking of locks ensued, then turned to where his motorcycle was parked, where the woman she brought there stood waiting. Her expressionless demeanor was gone, leaving behind an exhausted face tinged with melancholy for him to see. “Thanks.” She muttered as they walked past each other, him towards his red and green motorcycle, her, to the door. In that quick, fleeting moment their lines of sight intersected, her sad eyes spoke of something he can somehow understand. The way the woman looked at him straight in the eyes, past the dark visor he had on, must have meant something—it could have been a clear connection of thoughts. If he only had his helmet off of him he could have confirmed it. He watched as the door opened and received her into its dark interior. He 21

looked at his right wrist, stared at the glowing digital sign counting down from fiftynine to ten, and thought deeply about her voice, testing if his memory can hold on to it after the seconds run out. *** The old man and his wife look deeply affected by the incident they just witnessed as they got off the jeepneyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s passenger seat, extricating themselves from the company of the frantic driver who was simply staring at the busy road with them as they waited for the traffic signal to turn green minutes before the shooting took place. The old woman was clearly shaken out of her wits, muttering â&#x20AC;&#x153;my god, my godâ&#x20AC;? over and over as her bone-thin, hunched husband escorted her off towards the side street. However, it seemed the murder did not wring out a lot of external emotions from the two, the couple oddly behaving without unwelcome alarm and panic as they alighted from the vehicle. They merely strode calmly away from the scene thereafter, minding their path with unperturbed alertness in the midst of the slowly building up volume of cars and jeeps, as if keeping the horrors they saw and their thoughts on it to themselves and to themselves alone. The people inside the stalled vehicle, on the other hand, were not as collected as the old pair; aside from the unbroken whimpering of some nursing students who were seated across the corpse, the middle aged man previously sitting beside the now dead man repeatedly swore and spoke of his frightened declaration of gratitude for being spared, looking like a mad man with his terribly stained polobarong. The other passengers who immediately got off like the old couple lingered around the jeep like flies buzzing over shit, blabbering disgust and pity to each other without indicating immediate plans of leaving in their lines despite their repeating declarations of abhorrence. *** Several traffic control men arrived to assuage the growing pile-up in that particular part of the road a few minutes later, together with a pair of policemen, both of whom immediately threw themselves to the task at hand with disposable facemasks. The tall and lanky of the two who looked a few years younger than his companion, shooed away the mass of people that have swollen in number milling 22

around the jeep as he slid on a pair of disposable rubber gloves. His pockmarked face and dead-fish eyes matched the business-as-usual tone he used to disperse the curious bystanders and commuters, admonishing them lightly for causing inconvenience on the road. His partner—a dark, short, and stocky man of around thirty-five years of age —surveyed the crime scene. He walked around the jeep for a while, eyes scouring every nook and corner. With gloved hands he pulled out his cellular phone from the back pocket of his tight uniform trousers as he stepped up the ramp at the entrance of the jeep. “This is really something, huh, buddy?” The younger of the two said as he approached the vehicle with growing enthusiasm, leaving the few stragglers to the traffic control men. He peered inside the jeep where his partner busied himself, his face quickly contorting at the sight of the body and the bloody pulp of thing that used to be a head dangling over the jeepney’s left window. He moved over to the other side, a few feet away from where the driver and a few passengers fled to chat and watch the law enforcers work. “My god. Jesus fucking Christ.” He “Hey, leave God out of this. He’s not involved here.” The elder policeman said, chuckling as he carefully moved around the corpse, using his phone as some sort of camera. “Well, He didn’t manage to save this one, that’s for sure.” The younger one replied nonchalantly as he moved around the jeep and inspected the driver’s seat, looking for anything amiss. “Hey buddy, seen anything yet?“ “Nope, not yet.” The older one shot back from inside the passenger’s area of the vehicle. “Pascual, why don’t you go and talk to the driver over there? I heard they saw the culprit. Maybe you can get initial details for the SOCO.” He gestured automatically towards the direction where the chattering bystanders had accumulated after being dispersed from the perimeter, a few feet away from where he saw an old couple waiting for a ride earlier. “Gotcha buddy. By the way, you got a nice new phone there” the younger of the two responded, snickering at him before walking away. “Ulul.” The elder policeman replied with humoring grunt, then caught himself 23

