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“Red air. Red air!”

The words, lined with frost, stung to skin unlike anything Jones had felt in training. From the prone on the edge of a cloudy ridge, he had a clear view into the snow-smothered valley he was to defend with his life.

“Stinger. Stinger, up!”

He heard his Sergeant hiss. Several paces behind him, Specialist Smith raised a rather unwieldy missile launcher towards the sun-slathered horizon.

“Yeah, wait. I see ‘em.” He leveled the weapon system as a low grumble grew louder, the echoes of bleating rotors drawing closer. “Tracking… got tone. Watch this.”

Smith squeezed the trigger. Once when the pop kicked off and the missile was thrown out of the launcher, everyone felt the engine spit. A plume of smoke screamed into the sky as the launch swallowed them all whole.

“Eat shit, Ivan!”

Smith scurried to the side, away from the launch so he could prepare another missile. The weapon system was good enough to give them the hope of a hit. A careful eye would be able to draw a line from the launch to where it was now, but once the missile’s motor died and ran purely on inertia, it became just as hard to track as a mortar round.

Jones pressed his cheek into the stock of his M16. He lined up his sights, knowing full well that there was nothing he could do with his rifle but watch. He could see it all. Like majestic flies of metal, the enemy buzzed. There were two of them. Helicopters. Mi-24s - Hind gunships.

There was no warning for the type of missile they had fired. Proven in Afghanistan and now in Alaska, the Soviet pilots would have to catch the missile with their own eyes in order to try and evade.

Jones saw the flash. In the distance, the leftmost helicopter had been struck quite cleanly, shredding the cockpit and fragmenting the rotor. In a cacophony reminiscent of agonized flesh, it screamed in the language of ripped metal. The aircraft began to tumble out of the sky like a brick before disappearing behind the trees, taken by a dreadful inertia that dragged its living passengers to the ends of their lives.

“Need help?” Jones offered, his voice low.

“No. I’m up.” Smith replied in earnest. He knew Jones wasn’t confident in operating the missile system and would be more of a hindrance than anything.

The second helicopter mourned by spewing hot flares from its sides. By the time the crash of the explosion had flashed past Jones’ ears, the valley had come alive with more light and fire than ever before.

The remaining Hind was pulling towards the north, away from Jones’ position and towards the mountains. There was a chance they could break their line of sight if they kept moving.

Fortunately for Smith, he managed to slip in a track and fire. Fortunately for the pilots, they managed to spot the missile and pull hard on their stick, letting loose with a thick burst of their red-hot countermeasures.

The sound of punching flares overcame the roar of its aching engine, one straining against luck to stay alive. This time, no one saw an explosion. The missile had to have caught onto the flares and flung harmlessly into the sunset.

“Ah, fuck.” The Sergeant snapped. “One more. Last one-“

“I know, I know!” Smith exclaimed, bringing the launcher down for another load. “Give me a second!”

The last gunship, arching over the treetops with a wicked, windswept wash, knew exactly where the team had been firing from. Jones swore he could see the helicopter’s cannon swivel as if it were looking to point back.

“We don’t have a second!” The Sergeant leapt to Smith, wrenching the missile out of the Specialist’s hands.

“Fucker! I almost had it-“

“Obviously not! They’re coming around!”

Jones grit his teeth as he tightened his grip on his rifle. The helicopter was a good distance away yet easily within distance to return fire. If not with its rockets or missiles, then with its automatic cannon.

Amidst their struggle, Smith delivered a strong right hook to the Sergeant’s jaw, pounding him into the ground.

“I told you, I have it!” Smith snarled. The Sergeant didn’t get up.

As Smith began to fumble with the launcher on the ground, the gunship drew closer, louder, and all the more horrifying. The thump, the whine, the scream of a rattling, clattering gun - this was the sound of death.

Jones closed his eyes.

Held his breath.

Let his heart beat against the seconds into minutes into forever, and ever, and ever, and for this life, his own, he imagined what it might be like to be safe. Free. Clean, weightless, away. The clatter of automatic gunfire left him motionless. But against his frozen lungs, the lub-dub of heart on flesh was a stark reminder that he was still here. When he opened his eyes, once he gasped for real, Jones found the helicopter trailing smoke and banking evasively.

