recollect the snow

There was nothing. 

No brevity Eunoia could ever wax—to children as curious as young could be or men as uninterested as adults could be—could equate to the sight of the island. If anything, brevity implied a shortness of words, an implication of continuation. As Eunoia’s eyes recorded every detail of the island, safe in her limitless memory, the uncomfortable nature the android couldn’t—or maybe wouldn’t—pinpoint grew increasingly evident.

Androids couldn’t breathe. Metallic armoring and wiring confirmed this. But as Eunoia walked along Windy Island, devoid of little but snow blanketing the hole that was once Valencia’s home, the very air itself felt halted in its tracks.

Blanketing, such a serene term to downplay the remnants of a home inhabited with the likes of a sleepwalker and the Rose Seekers. If Valencia heard this, she would have commented with a sarcastic remark, her annoyance evident in the slightly drawn corners of her lips and the glare of white eyes that would make Eunoia chuckle like no other could.

Despite the memory from a time where it meant little more to her than another file to Cielcay’s servers, Eunoia remembered. It was in her programming; she always remembered. 

“I do believe you currently reside on an island from afar you refer to as ‘Windy Island,’ am I correct, Valencia?” She had said, patiently standing behind the shops in Ten Mou.

Valencia startled, Eunoia’s words interrupting the brief staredown the gal had engaged with a Frost Taco. She raised her head to stare at Eunoia, eyebrows furrowed. “What the–how in Josafá are you even aware of that?! Are you stalking me?!”

“You mentioned the name audibly in your sleep after the Ghost Ship incident. Research and speculation connected the dots for me. My apologies for leaving you with that assumption.” Eunoia apologized, a slight bow to her head.

“No, your apology was unnecessary. It was my fault for assuming the worst,” Valencia said, scratching the back of her head, cheeks flushing red. Eunoia slightly zoomed in, gazing at soft pink in wonderment as she preserved the snapshot. “Yes, Windy Island is my home, Eunoia. Though I don’t tend to remain there for long periods of time. It leaves me…restless.”

“I would imagine so,” Eunoia chuckled. “My reach doesn’t extend to ‘Windy Island,’ as it is far too unpopulated to require my presence. Would you be kind enough to tell me about the island?”

Valencia hesitated, her eyes staring anywhere but the android. Eunoia understood that even years of contact wouldn’t freeze the distrustful waters Valencia had been so used to drowning in. Even so in comparison to the memories—years worth of them—Eunoia smiled at how far the two’s relationship improved.

After a brief period of time, Valencia nodded. “Windy Island was bestowed upon me from a…friend of mine. I suppose one could call Windy Island its own ecosystem. I could step outside my home to discover hordes of bunnies, or the occasional loud growling of a Rawrr at the coming of the moon.”

“With all due respect, I’m not all too surprised that your home’s inhabited by animals. You’re like a cute bunny, Valencia!” Eunoia teased, reaching her hand out to pinch Valencia’s cheeks. 

“Hey!” Valencia tilted her head to evade the android’s hand. “Bunnies are cute and relatable, but don’t compare me to one!”

Eunoia laughed at Valencia’s pout. “I kid. However,” Eunoia held up a finger. “I hope you have the suitable protection against a Rawrr. Studies showed hundreds of injuries at the hands of these ursines.”

“Rest assured, out of everything to kill me, I’m sure it won’t be a Rawrr,” Valencia replied with a deadpan. Eunoia understood her expression, but one could never be too careful in regards to safety.  

Valencia resumed, a step out of Eunoia’s arm range. “Windy Island is…extraordinarily beautiful. There’s a serene, sort of mundane appearance the island undertakes. For however long I feel the crunch of the snow, or the warmth of a bright summer, or the soft feeling of leaves in my hair, I have something of mine to return to. Everchanging, yet so very normal, all the same.”

Valencia softly smiled to herself, a smile Eunoia was sure meant Spring, where days succeeded nights and puddles replaced the mischievousness of the ice. The Dreamsphere had long since normalized her to understanding the nuances the living grew to learn. If the worst of Spring’s succession appeared in vacant labs and charred history, Eunoia theorized the gal’s smile as its antithesis. 