after thinking about this particular job from which he got the gadget. He took a quick glance at the green timer on his slick smartphone’s screen, looked around suspiciously, and then continued rubbing the handrails and seats of the jeep, halfguessing places where salvageable fingerprints can be found later by scene of the crime operators. After a few minutes of moving around, he was preparing to take some photos of the corpse with his phone when he touched something on the spot where he planted his hands to steady himself for a shot. It was an envelope, sandwiched between the seat and back cushion, probably shoved in there by a passenger who didn’t consider the plastic garbage bin behind the driver’s seat. He pulled it out and smoothened the crumpled edges without much thought, a bit relaxed even, until he read what’s printed all over its back. *** “That was alright. Not very clean, but alright.” A man, whose face is concealed by the shadows, greeted her as she stepped inside the boss’s room inside the familiar building. It was pretty dark inside even with the open blinds on the glass walls. The only clearly conceivable thing there was a lit lamp under a red oil paper shade at the far corner beside the seated man. She automatically felt the need to be cautious as the door behind her shut gently. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll take care of the loose ends. Now, Mary, take a seat. Let’s talk about what happened.” She shifted her weight on her feet for a while before moving towards the divan at the other side of the room, opposite the desk behind where the man sat. She gripped her small shoulder bag’s strap as the soft cushions welcomed her weight and made her ease out a little. “You have to take out that gun and put it on the desk in front of you.” The woman complied without a word, pulling out the gun from inside the small bag she had on her. For a moment she fancied herself pointing the gun at the man in the shadow, thinking of how that could somehow alleviate her tension caused by the situation she willingly let herself to get caught in. Two bullets remained inside the .45 anyway, that would suffice if she can just get a good glimpse of the position of his face or torso where a well-placed shot can quickly do 24

the job. The thought quickly died as she remembered how getting out physically in a shifting time-space is just as impossible as extracting herself out of the entire mess of things—like, for example, getting killed in one of her life’s timelines and being hired to cause other people’s timeline’s endings, to stay alive—but dregs of the idea played around in her head even after she had placed the gun on top of the low coffee table. “Now, tell me your thoughts on that operation.” “Well,” she squirmed in her seat as she prepared to talk. “I hit the target in the face to make it fast. I waited for too long. Oh, and I think that donation-girl scenario was bullshit.” She said, letting out a sigh after talking. “You think so?” The man in the shadows chuckled. “I agree. I think we need to consider your assessment on that matter. You think it was alright, though?” “Yeah, I think it was alright, but it was a bit... It was, uh, embarrassing.” “I get your point. I shall consult with the operations designer next time.” “Thank you.” “How about the target? How did you find him?” “He matched the description.” “What did you feel when you saw him?” “Well,” the woman shifted in her seat, thinking. She had known the background of the man even before the operation was designed and planned, after she was chosen from a pool of time-bound criminals. She immediately found the resolve to do the job after learning the circumstances, partly because of hate—such despicable creature must be executed, she thought—but chiefly because it was the job, and she can’t do anything much about it. Whatever the reason, it was still, in the end, simply an assassination. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to make a business out of it, she thought. The reasons lose their importance, leaving the outcome, methods, and profit, in the end. “Well... It was easier because he matched the description. It was just alright.”

“Good... And the clients?” The voice inquired further, seemingly gauging the woman’s thoughts at her every reply. “I think they—” she stopped and tried to remember them, tried to think of anything she could say about them; it’s not like they’d come to her after she finishes the task and thank her for the excellent work she rendered for her to be able to say what she thought of them, but somehow, she thought she had to say something about them at least, feeling obligated to tell her boss her thoughts. After all, they chose her for the job. And she saw them there, just as they saw her doing the job they paid her for. “They were...?” “I think they were... Nice.” She just resigned with the word for the lack of anything else to say, remembering that glance the client gave her the moment she got inside that jeepney. She wasn’t even sure if he recognized her back there. She thought it was sick of them to be there, to witness a killing. “I see.” The man replied after a moment of silence. His silhouette’s motions showed him looking at something under his desk—his phone, perhaps—for a moment before returning his attention back to her. “The target’s timeline is now currently being erased. That would be all, Mary. You can go change now and proceed to your designated holding quarters. Your operations head will give you further instructions.” The man finally said. “Thank you, sir.” Mary, addressed as such for the meantime, stood up and proceeded on her way to the door. “Oh, another thing.” The man suddenly blurted out, arresting her exit. “Yes sir?” “You might not remember after this, but... Thank you. You did a good job.” The woman closed the door, thinking for a minute if those words were from her boss, or from their client. But it doesn’t matter, she thought, stepping out of the room, searching the brightness outside the cold office, it didn’t happen anyway. *** 26