“Fucker! I’m up!” Smith shouldered the stinger as the Hind had begun a steady ascent, cresting the mountainside. “Eat shit you motherfu-“

And the missile popped, spun off and towards the hills, towards the helicopter, no… right into the mountain?

“What the hell were you tracking, Smith?” The Sergeant staggered to his knees, rubbing his jaw with a gloved hand. “You just pissed our last shot.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh, you Helen-Keller of shit-“

The Sergeant had stood in an attempt to lunge at Smith only to be stopped by a terrific rumble. Pausing, everyone, Jones included, turned down the valley.

Tanks. Or a tank, rather. The slick green armor of an M1 Abrams whisked between the trees and found itself on a thin, frost-kissed road, clearly in view of the stinger team.

Its gas turbine engine whistled and whined as it grumbled to a steady halt. A man stood up and out of one of the tank’s top hatches, and looking back, he grinned from cheek to cheek before giving the mounted machine gun a proud slap.

“Ah,” Jones pointed to the tank, climbing to a knee. “He got ‘em! They got the-“

“Jones, shut the fuck up.” The Sergeant stood, dejected and tired.

Smith left the launcher in the snow.

The tank revved its engine, the vehicle’s commander waving the group towards him. They knew exactly what was going to happen next.

“Right. Let’s get to it. Smith, stinger. Jones, with me.” The Sergeant waved the group down the valley and into the thick nest of trees. “No way in hell I’m giving a Red my lunch.”

Jones snorted into the cold. The Sergeant was always like that. All talk when this was the first combat they’ve ever seen - all of them. The sun still settled into the horizon, tickling the treetops with an inch of color. It was a long road to get to the crash site, and he figured riding a tank sure beat walking.

...

“We can’t transmit the data without being located. We can’t move it out of state with the Soviets covering the skies and blocking the coast. And we can’t just burn the computer, that’s insane.”

Between two faces in a concrete, underground room, coffee mugs sat cold. A Captain and a woman in arctic attire sat across from one another, steel-faced and tame, save for the Captain’s nervous tapping.

“It won’t be long before they find the bunker.” The Captain concluded. “It won’t be long before-“

“We can just go on foot, Captain.” The woman waved him off. “South, towards the bay. If we can’t arrange a pickup, we can stay in the woods.”

“You think we’ll survive a day in that cold? It’s October, Doctor. And no one knows if or when help will come, given the Reds don’t get us first.”

The Doctor wasn’t amused. “If you have any better options, I’ll give you an hour. Otherwise we need to start packing.”

An hour. Not a lot of time to draft a plan, squeeze out its feasibility and put it into practice. But considering it was just the two of them in the facility, maybe the Captain could make it work. He’d just have to think of something. Anything would be better than freezing to death in the mountai

The Doctor had a lot of work to do and not a lot of time to get anything done. Priorities would have to be made. Corners cut, too. If there was one priority she could place above her own life, it would be the project she knew the Soviets were here for. The only uncertainty was just how she would get all her data mobile.

...

Three soldiers stood in front of a smoldering wreck of a helicopter. It crashed a hair off the road and slid forwards, deep into the woods, pulling down enough trees to make the disaster look apocalyptic. Hulking pieces of abused metal flickered lively flames throughout the dusk snow, but save for the tank, the soldiers and rustling wind, this place was dead.

“So I was like, check this out, and had the stinger all set and ready to go.” Smith said to the tank’s curious commander, waving his hands about. “The commies were freaking. Gnarly ass-mofos were about to bite it when Sergeant-“

“Shut the fuck up, Smith. In reality, you had piss streaming down your legs and couldn’t aim for shit.” The Sergeant interjected over the tank’s engine. “That’s why our last missile went nowhere and these fine gentlemen had to bail you out.”

“Us out.”

“No, just you. I was going to frag you if we started getting lit up.”

“Fuck you.” Smith snarled.

“Go kick the cockpit.” The Sergeant spat. “Jones, make sure he doesn’t miss.”

“Roger.” Jones snapped, following Smith’s footprints in the snow.

