Kill or be Killed.

“…and I just think we are different people now.”

The young man takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his long dark hair. You can tell he has done it a lot today because the strands are curled and greasy from repeated touch. A sure sign of frustration. He exhales steadily. This is his shot. Say the right words and everything can be okay again:

“I am difficult. I know it. I know it because I can feel myself being that way. It is like small bits of sandpaper that scrape across my cerebelum as I speak the words that I know are destined to displease you. Please trust me, I know when I am doing it, but I really just can’t help it. It is a testament to how I feel about you.”

Another breath and a look around the bar. It is quiet this time of day. Just commited drunks and the others.

“It is not a bad thing either. No, no. It’s just you make me a little crazy. You run through my mind constantly and as you do it I am conflicted by how much I am in awe of you and how much I feel that I am not worthy. I feel this way and when I see you outside of my mind only the awe exists, but when you are gone the insecurity remains.”

“Plus… Our history. Mistakes on both sides that only add to it. But! Scar tissue is good. A reminder of what drew blood, but did not kill. I know this: I would suffer for you; more scars and abbrasions. Even now as we seem to drift apart and the pain is most intense I would stay in this flame. “

They look at each other and then to their drinks. She is hunched forward and his shoulders have sagged. He takes a sip of his drink and it seems to revitalize him slightly.

“Remember our perfect day? In the shell of that ruined church we found along the river path? We sat and talked and we talked so long that we nearly got stuck out in the woods. That was right before we left, together.”

“I think about that day a lot. There was no rush and everything seemed important and unimportant at the same time. Like, the words no matter their subject, held their own seperate and intense meaning. We loved each other then, I think.”

The last words cause her to sit straighter and cast a sideways glance at him.

“We did. I remember the next day I said so while we were laying in bed in the morning. You were pretending to be asleep and I told you I was in love with you. That wasn’t a dream, right? It wasn’t a mistake. It was a purity in our lives that we have seldom sought for again and I am truly sorry we have not. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

More silence, but also heat. I can feel it as I refill their drinks. It cinges my knuckles that grip the bottle and I feel a sweat break out on my forehead. He’s not going to win. They weren’t the right words, but there is fire in that soul of his. Briefly and insanely I worry about it physically setting fire to the spirits just behind the bar, but I mentally shake that worry in time to hear her:

“I’m sorry, too. I have to go.”

There are losers every night in my little bar on the moon, but I felt for this one. He charged the battlements, but sometimes a lady’s cold steel resolution cuts through even the most valiant of heroism.

Drinks on me, fella.

From Across the Bar

I have seen many first moments. You work behind a bar night and day and you see a lot of them. In literature there is talk of a thunderbolt or a shared look and then it is all over. Star-crossed lovers, blam-o right then and there. But, in my humble experience it is a little different.

Firstly, someone sees the other one first. Like a game of visual tag and yet no one knows that they are playing. One of the individuals spies the other one and the game is on. I have heard tell of the ‘3-second rule,’ where you need to make up your mind in three seconds. I think that’s all moon-dust. What kind of crazy person knows what they want in three seconds?

It also defeats the importance of the next part: Courage. It takes guts to talk to someone face-to-face these days. Heck, what with the technology we have you never need to see a person ever if you really didn’t want to and some don’t. So, the old-fashioned stuff. Like, walking up to a boy you like the looks of and introducing yourself takes courage.

There is battle courage, sure. I have seen enough of that and individuals have spoken on that subject with far more eloquence than I ever could. No, this is a different type of courage. It is accepting failure, but hoping for the best possible outcome. It is steeling yourself against your enevitable demise, but allowing the winds of fancy to push you forward towards doom, destiny, or both. Courage is slugging back some cheap whisky and then making your fool-hardy move. I can say that it is rarely executed well, but sometimes there is charm in that too.

That’s the true romance of the moment and you can’t help but get close to it and listen in. Especially in my position.

“Hi.”

“I, uh, was hoping I could buy you a drink, or uhmmm if I could introduce myself. I’m K. Hi”

“Oh. Well I already have a drink and you just introduced yourself.”

“Right… and, right.”

*Silence pervading the noisey atomosphere*

*The Moon spins a little more slowly*

“Well, I introduced myself… What’s your name?”

“I’m T.”

“Hi, T what brings you here? I’ve never been here before.”

“Well, the whisky is cheap and this place never seems to get shut down. Plus, my friends dragged me here.”