Across the street, from where a swelling number of onlookers have begun to amass, an old couple waited for another jeepney to ride. The old woman kept mumbling inaudible words, her hands cold and shivering. Her husband, a thin, long-limbed old man, found it hard to quell his wife’s emotions after they saw what transpired inside the jeep. He figured it would be an equally arduous task for him to remind her later that it was her decision to go and see the operation, but then again, it wouldn’t matter after some time. As they stood there at the sidewalk and waited for a jeep, he kept thinking of things, his wife repeating the same, inaudible words like a deranged woman, with hands locked in a steady grip around his arms in a desperate bid to calm down. He looked at her with pity, gazing at her wavy, grey hair, lingering in his unsteady thoughts. It was the same kind of hair—a thick crown of wavy and dark black hair—that he and his terrified wife had lost. A few months ago, a public accountant of around twenty years of age—their pretty daughter—was found dead inside a plate-less car, abandoned inside a village near their daughter’s workplace. The body was found tied up, gagged with crumpled shirts, and naked. “There would be no problem, Sir Johnny, we have an efficient system.” the voice told him that day, in a nervous phone call he dared to make, after a month of unanswered questions. Suspects were identified through the efforts of the girl’s family and friends, but they were never brought to justice. Connections were pulled, and the cases were pushed to oblivion. But there were connections that were equally powerful—and sinister—people like him, a former political figure advisor and staff, can pull and use. “You only have to set the time, Sir.” He can still remember that voice at the end of the line, just like those subsequent trips to places which—he thought it was merely his failing memory, but no, they were somehow real, but foggy—looked almost exactly the same every time. The first personal appointment with the man in that cold, dark office with a red lampshade was in Cubao, located at a street a few meters away from Araneta Center; the second was somewhere in Mandaluyong, near the university, and the third, which was for the final payment, was in Escolta—all of these places looked the same. A seemingly abandoned street between dilapidated buildings with wornout signs written in both Chinese and English, dusty windows and doors on the building to their right, one of which looked just like a dirty, frosty square of rusting metal frame. 27

“Be careful with the time, you are almost a minute late, Sir.” The first time he got there a huge man lead him inside the interior of the dark building, which looked like an office space after work hours. They passed by empty and unlit cubicles, briskly walking through the sound-muffling rug, air conditioning, and silence. They stopped in front of a glass-walled room covered by closed blinds. “He’s inside. Please make yourself comfortable.” The huge man left him— them—as he slipped inside, deeper into the eerie darkness of the office. There, the man in shadows talked to him for an hour about the details of the job, the terms of the contract, and the conditions. A jeepney pulled over as soon as a group of traffic control men and two policemen arrived at the scene. It was hard trying to distract his poor, frail wife from all the things she must have been prodded to think of, but he knew they would be fine as they stepped inside the vehicle. “Will she be alright? Will they be alright?” His wife repeated as the jeepney they were riding sped away from the intersection, reminding him of the young woman they hired. He didn’t look, but he could still remember it all—her pulling out that gun and shooting that evil spawn, that local politician’s son, one of the devils their own private investigations identified in the crime that took away their daughter; her pulling that trigger at the precise moment, right in front of the horrified face of that monster; her getting off and riding away to God knows where in that red and green motorcycle. He sighed, then held his wife’s head close to his frail chest. The girl must have been the same age as their daughter. Or perhaps, older, like a sister or cousin, to her. “We cannot guarantee your safety if you want to see the operation itself Sir Johnny, but we won’t stop you.” The man in the shadows leaned forward and slid a tiny card towards him, the red light from the lamp scarcely letting him read what was on it at a quick glance. “Our only concern is to eliminate the target at the exact time-space where he’s bound to be at. All the information about when and where he’ll be is there. Whether you’re there or not, the job will proceed and be finished, with nothing left about it after.” “Nothing—as in, no evidence, no trace?” he remembered asking the voice. In his head, it was as if he was asking nothingness itself. 28