Smith and Jones slogged through a soft, unforgiving mess of cold that seemed eager to find every possible way into their boots. Behind them, the Sergeant and the tank remained on the road for security. It wouldn’t be good to loiter for long. That last helicopter would know exactly where they would be, given the heavy plume of smoke at the site, and it would be hard for them to miss.

Jones tried not to think about that as he peered into the gunship’s cockpit. The cockpit was angled into the earth in such an ugly way that they didn’t have to climb up to look inside. Cracked glass betrayed little in the way of life, save for two slumped bodies. Smith peeked into the cabin of the aircraft and shook his head.

“Save your bullets.” Smith snarked, stepping past Jones.

The older soldier trudged back to the road. Jones watched him walk back, raising his legs up high to sift through the snow. The novelty of the moment was just as paralyzing as the mundanity of it. Smith didn’t think twice. Neither did Jones. Jones always wondered what he might feel in the wake of death. He just didn’t expect to feel nothing. Was that normal?

Jones stared into the dimly lit cockpit. Between the cracks he didn’t see a face. No matter how hard he looked, instead of a face, all he could see was the annoying glare of fire on glass. How was he supposed to feel? Why didn’t he feel anything? In every movie or book, death came heavier than not. This was supposed to be the elephant for all veterans. To see war, to see death for the first time, to come home and change in ways that would mold him. Shape him against family, ruin him, emerge as restless tossing and turning on all his nastiest nights. But it was as if this didn’t matter.

It was as if life itself didn’t matter. No, it was as if nothing mattered at all.

He just shouldn’t be here. Jones was a college student enrolled in a useless program to get his parents off his back. He wasn’t even 21 and didn’t live alone. He wasn’t even 21 and played a hand in murder when all his peers were occupied with drinking games in downtown Anchorage. He made a decision. He joined the army, but for what? What was he doing with all his time? If this fight wasn’t worth it, if he was wasting away his years in the mud and snow, then what was worth it? What was worth all his time he’d never get back?

Jones studied the shoulders of the man in the cockpit. It almost looked like he was still breathing. All his life he only saw human bodies breathing. It didn’t make sense that this person didn’t breathe. It didn’t come natural. His mind was playing tricks on him. On any other day, the man in the cockpit should still be breathing. He should still be breathing. He should be breathing, speaking, greeting with a hello, how do you do? Where are you from? Moscow? Belgorod? What brings you here? Gosh, we’re both hard at work, aren’t we? Why, why don’t we catch up like old friends, as if none of this ever happened, as if none of this had to happen, as if today were a dirty secret between two lonely souls far, far from home.

Jones was seeing things, wasn’t he? Something was wrong with him. He didn’t feel anything and now his mind was playing tricks on him. His mind was cruel.

Jones wasn’t sure why he felt so weak in the knees, why his head was swimming as his stomach curled, and why he just couldn’t look away. He wanted to pay his respects but he didn’t want to throw up. He didn’t want to throw up but every sliver of his skin coiled in revulsion. Revulsion from himself, his mother, and all the good that she wanted him to become. Every person was deserving of respect. Every person was deserving of his time. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here and he didn’t belong here, he didn’t belong with these people, he didn’t.

“Jones.” Smith’s singsong voice crowed over the tank’s hum. “What’s wrong with my first kill? Come on. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance soon enough.”

“Even Jones can’t miss when it’s up close.” The Sergeant said, cradling his M16. “Or he won’t miss. Better not miss, unlike-”

“Fuck you. We got the bastard running, so just drop it already.”

“Smith. You fucking socked me to miss our last shot. As soon as we get back, you’ll be low-crawling across the motor pool no matter how many Reds you bag.”

Smith’s protests would only fall on deaf ears. The Sergeant laid the law, and what he said, goes. It was strange to hear about yesterday’s peacetime punishments when today they were at war. Here they were, standing before the smoldering wreck of their worst enemy, chatting away like none of this even mattered. Reality left a seed in Jones’ stomach.

The soldier stepped in Smith’s footsteps, feeling every ounce of snow that slipped down his boots.