Maybe through justification of data collection, the android could persuade Cielcay to allow her to travel to the island? The android dwelling at Snow Galaxy would be optimal. There was little to serve there except the Guardian’s engineer, and even so Eunoia had an android situated. 

Eunoia’s eyes never left the sleepwalker. “Perhaps someday, I could take you there, Eunoia,” the latter murmured, slight embarrassment in her words.

“Really?!” Eunoia brightened, beaming at Valencia.  

The sleepwalker blinked in surprise, before she closed her eyes and huffed fondly. “Of course, my life is far too much of an everlasting overtime to suggest a break. But if the days get calmer, I wouldn’t be against showing you my home.”

If excitement equated to the bouncy feeling in the android’s chest, then Eunoia believed she felt excitement. “That would be more than welcome!” She replied. And the android waited. Waiting was her strength, the credence only she was able to perform.

Eunoia froze the memory. The android’s retinas burned onto Valencia, before she closed the file. She didn’t understand why her processing hesitated for those few seconds. Much needed to be accomplished before Eunoia could rest, even if the android wished for nothing more than to continue watching.

Valencia told her of trees and swings that hit the sky; portals of bewilderment and soccer balls the sleepwalker vehemently denied playing by her lonesome. Eunoia knew from a glance of her attempted deception, but felt it would humiliate the gal eminently to say. But none of that existed anymore. Windy Island was by all means a crater.

Eunoia trudged along the snow, her robotic configuration providing the snow with a louder crunch. Though the explosion decimated the island, Eunoia already analyzed the facts. The Fissure Empire invaded the island. Though only the android’s footsteps remained, Eunoia could spot sunken battleships. There was no feasible way Valencia would have fallen to foot soldiers with her years of combat.

The best weapons to utilize in direct combat against sleepwalkers are those that covered a damage radius, she informed Valencia. There was little to assume, no doubt of the explosion’s root: the utilization of raw power came as the result of a Fissure airship. In any other circumstance, Eunoia would have fixed Valencia an uncomfortable stare because her analysis once more proved reliable. Valencia would avoid her eyes in guilt, whistling a tune Eunoia would innocently name the source of.

The sleepwalker’s affirmative never grew tiresome to the android, but uncomfortably staring at the sky felt too theological to her. 

Valencia always treaded fate, it was what brought her to Eunoia. 

Scouring every inch of the island was ultimately a useless gesture with the evident destruction. It was always a tragedy to walk ravaged lands ruined by the disaster of war. Especially the inability for Eunoia to view the island’s original untouched state. Valencia never had the opportunity to grant her an experience more than the sounds of feet and snow. 

If only the android could make sense of the emotions whirring in her circuits. This numb, tired state of mind which wanted Eunoia to relinquish her duties—relinquish it all. It reminded her of the years before Valencia, except this numbness detrimentally affected her. 

Or is she experiencing what humanity called grief? The Dreamsphere commonly communicated it as a five-step process, beginning with denial and concluding with acceptance. The five stages were well-known as a mere stereotypical method, however. An android as nigh-omniscient as her wouldn’t feel denial. Eunoia as an android understood validity greater than any other. She recognized the objective fact: Valencia is dead. 

She’ll run a diagnostic test when she completes her mission. Her creators would disapprove of anything that prevents her complete efficiency.

Eunoia cleared her memory to ease the emotion diverting her from the task at hand. Nobody but her would be able to step up to the field. Nobody else, in fact. Eunoia stepped onto the snow that led to the gaping hole, and walked. 

For Spring to arrive, winter has to precede it. 

“Valencia…do you believe any possession of yours survived the explosion?”

“...I’m not sure,” her version of Valencia responded. 

—

He shot a rabbit between the eyes. 

Murdering an animal wasn’t a memory Nicky would assign any particular meaning to. Even decades later the experience would be tantamount to Phillip shattering an alcohol bottle or Slater ranting about a particular craving he wanted on a fine Saturday morning.

When the next sound of gunfire could be his last—like when a shot rang and suddenly Clarence collapsed dead on the ground—shooting animals as a source of food was almost second nature. 

(Josafá bless Clarence’s soul because Nicky spent nights awake thinking of the twisted irony of his head spilling like refilled canteens Clarence was generous to refill.)

