***
Back in his living room, Lincoln listened intently to Abigail. Her voice rang in his ears: “I’m Abigail Zhang, and this is CTV. In Alberta, near Calgary, World War V is still raging on-”
Something alerted Lincoln at the mention of his hometown, and then he slowly began to understand the gravity of what Abigail was saying. Lincoln pushed Abigail’s voice far out of reach. Whenever he stepped outside or turned on a screen for a breath of fresh air, he saw the war. He was tired of the fighting and wanted it to stop. As a student of politics, he knew the reasoning behind the war was shallow and superficial, and that nothing was worth forcing people to their deaths. No economic crisis should be responsible for such carnage.
“However, there has been a mysterious turn of events.” Abigail’s expression became more strained than before. “There has been a strong rise of controversy since the USA attacked Canada and they brought WWV onto our territory. Their troops are stationed near Calgary. All citizens within a 200 kilometer radius are advised to evacuate immediately.”
Lincoln forced his lids shut and grimaced. He heard sounds of his neighbor’s frustration, even the screaming and crying of a small child. When Lincoln cracked his eyes open again, he was face to face with images of soldiers and a regal, brassy march blaring in the background. The television depicted the soldiers in the midst of a battle, and anyone else would have seen determination embedded deep within their scarred, glassy eyes and patriotism shooting like fireworks from their metallic rifles and machine guns. Lincoln focused on the wounds inflicted on them and the cloudy, charcoal pile of ash of the aftermath of the blast. He imagined a clock counting down toward their last breath, to their last ‘I love you’, to their smile or laugh. While someone like Elliott saw selflessness and heroic deeds, Lincoln only saw selfishness and turmoil and the other side that couldn’t fight back.
In a flash Lincoln pushed a series of black buttons on the remote and threw it at the screen. Abigail’s chiseled features were shattered. It was like fire escaped through the space between the glass and covered the room in a sweltering sweat. He was caught in an indescribable fury; wars poked at him like nothing else, even more so since the battles was moving closer to him. Lincoln felt a rush of anger and heard the wind say something in response. Deep down, Lincoln knew Abigail wasn’t responsible for his rage, but at that moment, the only thing that felt more real than her uneasy gaze was the impending doom of a moving battlefront.
***
Elliott didn’t have the luxury of velour couches and plasma TVs, but he did have more power than anyone could imagine. He was the chosen one, the one asked to execute General Cooper’s orders. He pulled his aching muscles off the rough, stony ground and ignored the fiery pain that shot through them. Panting feverishly, he found himself grasping the Necromancer 83.6 with raw attraction. Every time he ran his thumb over his cracked, bloody knuckles or the smooth surface of the Necromancer, he thought about a situation a few weeks ago, with Cooper barking orders at him. It was a memory stained by spit flying past chapped, ashy lips, but nonetheless, it was still important to him. Cooper entrusted him with the fate of his country and told him to obliterate enemy; Elliott was supposed to be the one to save them all, even if it meant ending his own life in the process.
But how was killing more people supposed to solve problems? Were oil prices really worth ending lives? Did avarice equate to the downfall of a nation? In what reality did political tension correlate to the death of civilians?
Elliott took a step forward. His ankle burned, and his vision became blurry. Sweat came in bucket loads from underneath his helmet, yet it did nothing to cool the heat rising in his flushed cheeks. But he was being a good soldier; that’s what Cooper told him, that’s what made him an expert at what he did: he could follow orders and not question them until it was too late.