“After the operation, you can say he didn’t even exist in the first place.” “Of course, of course. They’ll be alright. She’ll be alright. She did a good job,” he whispered, thinking of calling, or sending a message later, thanking them, her, before everything—all of it—slip away from his memory. *** “Hey buddy, they said our culprit was a girl.” The young policeman found his senior partner busy with his mobile phone inside the jeep, texting. He stood there staring at the corpse with a disgusted look on his face. “Jesus fucking Christ.” “Oh, yeah?” The latter reacted half-heartedly, pocketing his phone. “What else did you get?” He followed up, looking a bit flustered. “Are you alright?” “No—I mean yes, yeah, look,” the older policeman looked around the inside of the jeep for the last time and proceeded outside shortly after, meeting his partner. “Let’s call the SOCO to pack this all up.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” The younger police concurred. “You know, I heard from some of the people the victim’s a nephew of the mayor. They were not sure tho—” He suddenly trailed off, gazed at the jeep for a while, then looked back at his companion, eyebrows crumpled. “Um, wait, what was I saying again?” “Let’s leave the identification to the SOCO for now,” the elder of the two policemen brushed aside his companion’s abrupt puzzlement, scratching his backside. He quickly slipped the folded envelope inside his pants’ back pocket, and then pulled out his phone. “You contacting that SOCO friend of yours?”

It took a while before the latter responded. After deleting a text message, he looked up to his young partner with dead fish eyes and replied flatly. “We have to be very careful with this. Of course I—uh, wait.” The older policeman scowled, then scratched his head with his rubber gloveclad hand. “Yeah?” “You were asking what?” §

Heaviness Grief, terror, love, longing—these were intangibles, but the intangibles had their own mass and specific gravity, they had tangible weight. —Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

Some of the biggest jokes I came across in my entire life were from the field. Take, for example, yesterday. I think yesterday’s was the worst joke so far. Never saw an operation like that before. Seeing First Lieutenant Newton holding up his hands in resignation after Flick the Trigger relayed orders from headquarters, and shortly before he signalled three of the four squads of the 7th Empiric Platoon to proceed, had the effect similar to a very bad joke. You don’t want it to stick around, but it stays in your head long after the punchline ended. Nobody in my squad said anything while our gunship razed the last civilian shelter. Like nobody wanted to take responsibility. That was funny. Like we have that kind of convenience, busting stuff up only because we’re under orders. Because that shelter was infested by the Plague, according to reports. Like we really 31

didn’t want to do it. But we did. It would have been easier if we disobeyed orders. But we did it anyway. Thing is, you can’t go around messing with top brass orders. Great changes in history were made with sweat and blood, they say. Some even add gunpowder. I remember that smart fellow, a recruit taken out fresh from a contractual job at a convenience store, many years ago in the State military orientation; he added “nuclear boom-boom” to the list. Guys who heard him back then had a hard time keeping their mouths shut. Guy almost got kicked out of training and liquidated. But these things, the stuff we hear from those who should know better about this history they always say in speeches, it’s really hard to take seriously. And besides, whose sweat and blood are we talking about anyway? *** Nobody likes to take responsibility in a war. If they can avoid it, they would. No bloody general or Chief State Marshal would brag about the number of casualties openly and regret it. Apology, of course, is out of question. It’s always about the nobility of sacrifice for the greater victory. Nobody talks about the losers and what were lost. To talk about those things is to add dead weight to more important things. For example, nobody even wants to mention that word anymore. “War” —it’s like something that has become so natural you don’t need to say it. Like an inside joke, only heavier, and deadly. Flick the Trigger used to tell me the word scares him, and it still scared him even after he joined the State military. Well, he used to be alive too, before the encounter this morning. He was only seventeen. *** 32