What Nicky supposed gave that bunny relevance was that the man himself was the one to put it down. Nicky believed all young people had a sort of generalization about the nature of violence, himself included. It was a tinted lens which envisioned build-up and purpose to the idea of pulling the trigger. Perhaps it’s peeking one's head over to nail five men in the head, or carefully inching the scope toward an animal before noise frightened it back into its home. 

Envisioned by those too young or too wealthy was the act of carefully scoping in and shooting a rabbit through the head. In actuality, it was a simple process. One minute, Nicky was reloading his weapon in a building at Snow Galaxy, and the next he fired a bullet and slew a white rabbit. 

Little hussle to it. To call it senseless violence was also false. Even as an engineer, Nicky was accustomed to the battlefield. It was ingrained in him to stay alert for the smallest of sounds. Any strange footstep or creak of a door could prove fatal. Nicky recalled Henry—sweet and innocent Henry who gushed about returning home to his cat and whose helmet looked far too big—snickering beside Nicky, strolling toward a bush only to be gutted through the chest by a steel sword. 

Any sound that wasn’t recognizable to Nicky and it was fair game, but it was honestly unfortunate for the rabbit to encounter Nicky in the heat of war. Nicky was familiar with rabbits, hell any soldier would be. Little creatures who jumped all the time and made sounds Harold said reminded him of a jaw harp. Nicky had no clue what a ‘jaw harp’ was, but since Harold’s guitar gave Nicky and Task G repose, Nicky was inclined to trust the professional. 

He wondered if Harold’s guitar was used by his little brother, it had been too long since Nicky and Phillip mailed it to the man’s family. 

By all means if the white rabbit had come across Nicky in any scenario less tense than the ambiguity of the living in the area, it would have obtained a more peaceful death. One minute—no, five seconds. 

Two seconds to hear the jaw harp, one to recall his family, one to turn, and one to fire the trigger.

The bullet paved a clean shot between its eyes as the rabbit played its final note. And then there was silence. To Nicky, the silence was beautiful, yet so very halting. He recalled Ulysses’s brain splattering over him, a blood spout which ran down his cheek like a mother cradling her newborn child. Ulysses talked about his mother and her bakery, promised Task G a discount—Nicky remembered his protests and persuasive attempts to let them eat for free—if light was in his pupils by the end of the war. The feeling of blood was arresting, but at least in this very instance he was able to focus on the blood. Focus on red and those solid bits that fell faster. At least in this very instance, he was allowed to wipe it. 

He left the rabbit behind. Crispin would have sighed with his eyes slightly closed, a flag in his mouth as the men left him to skin the animal. When nothing except yesterday’s reserves remained of the man, Nicky knew Task G felt his loss profoundly. Nicky understood, but it never felt sound to classify their impact on their contributions. Every murder possessed the same weight to him. Although, Phillip disagreed with that practice. The weight’ll crush you if the things you’ll carry aren’t lighter, he said. 

It was the last rabbit he came across before his time in the Guardian. Nicky pondered if Phillip or Slater encountered anymore. The Guardian gave him time to ponder a lot, nothing more than the clinking of soda cans and the quotes Eunoia loved to repeat with childlike enjoyment. 

He had nothing to do but ponder. Ponder about Slater and his drinking habits, whether or not the man still encouraged his close ones with toothy smiles and pats on the back as he leaned into them. Ponder about his son, Casey, and what features Nicky recalled on him. What did he look like? What does he look like now? Did he still have those freckles? A grin which reminded Nicky so much of his father? Were his eyes blue? Or was Nicky misremembering his features with old age grasping onto his body? 

Ponder about his wife and child. It was a constant to spend hours on the flybridge, gazing at the images of his family. His wife’s smile as she sent him a picture to remember her by. Those pink curls on her hair, the encouraging smile which gave Nicky the motivation to stay—a cursed irony if anything. Someone took the picture for her, and Nicky wondered if it was her father. 

And his child. Nicky prayed to Josafá his child retained that hopeful smile, which breathes of a generation that doesn’t have to classify the weight of thoughts. The war was inevitable in Nicky’s eyes, but there was never a fault with those who wished for its end. 