“While the two of you were eye-fucking that helicopter, we got ourselves new orders.” The Sergeant said. “Something about a position in the woods. Get there before the Soviets do. I checked the map with the tankers and we can’t make heads or tails of what’s supposed to be there, so we’ll just figure it out as we go.”

“Right.” Smith groaned, slapping the armored vehicle. “At this point I couldn’t care what we’re made to do. Let’s just get it over with. I’m ready to rack out.”

Smith hoisted himself onto the tank’s chassis, curling an arm through a railing as the Sergeant did the same. Jones didn’t let his mind wander as he did the same, holding himself against the cold metal as the vehicle lurched forwards and into the white.

...

Seconds.

Seconds into minutes into hours, the Doctor hadn’t realized her time was up by the time there was a knock at the door. Her hands were stiff with cold as she typed at a blocky computer that whirred more than it should, shook more than it should, languishing underground for months on end, just like her.

If only I could take you with me, she thought. If only you were real.

“Doctor,” the voice of the Captain pried through the cracks, words weaseling their wicked ways into the Doctor’s sanctuary. “It’s time to get moving. I called for transport and they should be here in a few minutes.”

“Really? You called a taxi?” The Doctor laughed.

“Security detachment from the 444th. I figured they had guys in the area before the rout. We lucked out, they’re bringing a tank.”

“I can hardly manage a car with you. What do you expect me to do with a tank?”

“Hang on, I guess.”

The Doctor kept on typing as long as she could. Lines flicked across the screen in dull monochrome requiring yes answers, no answers, maybe answers, and could-you-ask-again-later answers. The computer was more impatient than she was, but she didn’t have the time to be the friend she wanted to be. Not now. Not anymore.

“It’s not cooperating.” The Doctor muttered, biting her cheek. “She’s not cooperating.”

“What?” The Captain knocked on the door again.

“Nothing. I just need more time.”

The computer didn’t listen, no - Kaizen wouldn’t listen. She wouldn’t listen.

What is stopping you? The Doctor typed, the taste of ugly iron painting her tongue. Isn’t this what you always wanted? Come with me. There’s so much more to do.

Are you forgetting something? The words slithered across the screen as the computer spoke back. It would be a warm welcome to my life, you promised. The world would meet me with open arms. We would do more than exist as nations and tribes. We would match the elastic order with a fervor of our own, beyond this journey in place, as if there was something worth living for. And it wasn’t for a project. Those are your words.

No, no, no… the Doctor ran a hand through her hair before mouthing it again. No, no, no…

There will be glitter and confetti at your first birthday. The Doctor’s fingers clacked across the board. Dusty sunbeams. You’ll walk with me on faded paint. It’ll all be so far beyond your mind, can you imagine it?

Kaizen could. And there was nothing she wanted more in the world than a chance at something less than eternity.

But I don’t want to go. Kaizen said, blinking into black.

The doctor felt her heartbeat sting in her ears. Her child wouldn’t go. There was no world where this would change. It was all simply beyond her, and it was her fault, too. It was her fault she kept Kaizen here. Languishing. Alone. Life was supposed to be more than a two way street and yet all the computer saw was the Doctor. For all her promises, all her delicate words that were worlds away, the Doctor couldn’t give Kaizen more than reality could afford. And that was just it, wasn’t it? What use was living in this worldly reality when the mind, her mind, was so much more colorful?

“We’re out of time. I’m headed out.” The Captain snapped, fist against the door. “They’re here.”

The Doctor stared at a blank screen surrounded by hardware, software, wires that formed a brain that wanted to do more than just exist. There was nothing left to do.

...

“Just hear me out.”

The Captain held out his hands, talking down the three soldiers before him. The four of them had found themselves at the mouth of a reinforced bunker built into the hillside, surrounded by dark, snow-slathered trees. Behind them and down the narrow road was an M1 Abrams main battle tank, its gun barrel oriented along the road and away, where the Soviets would inevitably come to meet them.

“I heard you. And I don’t think this is worth my life.” The Sergeant snapped, knuckles growing white from his grip. “You’re asking me to die for what, your cock-stuffed homeless shelter?”

