Sigh.
"Ah, shit," he said, the helicopter interrupting his voice.
The soldier next to him looked over, unsure if he'd said something.
"Nothing. I was just talking to myself," he said, looking out at the sunset, sighing once more.
"What's wrong, captain? You nervous or something?"
The other soldiers turned their attention to him, amazement splashed across their faces.
He chuckled.
"You're trying to make me laugh. …I'm just a little shocked, that's all."
The soldiers' faces shifted from amazement to confusion.
"What's there to be shocked about? We do stuff like this all the time. Both in training and in the field."
He rubbed his eyes.
"Don't you feel like there's something off about the president of South Sudan?"
"What do you mean, off?" another soldier asked.
"The man ordered the killing of rebels underground in the city, right? I heard he didn't spare the children either. It's gotta take a really messed-up person to order something like that. …Maybe he's a madman, …or maybe he's a monster. But who knows."
"Do you have a grudge against him, captain?" one of the soldiers asked.
"No, not really," he said, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette and a lighter.
"Oh, by the way, captain, isn't your family part of the revolution in Bentiu?"
"Yeah," he said, lighting his cigarette.
"Then shouldn't you be worried?"
"What for?"
The soldier paused, unsure how to say what he wanted to under the circumstances.
"…You do realize our mission…it's in Bentiu."
His eyes flew open as he coughed the cigarette from his mouth.
"You good, captain?"
"Wait. You said our mission is in Bentiu?"
The soldier nodded.
He looked down at the floor for a couple of seconds before picking up his cigarette and tossing it into the bin.
"Shit."
"Didn't you listen to the briefing?"
"No, I don't listen to that shit. I do my job and get paid. That's what I do best," he said, rubbing his eyes once more.
"We'll be at the landing spot in less than two hours," the pilot said over the microphone.
Sighing again, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Damn it all. …Nephew, I trust you to be strong enough to handle this. At least until I get there, he thought, as he started counting the seconds away, until those seconds turned into minutes, and those minutes began to fade his consciousness.
An hour and forty-seven minutes later
"Captain. …Captain. Captain, wake up," a soldier said, shaking him awake.
He opened his eyes.
"It's time to go."
He quickly gathered himself.
"Did they shut down their cameras?" he asked, looking at his comrade.
He nodded.
"They used the device to stun all cameras in the sewage for six hours. That's more than enough time to get in and out."
"Stun, as in?"
His comrade cut him off.
"As in, they'll see a still image for six hours."
"Oh."
He looked down at the ground as the helicopter descended. He watched the propellers blow away the dirt below, until he felt the bump of the helicopter's impact on the ground of South Sudan—his home, before he'd run away to South Africa. Memories of the past flashed before his eyes, transporting him to a time he didn't want to remember.
He clenched his teeth and fists as a single tear ran down his face. Luckily he managed to wipe it away before any of his comrades noticed—though a couple did notice as he breathed in and out.
"Hahaha. Captain, you good?" a soldier said, laughing, joined by the others.
He smiled at them.
"Hahaha. Ah, I'm fine. Let's just get this over with," he said, exiting the helicopter.
The captain immediately looked around for the hidden spot he'd been briefed on, until finally he spotted it.
"Hey, give me the shovel," he yelled.
A soldier immediately ran over with the shovel and handed it to him. He began digging along with his comrades. It took about four or five minutes of digging until his shovel finally hit something hard. He hit it again to be sure. He wasn't mistaken—it was the sound of metal with a hollow interior. They kept digging until their efforts revealed a circular cover with another circular cover above it, handles on each side, clearly meant for turning.
"This is it," he said, as he and his comrades turned the cover.
The hardest part was lifting the heavy cover up, but thanks to their combined efforts, they managed it.
"Damn. Why'd they make the cover so heavy? And why so deep?" a soldier asked, his comrades nodding.
"What do you expect? This hole leads directly to the revolution. Of course they wouldn't make one of their secret entrances easy to find," the captain said, jumping down the hole.
Immediately his vision was swallowed by darkness, so he turned on the flashlight atop his military helmet. It revealed a passage with webs in the corners, along with a small river of water flowing down it.
One by one his comrades jumped down, turning on their own flashlights, improving their view of the passage.