I’ve met a lot of young people in the State Military. Our platoon’s commanding officer is one, for example. But First Lieutenant Newton only used to be young, too. He’s only twenty-four, but men like him age easily nowadays. A lot of people in this war, like Lieutenant Newton, age pretty easily. It’s not an easy job to be in charge. Much of the burden falls on you, and when your men begin to talk about how this job only used to sound like a fine preoccupation—I mean, chasing this thing we call State peace and unity—you begin to think of it to yourself too, and then you realize you’re thinking the exact same thing your men are thinking about. And then you’ll realize you’re already thinking if directing where they should point their guns at is the best job ever yourself. And when you realize that, somehow, you become older than your actual age. Lieutenant Newton used to tell me many things. As Squad 1’s NonCommissioned Officer I had to listen to him. He talked a lot. He’d say, “hey Sarge, you know about...?” and then he’ll ramble about something that just popped out from nowhere in his head without waiting for an answer. He talked about many things about the war without them being about the war itself. He’d talk about the Institute where he studied, some stuff about nuclear reactors, or the hydraulic system of whatever moving chunk of metal we happened to be riding on at the moment. I guess that’s how he tried to make sense of things in this war. Just taking it easy. These big chunks of things, facts, occurrences, they all feel heavy and incomprehensible when you just think about them—seeing things and people explode and burn and die because they were not the way they used to be, because they are not like the way they were before this war happened. But break those things up, bit by bit, with words and stories and things you like doing, and you’ll see what I mean when I say “take it easy”. All those stories, I used to listen to them well. I thought I’d second-guess the young lieutenant’s orders, but most of the time they were just stories about things he liked to think about. He’d slump lazily somewhere like he doesn’t care about protocol—inside a moving transport vehicle or at the headquarters, and then begin 33

rattling away about another stuff that catches his thought to his men. I guess he’s still a kid that way. A confused, poor kid. *** But then again, this war is a confusing thing itself. It gives you things that you must carry, regardless of your capacity. These things make people strong and weak at the same time. These things make people choose to become strong or weak, but in the end they’ll neither be one. They’ll always remain strong and weak at the same time. And it sucks. In a military encounter, being strong and weak at the same time is like being half-dead. No matter how good your aim is, or how enduring you are, you hesitate one second and you’re either infected by the sleepwalkers or killed by your own comrades after your eyes turn blue. Sometimes it makes people become serious and funny. And sometimes, it turns people into either slaughter machines, or livestock ready for butchering, without them intending to. It makes twenty four-year old boys who just got out of engineering school seem strange with the way they think about tactical plans using mathematics and stuff, and then talk afterwards about school and girls and how gunships should be redesigned to make them more efficient. It makes seventeen year-old boys dream of becoming spies, brash little kids who’d take bullets with their empty stomachs just to save crappy, decade-old gunships. I bet it also makes smart alecks plucked from convenient store counters say “nuclear boom-boom” during recruitment seminars. They’re all just taking it easy, I guess. Some people, like Flick, were frightened by just a mention of it. Others, like the Lieutenant, were so scared to death they had to talk a lot without mentioning it directly. But worst of all, it makes one remember a lot of stuff. A war never really happens when you don’t acknowledge it. But the moment you do, it will begin sinking, digging into you. And then you’ll realize it already dug in too deep, it must 34

have been preparing a grave in your head all along. *** That’s why sometimes, you have to turn things into stuff you can easily give away, things you can hold on to for just a while and then discard after. Doesn’t matter if you’re broke or stringy. You can give stuff like words, and stories, and names—all those things you can tell and hope to forget someday. Lieutenant Newton used to talk about this girl, a cute lass he met in college. Just this morning he was about to talk about her again when his right hand, dangling outside the transport strider window, got hit by an ambushing party’s bullet. This girl the young lieutenant was fond of talking about was also an engineer —an anthroengineer, he liked to emphasize. They met at Nueva Gloria City, where they both studied. He liked talking about the things the girl used to talk about— what anthroengineering was, how it could save lives, how it can change the way people live—things like that. You can tell he really liked the girl and the things she talked about. I used to ignore most of the things Lieutenant Newton says after I gave up second-guessing him. Well, most of the things I don’t get well. I get a few things about the girl, and a few of this and that. And when he talked about her, it usually had something to do with making synthetic humans. Or something like that—blueeyed, fair-skinned things that looked like us. Nowadays, when you talk about those things, you talk about those who are immune to the Sleepwalker Plague, but who carry them all the same, like normal, infected people, or sleepwalkers, as we fondly call them. I think a lot about those things during the most inconvenient moments, like during that time I was watching the medic put first aid to the lieutenant’s mangled hand. While he tried not to scream in pain, every squad communicator in all the transport striders delivered him reports on counter-offensive measures. It was not very unusual, but I swore I’ve never seen Lieutenant Newton like that. I bet if that girl he liked to talk about was in my place it could have been really ugly for the poor guy. Oh, that’s impossible now, though. 35