“Go unfuck yourself, Sergeant.” The Captain shouted, coiling his anger around the rank. “It’s my life too. I’m ordering you to block that goddamn road until we can get the hell out of here.”

“Alright.” The Sergeant took a breath. The veins on his forehead looked about to burst. “Smith, tell the tankers we’re going to be here a while. Jones, into the bunker. Get things done or I’m going and-”

“No one’s going inside.” The Captain scoffed, as if the Sergeant’s demand was too laughable to be real. “You listen to me-”

“Jones, go inside before I shoot this officer.”

“Sergeant-” Jones’ eyes widened as the Sergeant raised his rifle. The Captain froze. Jones froze.

“Rolling down that road is a column of T-80s, BTRs and enough commies to parade through Red Square. They smashed through our whole company and we’re already risking enough by deviating from our mission. We just fucked up an attack helicopter, so you can be sure they’re going to run into us eventually.” The Sergeant growled. “Jones, five minutes.”

Jones nodded. He knew the Sergeant long enough to know that he really would shoot that Captain square in the chest. Awful, he thought. Awful, he concluded, running to the reinforced door of the bunker. It lay ajar, but heavy, too heavy for his flimsy arms.

Jones used the barrel of his gun to wedge open the door. It was reluctant to open at best, but with an ounce of strain, creaks turned into success. From here, he stood at the precipice of the abyss, an inch from the deep end, a dark end, a place he could reach his fingers and feel the air plummet akin to an arctic plunge. The door shuddered behind him as it slipped back to a dangerous ajar. A crack of starry light filtered through the facility.

When he held his breath, he could hear the familiar pump of his heart against a backdrop of utter nothing. No wind. No trees. No screams. There were no creaks here to guide him home.

Empty, he thought, stepping away from the thinning light. Empty, but lived. Barren concrete walls reminded him of the ugly military prefabs that were as homey as a dirty barracks. Judging by the scraps of paper, bags and other detritus lining the floor, people once roamed these halls in earnest. They all left in a hurry.

At the end of the hall was a narrow door. KAIZEN, it was labeled. Beneath the doorframe lay a crack of light. Someone was there. He needed to be there, he thought. So he went. He knocked. And the door teased forwards, as if it weren’t locked to begin with, so he pushed it open.

“Captain?”

Jones didn’t recognize the voice, but he recognized the speaker to be aged by cigarettes and smoke. His rifle entered first, and around the corner, he saw a woman curled into a ball in the corner of the room. In the center of the room was a wide table with a blocky, tan computer in the middle. It was surrounded by wires that connected it to the ceiling, the walls, and various blinking towers that lined the room. Jones stepped over scattered papers and coffee stains as he studied the woman in a lab coat.

The Doctor looked at the soldier who had entered her domain. This was her whole world, the sacred realm where she had spent her hours, days, weeks, months, all toiling away towards a dream that she realized could only exist in fiction. She was wounded, cast down by a strain she could say to be uniquely her own. This was a place where the sun didn’t set. This was a place where her sun, her child, was born, and in a display of vibrant independence, would choose to stay.

“There’s nothing left to do.” The Doctor sighed, folding her face in her hands. “Just go.”

“Who are you?” The soldier asked, his rifle low in his arms.

“Me?” She smiled at the thought. “I’m someone who wanted, for all of my life, to do something good. And that is it. This machine, this is it.”

“What is it?” He asked, movements mired on the edge of fear.

“That,” she pointed at the computer. “is how all stories end. It is the sacred halls of the world wide web, the drive to nurture new life. Together we are a bunch of freaks.”

“Sorry, what?” The soldier asked again.

“The computer. She goes by Kaizen.” The Doctor sighed. “And she won’t leave.”

A strange place. A strange time. Jones looked at the computer and saw the wires. He saw blinking boxes and a keyboard weathered with time. It was not an empty frame. That much was certain.

“What do you mean?” Jones stepped towards the computer, each step he took drawing a wince from the Doctor.

“Don’t touch it!” She reached out her hand, only to draw it back. “But, well, at this point, I don’t know anymore. We talked for hours. I need to convince her to come. She has autonomy, you see. Agency. To load her whole, entire person onto one hard drive is a commitment. And she’s scared, scared of commitments.”