"It's this way," a soldier said, volunteering to lead.
As they ventured deeper into the tunnel, a wave of unwanted memories began surfacing in the captain's mind. He could see and feel everything clearly; not a moment was unclear to him.
The sky was hidden behind a gray veil of clouds, howling as if in pain, weeping as if in distress. The setting, and the music of tears hitting the earth, was all too fitting for the great tragedy he'd just committed. As if the heavens had already known it would happen before it did.
At the base of a tree he could hear his sister crying quietly, hugging her legs, her face buried against her thigh. But unlike his sister, he wasn't scared at all—in fact he gripped the knife tighter and drove it deeper into the man's neck. Blood sprayed everywhere, even onto his face and his ripped shirt, but the rain quickly washed it away. Then he let go of the knife, still lodged in the man's neck, and looked at his hands, covered in blood, though the rain quickly concealed it. Invisible to the naked eye, maybe, but that didn't matter, because he knew it was still there.
Then the adrenaline began to fade. Before, he'd been fearless, consumed by drive, rage, and purpose, but as it all began to fade he was changed back into the boy he'd been before—or a reduced, tainted version of him. He was still the same boy on the outside; the major difference was that he no longer carried his innocence. His core, once clear in color, was now deformed in black. So the only thing he could do was sit on that corpse and stare down at his hands. He only came to when he heard a scream behind him, followed by people rushing over to see what the commotion was about. Quickly he grabbed his sister's arm and ran home with her. Even that memory was clear—he could hear his sister crying, and the several screams of the people behind them. But at that moment he didn't care about anything, not even his sister. He fled because he wanted to escape the sin he'd committed, despite whether he'd been right or wrong—he doubted the people would see it the way he did.
At home he endured the screaming of his mother and the mighty roars of his father. Eventually they locked him in his room and argued. He could hear his mother throwing glass across the room. Every time it shattered, his heart lurched, tears falling as he stared blankly into the darkness of his room, unsure what the future would look like for him. Am I going to prison? No, that mongrel was going to defile my sister—they'll understand. They know I'd never do something like that without a reason. …But will I get expelled? Will everyone see me differently? Will they think I'm a monster? What will they think of me? What would my friends think?
He asked himself, but was left with only silence. Then all of a sudden he heard,
"We should hand him over to the police. We can ask them not to tell anyone that the murderer is our son."
"Wait, Mother, no. That man was going to rape me. If he hadn't—"
"Shut up."
He heard a loud slap in the other room, followed by a thud, then the low sound of crying.
"You're twenty years old—when are you going to stop acting like a child? …And that man your brother killed was going to marry you. Just today he came to us talking about bride price. Now look. You're useless now. What other man would marry a girl like you now? You and your brother have doomed us."
"…When Micheal goes to sleep we'll call the police to come get him," his father said.
"…NO. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO YOUR OWN SON?"
"Shut up. Don't let him hear you," his father said.
His heart fell to the bottom of his stomach.
Micheal heard muffled sounds, as if his father had covered his sister's mouth, or gagged her. But he doubted he could do anything to save her this time. He looked at his shaking hand, down to his trembling legs; in the mental state he was in, he doubted he could take several steps without collapsing. All he could think was run. His body, as if it had a mind of its own, got up, stumbling, and all he could hear in his foggy mind was, run. Micheal rushed to the window and jumped out, not even bothering to put on shoes. As he hit the ground he heard the door open, and not even a second later the bone-chilling words:
"HE'S GONE."