It’s unfortunate Nicky no longer contained the aptitude to travel. Slater’s BBQ tempted him on sunny days. He hoped Slater invited Nicky’s family, Nicky held full trust in his friend to console his wife. 

Ponder about Phillip. There was little Nicky had left of him. Even so, Nicky recalled the man’s attitude. Despite his cold and outlandish demeanor, he was kind all the same. The sound of metal bonking a man’s head as Phillip offered the man his reserves. The quiet empathy he radiated as Phillip did more than what any of Task G could, understand struggles little and wide. Talking did a lot to ease tensions, and Phillip excelled in listening. 

There was always a weight burdening Phillip, however. One which hardened his eyes whenever he stared at Nicky. One which left him silent on the worst days and tired on the best. At that time, Nicky never understood the thoughts that roamed Phillip. He was haunted by the dead, they all were. However, there was a heavier weight to him. One which had him burning the letters from his family, a manic look in his eyes as if he were trying to convince a god to kneel. 

The two promised during ice fishing that they’d exchange letters, and Phillip agreed with that very same look. Nicky never received a single letter back, growing resignation as time passed between them. He didn’t dare question Eunoia on his friend’s whereabouts. Perhaps, the old man wanted to believe his friend was still alive. But after years of isolation in the Guardian, Nicky finally understood what haunted his friend. 

It was reflected in his newest guest, after all. 

“There’s an intruder approaching the Guardian?” Nicky had questioned aloud, gazing outside at a woman with a red derby pie hiking towards his ship. At a time when the android was his only guest, the odds of hostile intent were never zero. 

He pulled out his pistol calmly, before the voice of Eunoia interrupted him.

“Oh! That must be Valencia then!” Eunoia said, her own stare focused on the videogame in front of her. “I can assure you she means no harm, Nicky! Despite her appearance, Valencia is quite benign!” Eunoia ended it with a giggle, before the sound of clattering keys resumed. 

“Hmm…I trust your judgment, Eunoia. However, there is no harm in showing caution.” Nicky had aimed his pistol at the hatch, the feeling of cold steel reminding him of the countless times he’s had to use the weapon to drive off raiders seeking to rob the ship. “Humor an old man if you will, but I wish to see this ‘Valencia’ for myself.” 

Before his time in the Guardian, Nicky believed himself to be a talkative individual. He’s met many, from the extroverts like Slater, to the introverts like Phillip. Slater would have held the girl at gunpoint and threatened to shoot her if she didn’t reveal her intentions. Phillip would have shed caution, though with more generosity compared to Nicky.

Nicky knew people, however. So when the girl opened the hatch to enter the Guardian, a butterfly net in her grasp, Nicky understood. He knew what type of person this young one, alert with those exhausted white eyes of hers, was. 

“By Josafá! I haven’t seen a new face in five years. Who the devil are you?” Nicky said in surprise, and the rest was history. 

Valencia—and Nicky was aware that was merely an alias, one becomes a lot more careful in war—held the disposition of someone like Phillip. Cold and reserved to shield her true feelings, hiding a kind and virtuous nature. Playful too, if the ‘Putz grila!’ she shouted outside the ship meant anything. 

Although, she was fiery, sarcastic, too. Nicky understood the reason why: the woman knew from the start of his affiliation to Fissure. Nicky knew Eunoia was truthful, it wasn’t in the android’s nature to lie. However, there exists a certain boundary between veterans. A certain language that nobody would truly understand until a person attained their first murder. This girl didn’t like Nicky. Tolerated him because it wouldn’t be in her nature to scorn an old man, but it was a dislike Nicky knew came from his participation in the war. 

He assumed for a moment the girl belonged to the Causer Corps, but discarded that thought quickly. There was no nationalism or pride in her bones, no ego which came from a matter of sides. There hid a girl playful and kind, but Nicky recognized her body movements, her narrowed eyes and grip of the net. She wasn’t someone belonging to either Causer or Fissure, but a casualty of war. Divided by sides, united by the burdens of death and combat.

If only the young woman solely held those burdens of nationalism and death. Phillip had some truth to his words. The woman looked seconds from falling under the weight of it all. In all honesty, Nicky didn’t expect the young woman to return. He allowed her to take some of his supplies, and waved the woman on her merry way. 