“Oh, well it is sort of the same for me my friends got me to come here too. That’s them over there.”

“Yeah I can tell by the gawks.”

“Are you sure you don’t want another drink? I, uh, don’t really know anything about whisky, but I will drink what you are drinking.”

“Fine. Just ask for the rail stuff. It’s not the real stuff, but I like that.”

“Okay. It’s better if it’s not real?”

“Oh damn. That’s not easy to answer and if I got it wrong and someone overheard they might kill me.”

“Ah you look like the dangerous type. T, the whisky spy.”

“You have no idea, K.”

The occupants of the bar all blur and become static as these two drink their whisky and indulge in each other’s company. They have time. It is a speakeasy after all and closing time is some hours off. They go slow, but there are moments of extreme honesty that catapult them further along with each other.

Who knows where they will go from here. They sat together and in those moments their world was confined to a two meter cubed space. They drank and there was some laughter. They were both shy in their own way and also both courageous in allowing a stranger intimate time in their own lives.

As a seasoned barkeep I did my part: I left them alone.

Final Moments.

Hunkered behind a small crater on an unnamed moon in a corner of space relegated to witness my demise. It isn’t funny but at the same time, I have to say, it isn’t overly cruel either.

Coming from an impoverished farming planet and being whisked away on an adventure only to make a last stand in a meaningless place is more than I could have ever hoped for. Instead I could have been stuck on a plough all my life. At least this way I got to see one or two stars.

More gunfire. The telltale puffs of dust as projectiles impact the the crater and beyond it. I can hear some chatter over the radio, so maybe somewhere someone from my unit is doing better than I am. It is a small comfort as I look down at the read out of my rifle: 2.

2 projectiles. A far-cry from the 500 projectiles I started with not too long ago. I move slowly and peer quickly over the crater embankment. Movement left and a flash right. Great. They are going to come at me from two sides. I sigh and clutch the grip harder. With eyes closed I think back to 8 months ago and smile at the warmth of those memories. However, something else lingers there. Bordom.

What would I do? What would the fantasy version of myself do in this moment? I have imagined my life as a Star Soldier for as long as I have memory. A wave that emenates from my chest sends warm chills throughout my body. A sense of what the answer is and the horrific and wonderful things it means. A last stand.

Okay. Death enevitable and hilarious, how do I make this happen? Just pop up and try and get a bead on my pursuers? No. Too simple; and the holographic drill seargent I had in basic would reanimate and ream me out as I died. Hmmm. Why even use the projectiles? I mean, all the Star Soldiers are issued a bayonet. I had gutted animals before and although killing someone at sexual range is typically frowned upon there is no substitute for killing the enemy.

Alright bayonet it is. How does it even attach to my rifle? Ah, yes. Twist and click. The rifle looks even more deadly now if that was at all possible and I am surprised that I had not seen the rifle in this configuation more often. Most recruits don’t even get training in hand-to-hand so perhaps they simply saw no use to explain it.

I am a little closer to the movement on the left. “Let’s go that way first,” I murmer to no one in particular. I decide to start my blaze of glory off with a combat roll that looks more like a somersault in low-G. I come up a little further than I have intended and see the creature tracking me with its weapon. They are slow in the cold and I keep hustling left. I see a small embankment and lunge for it load my legs up and explode towards my enemy. I close the distance fast and I plunge my bayonet into what passes for a neck. Black blood boils out of the wound and the creature lets out a death shudder.

Whoa. Easier than I thought and I still have two projectiles left. I spin around facing the threat that was previosuly on my right. I see the creature firing over the crater not far from where I was hiding before. I push my vicitim in front of me and give it a hard kick. The recently deceased creature rockets towards his companion. It bumps and tumbles wildly, but obstructs me enough to soak up a number of projectiles. I roll left and level my rifle and squeeze the trigger letting loose my last two projectiles. They miss and in frustration I fling my rifle like an axe towards the creature. The rifle spins like a throwing star in low-G and my jaw drops when I see the bayonet lodge itself in the creatures chest.

Slowly I regain my composure and slowly walk to the dying creature. “How the fuck did that work?” I ask the now dead creature. I pull the bayonet out and try to ignore the sensation of flesh clinging to the blade.

I look around and notice an audience. Star Soldiers wearing the same blue on blue outfits as me. The one closest to me, a woman, stares at me mouth agape. I look at them all and shrug, “It seemed like a good idea in my head.”