Session 2.1 A Midnight Assignment Trainers in boot camps loved taking roll calls during wee hours, dragging new recruits from their beds for a surprise drill, either to prepare them to face future emergencies, drill discipline into them, or just for a laugh. In reality, all reasons and justifications behind what one would perceive as injustice were of little significance, for the golden rule in the army was for soldiers to obey the commands of their officers at all times. When the sergeant’s whistle pierced the darkness, it was barely the crack of dawn. Despite the gloom, the recruits left their bunks and assembled without a hassle. The Soil Ghost’s last ambush had occurred a week ago. Two soldiers with minor injuries were back to work, but only three new recruits had reported from the reserve. The team was still short-handed. Although Damien saw his teammates joking around as usual, a sense of discomfort hung in the air. Even Petar’s usual “I don’t give a damn” big city arrogance seemed like an obvious attempt to avoid a point of contention. No one mentioned the incident after coming back from the pub, nor were those who had left spoken of. Damien was nonetheless certain that the same thoughts troubled everyone when the sergeant blew the whistle. He could tell from the expressions on their faces. “Who’ll be the unlucky one this time? Will this be my final mission?” A sudden roll call was never a good sign. “Damn Soil Ghosts! Couldn’t they wait till after sunrise?” A replacement recruit tried to lighten the mood, but no one responded. Not even Petar could fashion a sarcastic comeback. After mumbling something incoherent, the newcomer fell silent. Damien felt bad for the guy, he had no idea what had happened to the team. The kid reminded Damien of his first day in the field. All newcomers knew anxiety, being well aware that their lives could be at risk, but to experience the battle first hand, to watch your comrades fall one after another, their still-warm corpses slipped into bags and carried away, was a whole different matter. The illusion of heroic sacrifices shattered to millions of pieces in an instant. Death transformed into a tangible reality, which descended unannounced and then became just another number on a chart. The shadows of the dead lingered above those who survived, refusing to let go. “Where’s Bob?” Sergeant Han had noticed that a member was missing. Before he could finish his question, the veteran showed up. “Sorry sir. My legs are acting up.” This was the very first time that Bob had ever reported late. It made Damien worry about his health. He feared that Sergeant Han might grab the chance to hand out a punishment to Bob. Much to Damien’s surprise, Han only fixed Bob with a stare. Without further ado, Han commanded the team to depart, informing them nothing about the mission but a location. The soldiers put on their masks and jumped onto their jeeps, setting out in the dark, rainy morning. “Where are we going?” inquired another replacement recruit. “The suburbs beyond Zamaii,” Damien replied in a low voice, making everyone uneasy, for the area lay adjacent to the border. The newcomer was far from satisfied. His true inquiry was about what the mission entailed, which was a question everybody was keeping to themselves. “Is this normal?” Damien was not sure if the novice was complaining about the lack of knowledge about the midnight mission or the team’s hostility towards a newcomer . Either way, it was unusual, but Damien had already lost the sense of normalcy after a short while in the army. Yet, no one acknowledged the newcomer. His frustrated voice echoed through the intercom. “Guys, you may see me and my people as no different from the Soil Ghosts, or a bunch of dirty refugees, but I was a high school teacher in my hometown. Can’t we at least be civil with each other?” Everybody looked more or less the same in their military uniforms. Only his heavy accent distinguished him as a foreigner. But even if he kept his mouth shut, his teammates could tell that he was an outsider. People from another country always felt different. The land of Agurts was among the few less-polluted lands after “The Gray Summer.” It soon became a paradise for refugees wishing to escape the wars in their own countries. Damien, born and raised in Agurts, knew too well that this serene paradise  only existed in the outsiders’ heads. Pollution was a global disaster, and Agurts had not been spared of its consequences. The singing of birds and bloom of flowers in the clean fresh air was a thing of the distant past—it existed only in old photographs. Nonetheless, refugees flocked to Agurts like bees to a honeycomb. Agurts was once an agricultural country dependent on human labor, but with the advancement of machines, manpower was better employed in the army. As Omanga expanded their military forces, Agurts needed to maintain a relatively large army as well. In addition to drafting their nationals, former president Aldaman launched a scheme to encourage the refugees to join the military in exchange for citizenship. The latter were usually assigned the most dangerous and undesirable posts, but the sea of homeless refugees were more than eager to oblige. This foreign replacement recruit in front of Damien was one example. “Are you kidding me? What did you expect? Can you define ‘normal’ in less than a hundred words, teacher?” Petar could not help but tease. Others sniggered. Starting a dispute about refugees at this time was by no means a wise move. Noticing his clenched fist, Damien suspected the teacher’s face had turned red with fury under his mask. “Take it easy. No one gives a damn about your stupid accent. All we care about is the enemies coming our way,” another team member commented calmly. A long silence followed. The foreigner finally gauged the tension.