And then she returned, time and time again. Sometimes to resupply her sodas. Once, to give Nicky a delightful soda cap, which Nicky found fitting enough to show the girl a corpse of a dead pirate. It was meant to be chilling, don’t get him wrong. A simple scare to spook the young woman. He wasn’t sure why from time to time Valencia requested the old man to allow her access to the iceberg, but Nicky knew to mind his own business. 

Regardless, there was always a layer of business to them. Valencia had a purpose when it came to visiting Nicky, and he was fine enough to let it stay that way. He was delighted to have guests, even for the purpose of supplies or entry. She was even kind enough to accept Nicky’s request to play his game. It was a favor he hoped she would see to the end, and that she did. She left with a lightened pep to her step, and Nicky slept soundly with all he achieved.

Despite it all, Nicky hoped that someday, Valencia found her happiness. Whether it was with her family, or whatever peace of mind the young woman achieved throughout her journey.

Twisted irony was common in the field of a soldier. And all it took was a letter to dash whatever hopes the old man held.

Letters. They were cruel to Nicky. Every soldier wanted one. Some dreaded one. You can hold one with just two fingers. But he’s seen some of the worst faces a human could conjure through them. Letters, what heavy weight for such a small item.

—

Nicky paused in stupefaction at the computer—or more specifically, the empty chair swirled from behind. Ever since the old man rescued the android from the ruins of Snowbanks’ invasion, he’d been acquainted with his roommate. It was pleasant to house the android as a guest, someone for the old man to talk to when the memories became too noticeable. When rabbits and guitars are all Nicky could imagine.

Not once has Nicky seen the android leave—though supplies must have come from somewhere other than Valencia—the Guardian, glued to the thrill of her video game. He felt content listening to Eunoia shout quotes, like a grandparent’s attempt to quell their grandchild’s vivid imagination. Through it all, even when Nicky hadn’t received letters, he found comfort in Eunoia.

Yet she was gone. Somewhere through the night, Eunoia had slipped away. Perhaps he should apologize to Valencia for his misguided assumption, maybe the android did leave during Nicky’s slumber. 

Nicky looked down to find a letter under the lower rung of the hatch’s ladder. He picked up the letter and turned it around. Both sides were blank, lacking an address, or sender, or a receiver. It would have been anonymous, but there were few people who visited the Guardian, much less delivered letters. Eunoia would not have left an ambiguous letter to the old man’s hands, so there was one assumption: this was written or personally reviewed by the android.

Nicky opened the envelope, gently pulling the letter out as he dropped the envelope on the ground. And he read.

And Nicky closed his eyes. There was a sadness in his body, but not tears. He’s seen far too many of these to sob and rage against the world. It was familiarity on the same side of the pistol’s coin. Sorrow that represents resignation, a novel feeling received for thousands of years.

Valencia was dead. No, she was killed. There was little that could kill a woman as refined and old as Valencia. She was murdered, and nothing but her letter remained. 

Phillip never sent a letter. Valencia sent one. 

Nicky was certain he was far from the first to receive a personal letter from the woman. She was bound to have made friends, allies, family even. He’s seen death again and again. It gets easier, despite what many believe. But many shatter under the weight of a first death. He didn’t know a single of Valencia’s friends, but for today, they were brothers in arms to him.

They will cry for him. He will bear it for them. This connection that precedes even recognition, that is what grief is. That is human nature. 

Nicky will ponder here in the Guardian’s walls. He has time to, an endless amount the old man wished he could give to the ones who die young. To all the men he’s commemorated in the confines of his memories. The names written on hard granite and small plastic.

So Nicky stood, hoping Josafá above Valencia finally found her peace of mind, and waved away the guilt that bit into Nicky for not doing enough to help the young woman.

Valencia and Phillip were the same. Nicky pondered, and remembered.

—

“Would you humor an old man’s request, Valencia?” Nicky asked, opening one of the Guardian’s chests. Behind him, the sound of shattered boxes froze as Valencia stopped. Eunoia’s voice was slightly suppressed too, but it comes with a creature as curious as the android.

“What kind of favor? I hoped I didn’t procure any fees for all of my resupplies,” Valencia said comfortably, a familiar slight suspicion in her tone that years of resupplies couldn’t patch.