During the peak of State civil unrest a few years ago, Lieutenant Newton’s girl joined groups condemning the State Government. The lieutenant talked about that bit, too. One day, after a big protest action, this girl suddenly disappeared, never to be seen again. Just like that. Without a trace. That happened a few years ago. A few months before First Lieutenant Newton enlisted in the State military. *** We try to lighten things up by talking about other things too. For example, I also have a cute girl story myself. When I was only a year out of the two-year training period like Flick, I had to do patrols and guard duties most of the time. They made privates do such routine for more than a year or so, until we get promoted to higher roles more significant to the troop, say, a gunner, or a special ops man, or even a spy. I’ve always wanted to become a spy, spies are more relevant, I think. And it’s way better than being escort personnel. I was with my then-commanding officer, Lieutenant Aren, and we were crossing the ruins of Naedoko Sector, recently brought down by an outbreak of sleepwalker infection. All around were abandoned buildings, broken cars and trucks and vans everywhere. It was also raining, it was all just wet everywhere, and the Strider’s heavy legs kept making these heavy splashes on the flooded street. It was depressing. But you see, Lieutenant Aren, for a rookie field commander, was a goodlooking girl, and I must admit I was a little elated for being chosen to provide her armed escort despite the weather. I was under her command for a year, been in her unit since I started field ops during that time, but we rarely interacted. I wasn’t blind to not recognize her. I’ve never seen her smile. Lieutenant Aren never smiled, even after a successful operation or during happy hour. Never seen her show even a hint of positive emotion too. She had a pretty face, but I cannot imagine her back then smiling a lot. It was a bit disappointing. She had such a serious attitude, unlike Lieutenant Newton who’d tell a clean joke and laugh at it himself, then talk about other things he missed in his life. 36

I remember an operation where we raided a food supply factory. I cracked a lewd joke about bananas, and she snorted in amusement. That’s all I can remember about her interacting with the troops on the field. I can’t even remember the joke now too. After that, she was back to her usual self. It made me think of many things. Maybe she remembered something with that crack. *** To make things lighter, I joke around a lot about the war. First Lieutenant Newton would usually reprimand me whenever I do that. For an engineer-turnedsoldier, Lieutenant Newton always thought straight to the point when it comes to work. No frills. Just pure logic. You don’t talk about the war like it’s just a game, he always said. You don’t joke today about something that can kill you tomorrow. Like what the old folks in HQ used to say. Majority of it was sweat and blood and gunpowder and nuclear boom-boom anyway. I agree with them. Wars are not like games you play around with. But then again, you need to take it easy, find ways to lighten it up. A war is too heavy a burden to carry as is. You have to shed some stuff off of it too. One of the crazy boys in the Empiric Platoon years before Lieutenant Newton became commander also said the same thing. It was the nuclear boom-boom guy. He ended up in the same platoon where I was assigned as a gunner after some time. We use to talk about how to earn more from this war, betting on which side will win in random skirmishes: the rebel forces, the infected sleepwalkers overrunning the ruined Sectors, or us in the State Military. He sucked at it. Almost always bets on sleepwalkers. This war, it was no laughing matter, they say. But if it is as serious as what they say after all, we might as well start profiting from it. Like one hell of a serious job. This guy, we weren’t able to continue the betting game after the State military lost in one of its—our—Reclamation ops. Crazy guy got bitten by a sleepwalker in his last run. It was a really big joke. I had to shoot him in the head the moment his eyes turned blue.