Micheal immediately bolted, hearing his parents shouting and the loud scuffling of what had been his home. As he fled, house lights lit up one by one, curtains pulled back to expose dark silhouettes behind them. He ran faster, avoiding their constant stares from every corner. As he ran, he felt as if the entire world's eyes were on him. They don't understand, he thought, quickly turning a corner onto a different street. If they were me, they would have done the exact same thing. So why…why are they looking at me like some kind of monster, he thought, tears flowing down his eyes. I just want this to all be one big terrible nightmare, …please be a nightmare, he thought, hiding behind a wall of houses just in front of a gully—a place where he and his friends often met up to play. To him it was a safe haven, a place to escape school, parents, and all worldly influences. That place was his entire world. He slid his back down the wall of a house until he was sitting, hugging his legs tightly, tears leaking down his face. He didn't make a sound. When he was just a toddler he'd decided never to cry in front of anybody again, and when he did cry he'd do it silently, so no one could witness his pain. Micheal believed involving someone else in one's own suffering was a selfish thing to do. His reasoning was rooted in his past. One day his sister found a crying toddler Micheal, covered in cuts and bruises and dirt. On his way back from school a group of boys he wasn't on the best terms with had attacked him, beating him so badly his lower lip burst, blood mixing with his saliva. When his sister found out, she flew into a rage and confronted the boys' mothers, demanding an apology and repayment for the money their sons had stolen. Things didn't go well—a fight broke out between the mothers and his sister. She was beaten and humiliated just as badly as he had been. But through her determination, she got the police to order the mothers to pay five times the amount stolen. The police also left them with a warning. Although he ended up with even more money than had been taken, he believed that if he'd never been so weak, if he'd never let his sister witness his vulnerability, she wouldn't have gotten hurt. What he learned from that experience was that human suffering is contagious—it can spread from person to person, rotting them from the inside out until they're just as rotten and feeble as he was. Suddenly a thought occurred to him: perhaps if he'd swallowed his pain a few hours earlier, he wouldn't be in the situation he was in now. Maybe if he'd accepted being wronged, and his loved ones wronged, things wouldn't have escalated. But why should I keep taking lashes from the world for a slight chance at happiness? Why should I bow my head to others and accept their ridicule and judgment? They aren't gods; they have no power over me. They're flesh and blood, just like I am. They're only men. …But…why are we so different from one another? What separates me from them, he thought, staring at the black gully water. His eyelids slowly gave way, submerging him into the realm of dreams.
"Captain. You aren't daydreaming, are you?"
Life returned to Micheal's eyes.
"Of course not. My mind was occupied figuring out how to make this mission go smoothly."
"Well, you might want to focus on something else. We've got action up ahead."
Micheal immediately understood and clenched his weapon. Up ahead he could see a huge hole of light, big enough for multiple men to fit through. As they slowly approached, they could hear the loud voices of men bouncing off the walls of the sewer. One of the soldiers aimed his rifle through the scope, his hands gripping it tightly, yet shaking. Even with his face covered by a helmet and mask, Micheal could tell he was ready to reap lives. But before he could take the shot, Micheal stopped him.
"We're not engaging unless we have to. Remember our mission," he whispered.
The soldier hesitated, but eventually nodded slowly.
Micheal peeked out of the hole, careful not to let his head become visible for too long. Immediately he understood why the soldier had been so ready to take lives. What he saw was a group of soldiers ravaging the revolution's camp—taking down tents, overturning barrels, taking guns. But that wasn't what Micheal or the soldiers were focused on. What they were looking at was the blood and the corpses splattered across the camp. Looking closer, Micheal noticed the blood wasn't fresh—it was dry, sticking to the tents and the ground like glue.
"Hey, when are we leaving Bentiu? This place reeks," a soldier said, packing guns into a cart.
"When we get more information on the revolution and the alliance. We still don't know for sure which country's involved. We need concrete proof before we engage," another soldier said, helping his comrade search through the camp for documents or letters.
"Yeah, that's the reason on paper. What's the real reason?"
His comrade glanced at him before sighing.
"Since you already know the reason, why are you asking?"
"So I can make sure I'm not the only one who thinks it."
"Are we even supposed to be talking about this?" another soldier rummaging through the camp said.
"Aren't you even the least bit curious? Every major country on this planet has its eyes on this asteroid. Even the United States wants it. …That asteroid must be worth a crazy amount if practically every country in the world wants it. It must be made of gold or something."
"Isn't it landing somewhere near here?" another soldier said.
"Well, I guess we'll never know. …Now stop talking and let's get out of here. This place smells disgusting," a soldier said, pinching his nose before turning to walk toward the camp's exit.
"Looks like they already know a lot about us, captain."
Micheal didn't respond; he just nodded and stepped down from the hole.
"Take ten minutes to search the camp. Try to find any letters or documents they may have missed, and either secure or destroy them."
His men nodded, dividing up.