Nicky chuckled, taking his old fishing gear from the chest. Replacing his soda hat with a fisherman’s, he turned to face Valencia. “Not to worry! As I’ve said before, my old supplies are yours to take. I wouldn’t be cruel enough to rescind my words. No, I was wondering if you would go ice fishing with me.”

Valencia stopped and stared at Nicky as if he were insane. “From what I recalled, you told me that your body was far too weak to journey outside. You look as though one breath could collapse that feeble body of yours!” There was a hint of worry in her tone.

Nicky threw on his coat. “While my physical condition prevents me from journeying outside, we won’t be treading far from the Guardian. The house is a suitable enough location to ice fish. In case of emergencies, we would be in close proximity to Eunoia.”

“Well…” Valencia hesitated. 

“I won’t show any offense if you refuse. However, I don’t trust myself to ice fish by my lonesome without acquiring injuries, haha. This would be a great chance to unwind, and young people like you only have so many years before the stress affects your body.”

After a few seconds, Valencia sighed. “I don’t believe I’m in a hurry. Am I to assume you’ll provide me with a fishing rod? You seem far too independent to have us share rods.”

Nicky smiled and handed Valencia his spare, before the young woman opened the hatch, stepping back to allow Nicky to exit. The cold wind chilled the old man to his very bones, but repeated exposure to the frosty climate of Snowbanks adapted Nicky to its freezing temperatures. 

The two of them strolled toward the iceberg—although Valencia used her pies to help Nicky cross the street—and the two of them sat near the iceberg’s edge. Valencia’s legs were hanging off the iceberg. Nicky watched the young woman kick her feet as the old man sat next to her.

“Have you ever fished before, Valencia?” Nicky asked, tying on a fishhook. He attached a sinker and pierced food onto the hook. Turning to the side, he observed Valencia repeating the process, her hands moving with years of experience.

Valencia nodded, piercing ground beef onto her hook before casting the line and throwing the hook forward. “While it’s not something I tend to do often, I was taught how to fish in the past. Food was always one step to scarcity, and another to depletion.”

“Well said! I always recommended my comrades to study fishing, or hunting,” he said, throwing his hook forward. 

“Is fishing a hobby of yours? Or did you learn it out of necessity for the war?” Valencia asked, a curiosity in the words Nicky knew she distractedly said as her focus was intent on the rod’s line.

“Admittedly, it was picked up as a necessity. There’s not a lot of ways for a platoon of soldiers to acquire food in Snowbanks. Few animals traverse here,” disregarding the white rabbit. “It became a hobby of mine when I had the physical condition to support fishing. These days, I spend my time coding inside the warm temperatures of the Guardian.”

Valencia reeled and pulled back, a shocked frown to her face at the boot she caught. “What? How is that even possible?” She muttered, before she threw the boot back in the sea. “On the topic of your game, how is it?”

Nicky brightened. “Well, in fact! I’ve added plenty of more levels to it, if you’d love to check them out,” Nicky offered. “I’ve taken into account the errors you were so kind enough to write for me, as well as the lack of barriers that caused you to fall.”

Valencia blushed in embarrassment at the memory of her scream. “Virtual worlds feel too real, sometimes…”

Nicky chuckled. “That they do.”

Silence radiated between the two of them, before Valencia shifted. “Your game. What was its purpose? To cope with the ongoing war? To create a simulation of what the warfront was really like? Even your tips proved to be very desolate.”

“None of those reasons,” Nicky said, pulling back his hook to throw it farther. “Despite what you may believe, my reasons aren’t all too complicated. Its purpose was a way to entertain myself; at its core, I constructed it to be a virtual golf course.”

“At its core? Did something change to alter its reason?”

“It did,” Nicky nodded, a sad frown on his face. “For all I wish to remember my past, I’m afraid that as time goes by, someday I may forget them all. This golf course, alongside my own entertainment, is in its way my memorial to them.”

“Them?” Valencia questioned, her gaze fixated on Nicky as the old man looked her in the eyes. 

“Every soldier I’ve gotten the pleasure of knowing. The names I could remember from the ones I’ve come across, those kind enough to introduce themselves. I am far too old and stranded to craft physical memories of meaning, or burials home to flowers and letters. While not as grand as memories or parades, I wanted to honor their legacies. Memorialize them into this world.”