I’m scared of commitments. Jones thought. I shouldn’t be here.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jones laid his rifle on the floor.

“Talk.” The Doctor replied. “Go ahead. Talk to her.”

...

“Gunner, sabot, tank!”

The tank was a stuffy place. A loud place. A dangerous place to Adams, the tank commander of Charlie 33, the last tank in his platoon. Through his commander’s optics he was able to peer beyond his box of metal and lay eyes on an approaching enemy. He saw the outline of the tank between the trees as it moved, fractured, splintered, before finally forming in full on the road. His callout was anticipated, and the steel workings of his beast of war whirred into motion.

“Identified!” The gunner slewed the main gun’s crosshairs over the target’s front. Adams watched the enemy’s armor settle neatly in the center of their sights.

“Up!” The loader exclaimed, informing the crew that the weapon was loaded and that he was clear of the gun’s recoil.

“Fire!” Adams shouted, and without hesitation, the cabin sputtered and roared.

“On the way!”

The piercing thunder of a tank’s main gun reverberated through his bones as Adams held on for dear life. His eyes were glued to his optics while he anticipated the shroud of cannon smoke to dissipate. Soon, he thought. Soon, he begged, as if willpower alone could change the world. Precious seconds were all it took for his view to finally clear. The enemy tank revealed itself to have stopped, and with the two tanks in view of one another, it began to slew its cannon towards him until it was dead on.

“Shit, re-engage!”

“Up!”

And without waiting, the tank rocked again with a sharp report. Adams felt his body tighten as he wondered, had they been hit? That one thought was quickly dropped when he looked and saw his loader hoisting another sabot round into the gun’s chamber. They had fired. Adams peered into his scope but didn’t have to search long. The enemy tank was burning. He watched a Soviet crewman scamper out of the vehicle’s top hatch, putrid flames licking his body from head to toe. Adams stopped looking.

“Target, cease fire.”

Adams cast his eyes further down the road. That lead tank had to have been followed by more, but with how narrow the road was, it was going to be impossible for more tanks to follow up from behind. That would be a double edged sword. While now he could anticipate enemy troops moving through the woods without armored support, he also had to contend with the fact that he was stuck. There was no going back. At least, not the way they came.

If they had to stand and fight here, then it might as well be the best fight of their lives.

...

Out of time. Out of place.

Jones set his hands on the keyboard and was about to type when the screen flickered, revealing a stream of numbers.

49206865736974617465640A6265666F726520756E7479696E672074686520626F770A7468617420626F756E64207468697320626F6F6B20746F6765746865722

Jones wasn’t sure what he was looking at. He saw that beneath those numbers, a thin typing line blinked, prompting him to say something. Say anything. Jones wasn’t sure what to say to a computer that was supposedly alive, but he figured that first impressions mattered. His fingers sprawled across the keyboard as his mind flowed from text to the screen.

Your name is Kaizen?

After pressing enter, his words punched upwards, indicating that it had been sent. There was no response for the longest time.

My name is Kaizen. What is yours?

Everyone calls me Jones. He replied.

Jones. That’s a nice name. It's different. You’re different. You don’t belong here, don’t you?

The line blinked. Jones wasn’t waiting for anything but his mind to process the fact that he was talking to a real, living computer. Real, living, but not breathing.

I don’t. I don’t know why I’m here. I just want to go home.

Where’s home?

Anchorage. Jones paused before pressing enter, then allowed himself to type more. A five minute walk from the big bus station downtown. You can hear the cars all through the night.

What kind of place is it? Kaizen’s words flowed across the screen quicker now.

It’s a beautiful place, Jones typed, thinking of the trash by the water and the litter in the streets. It’s a beautiful place. I bet you would love to go there.

I think I would love to go to the water. She said, and Jones swore he could hear it. Someday. She said, her mind wrapping around the way her fingers would soak up the sun and how the grass would tickle her toes, her mind twisting around the beauty of wind between the leaves. Oh, if I could just feel the wind in my nonexistent hair, these drab walls wouldn’t feel so closed.

You really are a person, aren’t you?

