The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 38

Janice

I never liked summer much. Heat and I have been bitter rivals for as long as I can remember, and the long, sweltering days bring no small amount of misery to my pathetic little life.

It's been a few months since I was released from the hospital, and lately, the only battle I've had to fight has been against the August humidity making my hair stick to my neck.

Not much has changed, and for the most part, life is just like it was before. Some things are better, some are worse, and some are just the same.

Thanks to the pay I received from the Space Corps—compensation for my injury plus a salary for the time I spent in combat—I was able to move to a slightly nicer apartment a bit closer to the city. It's also closer to work, so it's less of a walk—or it would be, if I could make the walk. Not only is the humidity too brutal to be out in, but my limp also makes traveling long distances on foot a lot of trouble.

So when the announcement comes through the portscreens, I'm on the crowded bus, wishing I could feel the air conditioning through the mess of bodies. The constant, annoying chatter suddenly drops off, and we all sit in silence, taking in the message being enthusiastically read by a newswoman.

I'm pleased to announce the official end of the Zinnan War! Word came from the palace today that an agreement has been reached between Zinnan and Earth leaders. In exchange for the outer planets, Zinnan forces have agreed to cease their attack on Earth. Possession of Mars is still being debated, but the monarchy has decreed the official end of the war. Some soldiers will be sent home as early as this Wednesday. The palace has also announced that the King's Medal of Acclaim will be awarded to sixty-three veterans who have yet to be announced, in a ceremony celebrating the end of the decades-long conflict.

Stunned silence falls over the crowd like a blanket, and the only sound is the newscaster repeating her message.

Suddenly my leg starts to burn, and I'm painfully aware of the ugly scar left where the bullet entered my thigh. I wrench my eyes shut and clench my jaw, taking a deep breath and attempting to ground myself. I count to ten and then open my eyes, relieved when I see that the world hasn't turned red.

Something about the war being over makes me feel uneasy. It's good news, but it almost seems too good to be true. Peace was always a rumor, something that would be nice but wouldn't ever actually happen—and if it did happen, it wouldn't be our victory. This war has been going on all my life, and it's just... ended? It doesn't feel possible.

I'm so engrossed in my own thoughts hat I nearly miss my stop. I stumble off the bus and walk the rest of the way to work, cursing the fact that I'm a twenty-year-old with a fucking limp.

My boss gave me my job at the café back, since business had picked up and they could use the extra help. He even raised my salary a few units. I'm guessing the spike in popularity is because of my new coworker, Keisha. She seems to have a way of drawing people in. Or rather, two ways, both of which reside on her chest.

I wasn't a fan of her at first, considering how little she knew after a full two months of working at the café, but over time, she's grown on me. Dumb as bricks, but a sweetheart.

"Janice!" Keisha exclaims, twirling over to me and grabbing my arm when I walk into the café. "Did you hear the war is over?" She wraps an arm around my waist and dramatically dips me like we're dancing. My leg gives out, but she catches me. "Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot about your leg! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I laugh as she sets me back on my feet.

"Isn't it good news, though? You must be thrilled! I was so scared I was gonna get drafted and I totally wouldn't survive a draft—like, can you imagine? Ugh! Happy day!"

I shake my head as she keeps babbling.

She has big, dark eyes that look wider because of her mascara, straight black hair, and flawless tan skin. Black heels make her even taller than she already is, and her pink dress shows off slender, perfect legs. She's practically a model, and next to her I must look like a pubescent boy.

I clock in and grab a rag as she celebrates, still going on about the war's end.

Some guy with a shaved head and a septum piercing stops outside, peers into the window at Keisha jumping around, and comes into the café, practically drooling.

I roll my eyes as he sits at the counter, head turned to ogle my coworker.

"What can I get you?" I slide a menu in front of him, trying to put some energy into my tone despite the guy's obvious scumminess.

"Uh... can I have the other one?" he asks rudely.

"The other what?" I know goddamn well what he means—I just want him to show some respect.

"The other girl. Her." He points to Keisha.

I give him a look and sigh.

"Keisha," I call, motioning for her to come take the guy's order.

She bounces over, grinning at the guy and greeting him enthusiastically. I wonder whether she's overly friendly to everyone, or if she just knows how to get tips.

I stay away from them, restocking condiments and napkins while keeping an eye on Keisha. Today is slow, and we definitely don't need two people working, but I think the owners were sensible enough not to schedule the eighteen-year-old alone.

It feels anticlimactic to be back here after everything I've been through. All the Zinnans I've killed, all the people I saw die in front of me—it all just led me back here. I really thought there'd be more waiting for me than tables to wipe. All I have to show for the whole miserable experience is an ugly scar, a limp, nightmares, and a mountain of grief.

"Damn, that was a good one!" Keisha whoops when the guy leaves. "Seventeen unit tip. Desperate."

"Seriously?" I say.

She shrugs. "He wouldn't stop hitting on me."

On the bus ride home, the portscreens are playing an interview with the King, whose face looks even more punchable than usual.

I wish Slater was here. If he was, we'd be celebrating the news together, but instead I'm alone, wondering why such good news makes me feel so sad.

When I get home, I kick my shoes off and flop down on the couch with a sigh.

I've nearly fallen asleep when I hear a soft click. I glance up to see a small green light blinking on my wall, indicating that I have mail. My old apartment had a tiny mail slot, but this one, being newer and nicer, has a panel on my wall that shoots mail from the ground floor up to me on the twenty-sixth.

Knowing a physical letter means important information, I cross the room and swing open the panel, groaning when I pull out an envelope marked with the instantly recognizable seal of the monarchy. I stare at it, trying to guess what they could possibly want with me now. For a while, I debate whether I should bother opening it. I've never gotten good news from the monarchy, so why would this be any different? I should be done with them completely. I should know better.

My damned curiosity gets the better of me and I tear open the envelope.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," I scoff into the empty room.

Apparently, I'm getting the King's Medal of Acclaim. They want me to come to some huge banquet at the palace and receive my war prize.The invite boasts a huge ceremony to honor me and sixty-something other veterans for our actions on Mars.

No way in hell I'm gonna go to that.

++++

Honestly I had no idea how long it takes for a bullet wound to heal. I asked Quora and people were like, "What kind of gun? What caliber bullet? What was she wearing?" And I didn't feel like saying, "Oh it was some like alien bullet from an alien gun and she was wearing a space suit." So I used one of those nifty time skips and winged it. (Winged it? Wung it?)

Anyway, you know what you should do? You should vote and comment. That would be totally tubular.