Valencia suddenly jerked forward, laughing bitterly as she gripped her left knee. “The legacies of people minimized to murdered golf balls. Though I suppose it’s a lot more preferable to memorials and parades. Soldiers earn a parade, while civilians are left with a parade. How charming.” There was a hint of venom in her tone, but it wasn’t aimed at Nicky. It looked to be aimed at the world, an endless frustration which reminded Nicky so much of Phillip.

“I empathize with your statement. However, I believe as nonsensical as the golf course appears to be, it’s a memorial of my best efforts.” Nicky locked onto Valencia, even when the young woman focused on the silent water. “People, no matter how small, always appreciate praise and remembrance. Most soldiers fought in the war to protect civilians; they fought to protect their loved ones. Every soldier wants to be alive. Few ever get to. But I believe they would want a legacy onto this world, no matter how small.”

Valencia put her head up, anger flashing into her eyes as she scratched her hair. “That’s all this is about to many. Legacy, is it not?! I understand the need to honor the dead, I find all life to be sacred. Yet sometimes, I cannot help but damn the world for everything it’s put the living through.”

“Not all men,” Valencia continued with a tone of loss, “are able to choose, to close themselves of their humanity as they shoot people young and old through the head with little remorse. Sometimes, the weight of sin burdens them like a figure grasping the sky. It beckons them to futility, to an afterlife where every death mixes together to form the devil’s hell.”

Nicky continued to stay silent as Valencia’s eyes flashed with frustration, hopelessness, resignation, narrowed eyes that reminded him so much of Phillip. 

“Sometimes…” Valencia concluded silently. “You are unable to even look at the people around you, from the simplicity of wearing green to armed men with the intent to kill. Times where the sight of living is enough to reactivate that weight that threatens to crush you. Where the living is too much…and perhaps the worst case scenario happens…and you fight with desperation and swiftness.”

Slater. Clarence. Henry. Harold. Crispin. They all reflected themselves in the young woman. But if Nicky closed his eyes, he knew the voice of Phillip would ring between his thoughts. 

“Huh?!” Nicky shouted in shock, staring at the rising flames. Phillip looked at him unperturbed, throwing the last of his letters in the fire. “Phillip, that’s letters from your family! Why are you burning them?”

Phillip whipped his head toward the man, and Nicky froze. He felt himself sweatdrop at the slightly manic look in Phillip’s eyes. “They’ll hold me back, Nicky,” Phillip replied silently. “All these letters and the war is nowhere close to being finished. I’m sorry…but I don’t think I’m strong enough to read the rest. Not when we’re still here. Not when I’m still holding cold steel and drinking dirty water.”

“Phillip–”

“No!” Phillip shouted, tears in his eyes. He froze at Nicky’s flinch and fell onto the ground in a sitting position. He was exhausted, looking like he wished the world would consume him then and there. “They—Nicky…they said Causer bombed my hometown.”

Nicky gasped as Phillip continued. “But I can’t—I can’t believe it. Have them gunned in front of me, let me watch the blood pour and I’ll accept it. I’ll grieve, but I’ll move on. I have to. But these letters, this—me being far away I just.” Phillip gripped his fist, and Nicky could hear bones cracking. “They aren’t dead. Not until I see them. We’ll win this war—and I’ll go home and hug my mother, play with my little sister. I’ll see them, and no letters will convince me otherwise.”

Phillip quieted, and Nicky didn’t get it. He never understood. Wouldn’t it be better to receive closure? Despite it all, Nicky saw a man in distress—a man he had made listener to numerous times. He sat down next to Phillip, and put a hand on his shoulder.

Valencia’s fatigue, self-anger extinguishing like flames to falling snow. Nicky solidified the lesson he understood far too late when it came to Phillip. Sometimes, people are burdened by the weight of not just the dead, but by the living. 

Valencia reeled in her line, catching the fish with her right hand. Dropping the fish in the bucket, the young woman stood up. “I…found entertainment in your golf course, a stress reliever too. Your presence was also welcomed, and I quite enjoyed our talks together. Despite our differences, I acknowledge you as a wise and generous old man. If you were anyone else, I would have loved to call you a friend.” 