Micheal also searched the camp, flipping over anything that looked like a good hiding place, his heart beating violently the whole time. He wanted to find anything—any proof that his sister might still be alive—but he couldn't find any. Micheal clenched his teeth and slammed his hand against a wooden table.
"We couldn't find anything, captain," his comrades said.
And, almost as if his face never showed emotion, he turned to them and said,
"Let's carry on with the mission."
Twenty-five minutes later
A manhole cover slowly popped open on the surface of an alleyway in Bentiu, and one by one Micheal and his comrades climbed out. Almost immediately they used the butts of their rifles to smash a building's windows, then jumped inside and rushed to the highest floor. Micheal wanted to pull off this mission as quickly as possible.
"Looks like the spy did his job. Nobody's in here," Micheal said, setting up his rifle.
"Alright, boys, this is gonna go down in the history books." His comrades chuckled.
Micheal adjusted his scope and zoomed in on the once-quiet, now-raging crowd below. What got them so angry? he thought, as he zoomed in on his target's head, but suddenly he smelled something vile. He'd smelled it before, but couldn't place it. Out of curiosity he adjusted his scope toward the crowd, and instantly a smile appeared on his face. He's alive. …But who is that boy? he thought. Through his scope he saw a boy with a shocked expression plastered across his face, as if he'd lost his soul, leaving his body in a petrified state that told the story of the moment his body had had a soul. A drop of sweat ran down the side of his face. He glanced away. That face, and the emotion the boy must have felt, was all too familiar to him. He didn't want to remember; he didn't want to go back. It was far too painful for him.
Not wanting to dwell on the past, Micheal readjusted his scope to his target's head. He closed his eyes, calmed his breathing, and just as he reopened them, prepared to take the shot, he was interrupted.
"WHAT THE FUCK," a soldier yelled, stumbling back.
He looked back, asking what was wrong.
"Look over there."
Micheal and his comrades peeked out the window, curious what could make one of their own act like a frightened child, and immediately they understood why. One of his comrades fell to his knees and started vomiting. The others backed away from the window, shocked at what they'd just witnessed. But Micheal didn't back away. No, he was frozen, just as he'd been many years ago. The image before his eyes burned into them, just like the images from that day. Is this a dream? he thought. This can't be happening. No. Not again. Then suddenly the unthinkable occurred to him. There's no way, right? he thought, his shaking hands adjusting the scope of his rifle toward the origin of that god-awful smell. Almost immediately his eyes began to leak. The one person he wanted to live in this entire world was gone. Gone in the worst way possible. The smoke from the fire burned his eyes, causing them to leak profusely as he readjusted his scope to his target. And with eyes full of rage, he pulled the trigger. Almost immediately the crowd went quiet. It took them a couple seconds to fully understand what had happened before they began to disperse. Micheal readjusted his scope and noticed he'd missed his intended spot, so he prepared to take another shot, but before he did, he stopped. Is this some kind of sick joke? he thought, his hands trembling, as he looked directly at his target through the scope. But the fact that his target somehow seemed to know where he was wasn't what shocked Micheal. What shocked him was the face. It had been years since then, but Micheal could never forget that face.
Petrified, Micheal just stood there, staring into his scope, before he heard a yell from one of his comrades.
"Captain, watch out."
The soldier pushed Micheal aside, and almost immediately the glass shattered as fast-zooming orange lights tore through him, killing him in less than a second. This finally snapped Micheal out of his trance. Enraged, he picked up his rifle and started firing in the direction the bullets had come from.
"Captain, we have to go."
Micheal ignored them and kept firing. This is not going to happen again, he thought.
"Captain."
He clenched his teeth and began slowly retreating down the stairs. But as he backed up, still firing, he caught sight of his dead comrade's body, blood leaking from it profusely. Part of him wanted to rush through the gunfire and retrieve the body, but he was no fool—he knew the moment he did something that foolish he'd end up just like him. So, hesitantly, he retreated downstairs, and as his foot touched the ground floor, the wall beside him exploded, sending him flying into the wall of an alleyway. His body dropped to the floor. He couldn't move, and his vision was obscured and blurred. The only thing he could hear was the distorted yelling of his comrades, and the only thing he could see was smoke ascending into the already blackened sky. Then his eyelids grew heavy, and before they could close he thought,
"Arop, escape from here alive."