But he won. He won our bet that day. *** We caught one of the idiot ambush party. The faction of rebels we took on this morning must have been too stupid to take us lightly. It was perfectly laid out—our gunships needed a bit of resupplying and maintenance and the troops were tired. Even the positions were picked well—the ruins of a midway station hub we passed by an hour after daybreak and the forrested terrain to the Nueva Tierra Settlement provided advantageous points for the bastards. Had to give it to them idiots for managing to damage my squad’s gunship armor and score a few casualties. They were aiming for our shield generators. They thought moving positions for artillery fire can cover their tracks and actual count, but that tactic’s child’s play. Counter offensive must’ve surprised them after quick shelling did a few of them in, and the secret Recon Squad showed up from behind their positions, uncloaking from their stealth modes. Squad 0, the stealth recon squad travelling separately, was ordered to round up the bastards. They brought back a kid—a boy of sixteen years—after thirty minutes. *** Never really liked children, but it feels nice having them around. They seem to bear things with ease, like this war’s not that heavy after all. These kids, all twenty or so years younger than me, working this war like it’s something you can brag about when you get home because you’re just seventeen years old and you’ve already held a gun, or something you tell stories about in school without realizing that you’re actually leading people to kill other people. Thing is, there’s no more home to go back to now. No more school, too. Just this war, the HQ, the damn fucking routes between beacons, and those damn fucking periods between major and minor operations. There’s not much to remember. Only those things that matter are kept, but things matter only for a while while you’re in war. Things, words—these are promptly lost after they’ve served their purpose. Important things aside, we throw away things that only weigh us down. 38

I remember the day I gave Flick the nickname “trigger” when he got into my squad. The first time I handed him a gun he got so excited he forgot to lock the trigger and shot a hole on Squad 1’s tent. Flick was a clumsy but smart and snappy boy, always running around following orders. Ask him to bring you coffee or an energy pack, he’d give it to you in less than three minutes. Always impatient to deliver. So impatient he’d rush to his death without knowing it. Which he just did. This morning. While Lieutenant Newton was being treated and the transport convoy made a defensive formation, I ordered the kid to make a quick inspection of Squad 1’s shield generator at the back of the transport strider. According to reports, while the kid was on it, a pre-positioned sniper aboard a tailing vehicle made a surprise trail and took a lock-on our engine room. But Flick was fast. He alerted the mounted artillery and then intercepted the shot with his body. Looking at the kid Squad 0 caught, I kept thinking about things I wanted to discard, like that travel with Lieutenant Aren several years ago. We were headed north in that escort mission when multiple light signals flew from around ten kilometres away at 3 o’clock of our legged transport’s position. It was dark, and we trained the night lenses towards the signals, readying the long range barrel gun and preparing for a defensive run towards a safe spot. The lieutenant ordered me to scan the area at 9 o’clock of the strider to look for an effective position to take cover and return fire from, just in case, while she shifted her cockpit to man the onboard artillery. Protocol on signals within unsecured territories calls for guarded response. We did preliminary preps on everything we got that could hammer a punch, just a serious blow so we could outrun whatever danger’s waiting for us. Recon requires heavy defence capability, but not too much you risk getting trapped in a sustained fire fight. The simple mission got a tad more difficult after that. The Naedoko Sector’s fall divested the ruined city of its protective globe. City walls have been severely breached by hostile bandits and outlanders from wild territories. Citizens evacuated 39

long ago, the city left half-demolished to decrease its value for those who took over. Things lurked under the ruins, ready to claim things, and a Strider Gunner in good condition is not a logistic asset of the State military to lose. That, and our lives, of course. We repositioned behind a couple of ruins and waited for hostile activity, the lieutenant intently guarding the front while I watched the opposite. She ordered to release a stealth scout after. I quickly released the invisible probe outside. Reception was bad because of the rain, but no artillery heat was detected within effective distance from our position. The lieutenant then directed me to program location movements for the probe using particular points, moving in timed patterns while she selected coordinates for the Strider to follow. We managed to gain several meters of secure ground near the source of the signal flares after some time, after which she suddenly called a halt to our progress. I looked at the monitor projecting the probeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sights and saw a white transport truck, its outlines green, and the entire image grainy. Several heat signature patterns moved around the truck. They were human-shaped, but a lot smaller than an average adult. Lieutenant Aren deactivated the Striderâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s full armament mode and shifted her cockpit position after a few seconds of observing the visuals. Was about to ask why we relaxed when she said that we found a couple of kids on the field. *** I can still recall that rainy night as I pulled out my pistol to execute orders from HQ. Recon Squad left the boy cuffed and tied up at a spot a few meters away from the main gunship where Squad 1 and other members of Squads 2 and 3 waited. It felt fresh, the memory of that night. I can still feel the darkness and rain and everything while I held my pistol, the same one I was issued the first time I got into the State Military. It has always been this heavy, but somehow Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never adjusted to its weight. It was so real it was horrible.