Nicky softened as Valencia exhaled, an exhausted look more visible on the young woman’s face. “But I don’t believe I could ever get rid of this resentment, this dislike for you,” Valencia admitted. “Not for who you are as a person, but for what you stand for. What you mean. And I apologize, Nicholas, for refusing to be a stronger person.”

“That’s disappointing for an old man to hear,” Nicky replied, reeling back his rod. He understood, too well in fact. Which was why there was no hostility to the old man’s words, just calm acceptance. “I quite like you, Valencia.” 

Valencia turned away. “Having the luxury to like me,” she said, “I hope you realize that is one of the reasons why I hold so much contempt for you.”

Nicky hummed. “Then I’ll like the both of us for you.” And there was nothing more to say. The two of them continued fishing, and not a single word was spoken between them. 

—

Nicky placed the letter on the terminal. As a reminder. As a memory. There was little he could do except pray, and continue coding. He had one more name to add, after all. One more person to remember if no one else could.

All folk are quick to remember death. He’ll remember. He’ll remember it for everyone.

Valencia called it his luxury. Phillip called it nothing. Slater called it delicacy. 

He disagreed with Valencia. Luxury indicated extravagance, no? Nicky sighed. It would do no good to argue with the dead. 

Valencia was right on one aspect, however. Nicky empathized with his brothers and sisters. He hoped with storms of tears and raging fires, all of them have the capability to still stand up and smile. Nicky would love to meet Valencia's friends when all is said and done.  

“When Eunoia returns, I’d like to invite the android to fish with me,” Nicky remarked to the Guardian’s empty walls. “Perhaps, she might betray my initial assumptions. She might enjoy ice fishing after all.”

—

Dear Old Nicky,

If you’ve come across this note, then I believe I’ve already passed. Perhaps my funeral’s been long since had, or perhaps there’s nothing remaining of a corpse to bring even the dead their peace of mind.

Let’s be around any formalities. We both understand I’ve most likely been murdered. Killed, perhaps by a soldier, or bombed by planes. 

There is so much I could write between us, pages to fill an autobiography that could find relation to any soldier who comes across it. But we both understand the gravity of letters. Though I was not a traditional soldier, I carried the burdens of one. We both understand what comes after death, I have grieved far too many friends and I’m certain you have the same. 

So I will make this quick, because a single word between soldiers is enough to communicate thousands of meanings, thousands of memories and the shards of feelings in each one of them. 

I am a selfish individual, someone who longs for touch yet all the same declines it in fear of the unknown. So humor a woman who will never grow older than you, and I would like it if you could follow my requests. Not once have you ever forced a task onto me, so I will respect your choices the same.

Firstly, please do not put my name in a golf ball. That is mortifying, and I might very well descend to the Guardian’s walls and haunt you in my sleep. 

Secondly, they will grieve. Even among times of war, they will grieve. But you are someone who’s grieved many before you. The coffin of grief you refer to as a guardian will stand, and so will you. Please, lend your aid, your ear to any who need it. I understand your physical condition prevents you from journeying, but if needed, I’m sure Eunoia could provide you with their numbers. You were right, talking is in its own way a comfort. A luxury. 

That Cielcay girl. I am clueless as to how the girl grieves. She has never felt the need to grieve; to cry for what was lost. Humans to her inevitably meet their end. There is no need to mourn a natural order of life, I’m sure her sadness would be few even if Cielcay higher ups fell dead. 

Maybe, I overestimated the meaning I had to Eunoia. No, forgive me, I’ve gone through so many renditions of these letters. I suppose I’m just talking at this point. But in any case, I want you to look out for Eunoia. For all her knowledge, human feelings are a task no internet or research could ever comprehend. Human thought, as cruel and relentless as can be, would support Eunoia’s endeavors. 

For all my resentment toward this war—toward Fissure and Causer—my hatred is few to include you. You’ve given me a lot to think about over the years, and I can ascertain how much I’ve grown because of you. Thank you, for tolerating a young woman like me. I’m sure we’ll be meeting each other soon, tell me about your golf course when you get there! Or maybe not, I’m uncertain as to what lies beyond death. I hope it’s pretty. And full of rabbits. Maybe I should burn this note…    

With regards,

Valencia.