Session 1.3 Jazz Blues Although the jukebox was playing at the maximum volume, the chatter still drowned out the music. Damien found all the clamor extremely irritating. He tried to find a corner away from the crowd, but it did not really make any difference. He regretted coming. Perhaps he should get a ‘hideout’ like Bob, Damien thought to himself. He knew that Bob always hung around a derelict house near the barracks. It was kind of like the old man’s personal quarters. He would nap there whenever they were off duty. However, it was quite surprising to see the solitary veteran not only come to the bar today, but even chatting with a barmaid in the opposite corner. This roused Damien’s attention, since Bob was one who would brush off any girl and drink on his own on his rare visits to the bar. All the noise gave Damien a headache. He did not want to be at the bar at all. But, he did not dare to turn down his team’s invitation to celebrate at the bar. Even though he was not quite fond of socializing, he knew that it would not be a good idea to be very antisocial in situations like these. On this particular night, however, watching the drunken antics of his companions in this crowded bar would have been more bearable than being alone in the barracks. He actually needed a drink. Damien forcibly gulped down a mouthful of beer. Every time he closed his eyes, the splutter of crimson in the rain would appear in his mind. The image of the bloodshot gaze of the Soil Ghost was fixed in his mind – he was a murderer. No, that could not be right! That Soil Ghost was wearing a skeletal mask, and their encounter only lasted a few seconds at most. Moreover, there was the rain and the mists, there was no way that Damien could have seen those accusing eyes so vividly. It must have been just his imagination. Those eyes looked as if they belonged to a vole. Damien recalled the first time that his father took him vole hunting on the farm – it was the first time that he had killed a living, breathing animal. When the animal was dead, its soft, warm fur gradually turned ice cold in his hands, while its beady, black eyes stared at him, as if saying, “All I wanted was to fill my stomach. Why did you have to kill me? Don’t you want the same thing?” No, the Soil Ghosts were much more vicious than voles. They were deformed lunatics; bandits who seized the fruits of the industrious labor of citizens. The posters that were plastered on the walls were a constant reminder of that and a warning for all to remember. Damien tried to convince himself to not let his emotions get the better of him. He was a soldier now, and not a child. It was his duty to kill the enemy. He had just begun his service in the military – this was only the first of many to come… But it was a person, not a vole. “Cheers to being alive! This round’s on me!” Petar bellowed as he jumped onto the table, raising his glass. His youthful, freckled face was flushed right down to his neck – he was thoroughly drunk. What about the dead? Damien pondered immediately. He understood that everyone was relieved about making it back in one piece. But, turning this goddamned incident into a celebration? He just couldn’t fathom it. All of them obliviously fell into the trap set out by the Soil Ghosts and retreated with their tails in between their legs. Three people died, while two of the four who sustained injuries were so severely wounded that they were immediately relieved from frontline duties… Despite being just a new recruit, even Damien understood that it was a humiliating defeat for them. He could not understand how the others thought that the incident was a courageous victory over the Soil Ghosts? The members of Damien’s squad were showing off in front of the other new recruits, claiming that they trounced the Soil Ghosts and pressured those freaks into retreat. Now that they were in the bar, there was no need to wear gas masks. Not only did they reveal their relieved expressions, they also revealed their naivety. Being dejected, Damien downed another mouthful to prevent himself from blurting out the truth. The truth was that they were the greenest of all rookies; they all had forgotten about their training the moment the shit got real. A red-haired barmaid in a sleeveless dress approached Damien when she saw his that his glass was empty. “Hey handsome, we’ve got a remedy to fix that frown of yours. Want another?” she offered while flashing Damien a flirty smile. Hardly anybody lived in Zamaii anymore. It only had a tiny market that provided the soldiers from the barracks and transiting drivers with the bare necessities. The restaurants and bars made the most money, because anything that tasted remotely like food was better than the military rations that they got to eat. Alcohol, needless to say, had priority over everything else. The owners and the employees of these businesses made up the majority of the civilian population of the town. The bar was staffed entirely by women. Naturally, this was only a ploy to coax the soldiers into drinking more. The shop opposite the bar provided more “direct” services. Girls who wanted to make more money would work there instead. Consequently, the barmaids did not flaunt their “assets” excessively. All they had to do was learn to say the right things to comfort the wounded souls in order to earn some decent tips. Damien put the money for his booze and a small tip on the table. The barmaid took it with a beaming smile and poured some muddy beer into his glass. In outskirts, such