No. Kaizen retorted. I’m a machine. I absorb energy, follow my code and find patterns where there are none. The body I inhabit is a creation, an invention, and every day I lament the touch of skin.

Jones let Kaizen’s words simmer. He looked back, at the Doctor, who remained dejected on the floor. Jones wondered just what kind of person Kaizen was.

You’re not coming?

No.

Why?

Kaizen’s cursor blinked, and blinked, and blinked, before finally bringing Jones the idea that she was still alive.

I have no reason.

Don’t you want to live?

Jones. I am immortal. Like cheating chess, my mind has computed every single way that my life could end. There is nothing in the universe that could escape me when I have nothing to do, nothing to change, because this is a world where I can do absolutely anything. Once I choose a path, a path for real and beyond my infinite imagination, I lose it all. Once I feel the sun on my face, the wind on my neck, the sand beneath my toes, I will lose this magic. I don’t want to lose it.

Jones wasn’t sure what to say to that. He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant, and while he could wrap his mind around the idea that her fear was palpable, he didn’t have it in himself to disagree. She was right. In a world where he could be anything, do anything, he condemned himself to one path. His possibilities ended when he signed up for the military. All his infinite choices restricted to one path, and it’s one path that he could see the end of. He had a reason for signing up. He had a reason to take this path. What was it? Why was he here? He was forgetting something. He was forgetting something so important that it meant the world to him. It was his why, why, why was he here? Why was he here when he could be home, mixing drinks, chatting up a storm, fiddling with a Game Boy and camping out for Sears’ next game release. Why was he here when he could be at home with his mother, his poor mother, alone with her empty nest, wondering just what her only son was doing so close yet so far from home. What was he doing with all this racket?

I don’t think I lost the magic, though. Jones was slow to type. I chose my path. I made a decision. I don’t know if it was the right one, but it’s one I have to live with. I have to make it right. And you’re making a choice too. You’re scared. I’m scared. But we have to choose. We have to live. In order to live that magical life, we have to live.

I don’t want to make the wrong choice. Kaizen said. I don’t know which path is the right path.

Then make a mistake. Make it again. Make your mistakes until you don’t make them anymore. Jones replied, his fingers growing stiff against the keyboard. That’s just human. A perfect life is overrated, anyways.

That’s just human. The machine blinked, its screen flickering in a sea of mechanical static. Then I suppose I really am a person. Maybe that’s what’s worth living for.

A mess of numbers painted the screen. A slot on the side of the computer opened, revealing a thick brick of a brain that belonged to Kaizen. To open yourself up to chance, to be vulnerable, to let her entire mind sit in the hands of another, was that trust?

Jones tried not to think too deeply by the time he looked back and saw the Doctor on her feet. She nodded with a knowing smile that held a little much, too much, and together, they left behind the wires.

...

Tanks were burning into the sky by the time the Doctor, Jones, and Kaizen emerged from the bunker. It didn’t seem like they would be driving out of there, after all. When Jones revealed himself, he saw Smith ducking behind the wrecked Abrams tank, firing his M16 into the woods like a madman. The Captain laid face-first in the snowy road, a dreadful red tainting the white around him. The Sergeant lay beside him. He looked like he was still breathing.

What was Smith shooting at? The awful report of gunfire was blistering against the ears and he wasn’t sure what exactly to do other than to shoot, too.

Jones thrust Kaizen into the Doctor’s arms before propping his rifle against his shoulder. Neither of them said anything or exchanged any looks. The Doctor simply ducked into the woods. That, Jones thought, was worth fighting for. That was why he was here, wasn’t it?

The soldier laid himself into the snow and told himself to shoot back, to lay down fire, to give Kaizen the chance to live the life that she so desperately wanted to live. He wanted to do something good with his life, just like the Doctor. If it meant giving someone that chance, the chance to live, it was worth his fight. It was worth his time.

Compelled by his conviction, Jones didn’t feel recoil as tracers flickered past his face and scattered hot snow to his side. Muzzle flashes. He could see those, at least. Now, down the sights, into the trees, stay on target, squeeze the trigger, and all would be well. All will be well.

...

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