That rainy night, we were not ill-equipped to do a side trip for rescue ops but Lieutenant Aren ordered a quick salvage of the transport truck. I thought she wanted to see the children in the scanner and lead them to safety. The idea was remotely possible, but it made me warm up a bit inside despite the rain. She’s still human, I thought, capable of being betrayed by her emotions. We moved behind ruins, wary of hostile presence around. We found the truck’s rear secure, but the hatch was open. There were no signs of forced entry— the door was opened from inside. She entered alone to talk to the children who huddled together there. *** I read somewhere that once people are dead, you can’t make them undead. But times like this, when getting bit by some plagued fucker turns you dead and then undead after just a few minutes, things have a different system. You lose things— your rank, your affiliation, your name, your life—everything. In this war, you discard things, and you change. Resistance and resignation are vaguely different. You do not stay like the way you used to be, whether you’re infected or not. For example, that nuclear boom-boom guy, I was never able to remember his name years after that operation where I shot him between the eyes. I pull out my heavy pistol, and then those things come back and mess with each other in my head. Then the pistol becomes heavier, and then I feel like twenty or more years older. I try to make it light, but there was no joke to be found there. The kid tried his best not to whimper when he saw me, but he began sobbing like hell as I got closer. Few of the troops waited for me from the gunship a few meters away. They just watched. Nobody said a thing. “Run.” I told him. He merely rattled his magnet cuffs and gritted his teeth. Dirty tears made mud lines on his face. It was a very sad sight.

“Fine,” I said, pulling the pistol’s hammer. *** I’ve been through a lot of skirmishes and I’ve seen a lot of people die in the field, but I must confess this: the first time I saw a lot of corpses was not during a combat operation. It was when I manned a recon Strider for Lieutenant Aren. It was during that escort mission. I found a State military soldier of private rank, probably thinking it was a normal transport duty he’s assigned to, sort of like what I’m doing, in that truck we saw in the scanner. Shot dead. The bullet entered from 3 o’clock of the truck by the looks of it, and hit him on the right side of his head. Clean wound. His brain was all over the place where the hitman wanted it to be. Beside him, a body sat deathly still. It wore a white lab gown. Head was missing. I took some of the information recorded in the truck’s communicator back up. Standard protocol for salvaging. Checked out the dead men’s belongings and found IDs and money cards. Took them all in. Against protocol, yes, but the war has always been stringy, and we need to get by on our own in whatever way possible. It all amounted to thirty thousand in monetary balance. After divesting the dead men’s weapons and keeping them I went to check how the lieutenant was doing at the back of the truck. No sign of hostile movement around so I put the recon probe on standby mode and made it hover around our area. I flicked on an illuminator and went out. Found Lieutenant Aren with only one of the children we saw in the scanner earlier, a pale boy with blonde hair. Saw him there being drenched by the rain outside the truck, without being discomforted, along with the lieutenant who crouched to a level with him. Both were deeply absorbed in a conversation. The kid did not shiver or anything, despite having nothing on but a thin piece of medical gown. Kid just kept talking about something, his calm, blue eyes a bit too cheerful for the situation. I stopped a few feet away from the lieutenant. Wanted to ask her about the other kids, but she seemed too engrossed talking to the boy. That’s when I noticed the large streak of blood on Lieutenant Aren’s boots. 42

We were falling behind schedule, so I tried to butt in their soft spoken conversation to ask about it. Then I saw Lieutenant Aren smile at the boy. Was about to leave them, shutting my mouth about the blood on her boots, when the lieutenant abruptly stood up and mussed the boy’s hair. Then, she took out her gun and shot the child point-blank on the forehead. *** This morning, we left the place quickly, leaving a burning sack. Protocol orders, against sleepwalkers. Never leave a full-bodied corpse in open fields. I had Flick’s body wrapped up and loaded at the back of the transport. I asked permission from the lieutenant to keep his ashes. You see, the kid’s an orphan. Probably like the ones who survived the operation the day before. Or that kid we left earlier. Recon Squad suggested I get rid of Flick’s body ASAP, but I just can’t. I never really liked kids, but I just can’t. §

SHURABA 2013 is a small collection of some drawings and short stories made and compiled in the said year by Gio Basco. He lives alternately in Makati City and Rizal. He can also be found in the internet.

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