ARC10

Chapter 2.2

The woman shifts her gaze left and right without tilting her head. Her peppered hair is long enough to skim her black eyes and weathered face, which shows absolute distrust of everything around her. Spots brush her cheeks to give her the appearance of someone who may have been pleasant to talk to once. But now, her small, narrowed eyes calculate every risk and distrust everyone.

"We've been noticing you."

"Who?"

"And we have been watching you develop through your training. We'd like for you to try out for a special operation."

"What operation? You mean a new mission? Is this about the new battalion being formed on Level Two?"

"Meet us at this location tonight at oh-one-hundred hours. Do not tell anyone you have spoken to me. That is an order."

Hundreds of questions spin around my head. Who wants to see me? How long have they been watching? What have they been watching? What mission? Which branch is requesting work? Whom do I report to?

Before I could ask any one of my string of questions, she drops a little white card on the bar and presses her finger flat against it for a few seconds. Our eyes meet. "There's an alternate route to salvation. Humanity is being offered another choice."

A full-body shiver courses down my spine. I attempt to control the quakes.

I cut our intense stare-down and look at the little card under her finger. A real piece of paper with handwritten words on it. No one uses paper anymore.

After a few seconds, she raises a thin eyebrow, pivots, and struts through the front door.

I squeeze the card's textured material between my fingers. I've never touched real paper before--not thick, luxurious paper like this. The material itself feels fantastic, even if it's nothing but a thin card that's completely blank on the front. I flip it over.

L6CR4

At first, I am completely confused. In rapid-fire succession, I run through all the code I've ever learned.

L6CR4

Level 6? Combat Room 4? Is that what this means?

It's the most unused room in the URE. The room is so large, its only function has been for storage of miscellaneous vehicle parts. It's completely out of the way, and it takes forever to pass the three security points. No one is supposed to be that far out, because if you are, it's usually because you're up to no good.

Forget it. Not worth it. It's probably some sort of joke, anyway.

If this were a real mission, then I would have heard about it through one of my commanding officers—or at least someone I had served with previously.

I keep flipping the card over and expecting to find new information each time. I scrutinize the black ink, then the corners. I try to decipher some other meaning. When I can't figure it out, I rip the card down the middle and throw it in the trash, only briefly regretting the loss of the cottony material.

Grabbing another glass, I dry the dishes until heavy footfalls proclaim the arrival of the first real wave of customers. They're fresh from the Earth's surface. They're battle scarred and ready to drown their recent visions of massacred and decay at the bottom of my freshly dried glasses. They've come here for reprieve, and this is where they can come to talk about their battle stories—about how many alien invaders they shot today or how many casualties we took on our side.

They tell stories about the Mayans, the Druids, the Republicans, or some long-forgotten group like that who said the world would be smothered in fire and damnation.

They jest about the idiocy of the two sides. How when December tenth hit, people were either blissfully resilient to the idea of our annihilation, or they were expecting their faces would burst into flames by midnight. I was barely two when Simon brought me down to the URE. I don't remember the things the older generation whispers about into their drinks.

Here they come to unload and talk about what they miss most about the Before Days. Those days before the aliens came and destroyed everything and everyone they loved.

This is where they come to forget it all, too.