---A Soldier---

As I write this entry, I can’t help but feel like I done a terrible, terrible thing. In fact, this is my first time writing a diary; My friend Paolo… rest his soul… used to write in one. He said it helped him to “deal with things,” as it were. I don’t know about all that- but if it’ll let me get some sleep at night, then I’ll write ‘till the cows come home.

To call me a patriot would be an understatement. ‘Since I was a boy, my daddy taught me to respect Don Leona Grimfeather for all she’s done for us and the syndicate. Until I was ten, we were scraping by on whatever peanuts they’d be willing to pay him… until the Union’s were established.

I love driving fast cars, getting stoned and listening to the radio with my girlfriend, and most of all… I love shooting guns. That’s why I volunteered for two months of the most rigorous training I’ve ever went through. That’s why when they told me I’d be spending the next three months in thishot, dusty hellhole… I said YES with all my might! Ultimately… it’s why I added two years to my actual age. I missed out on the honor and glory of the Dog Liberation War; I refused to sit this one out. I’m making my daddy and my nation proud… I hope.

I remember feeling excited when they handed me a rifle unlike any I’ve seen before! Or rather, I have seen them before… but the ones at the gun store are a little outta my budget! It’s called a lever-action, with a great big loop behind the trigger guard- this is how you cycle it. The hammer was external- cycling the lever moves the entire bolt out the back of the gun, leaving the hole for loading on top. It takes five slim, pointed rifle rounds called spitzers, fed from the top with something called a stripper clip- literally a thin strip of metal with 5 bullets on it. You just set it in the little guide rails, shove the bullets in, and pocket the clip.

Then there were the gatling guns; brass machines able to spit out more lead than anything should be able to. Smoke would pour out of them from the black powder cartridges, and even when they took a moment to replenish the gravity-fed ammo well, the droning RATATATATATATATATATATATA made my ears ring fiercely.

I was making my rounds on the western perimeter, relishing the cool of the late dusk when the klaxons started wailing. Field Marshall Ulysses screamed into the speaker systems;

“ALL TROOPS TO THE EASTERN PERIMETER! I REPEAT, ALL TROOPS TO THE EASTERN PERIMETER!”

I tossed my helmet on and started running, when-

“PASTICCIONE!” My commander yelled my surname, my arm jerking up to salute.

“YES SIR!” He waved his hand-

“FORGET THAT! HELP ME EVAC THE CIVILIANS!” I nodded, feeling my heart pounding in my throat. The wailing klaxons never stopped as we all worked together to herd the civilians onto the escape barge, ensuring everyone was alright.

But when the camp was clear and we made our way to the eastern perimeter, we were glad to finally see some action! We were all lined up next to each other along our trench line; by coincidence, I was standing next to Paolo.

“Joeyyy!” He greeted me by throwing a wing around my back. “Never thought you’d show!” He joked, and I rolled my eyes.

“And miss an opportunity like this?” I mused sarcastically, the two of us sharing a laugh. We’ve been friends since grade school- so naturally, when I signed on, so did he… “I was helping evac the civilians.” I explained.

“PRESENT” Echoed along the trench lines, and we all stuck our rifles in the air as we watched the cloud of dust on the horizon grow bigger. I’ll be honest- I never was good at eyeballing distance measurements. I just saw a line of dots on the horizon followed by a cloud of dust.

“I don’t think I’ll ever visit a beach again after this.” Paolo mused, making me feel a little less nervous as I chuckled. Sand got everywhere here; in your eyes, your guns, your clothes, your asscrack. I hated sand- It’s coarse and rough, gets everywhere, and I don’t care if that’s been said a thousand times before. When my firstborn eventually comes around, if they ever ask me to get them a sandbox… the answer will be a firm no.

“TAKE AIM!” Was echoed by multiple officers down the trench line, and we all obeyed; we propped our rifles up against the lip of our trench, our sides leaning against the wall for support. Admittedly, there is a flaw with this rifle. While it’s a beautiful, well-built piece of Griffonian engineering. It’s reliable, being rugged enough to not get jammed with sand after each shot despite the trigger assembly bursting out the bottom with the cycling of the lever. But the problem was the lever-action itself; you can’t shoot it while completely prone, and if you get too close to the trench wall, you might not be able to cycle it all the way… and the bolt likes to bite your cheek when you get too close to it… but I’d shot this piece at the range hundreds of times before.

“How many you think there are?” Paolo asked, and I shrugged.

“Couple hundred, I’d say.” But they were still too far to tell. “We waiting to say hello?” I asked rhetorically as the dust cloud grew.

“LADDER SIGHTS!” Echoed across the trench-line; this referred to the flip-up ladder sight. Flipped down, it was a simple flat iron sight. Flipped up at a 90 degree angle, the rear sight turns into a pinhole aperture in the center of an eye-sized dish. It can be lifted and adjusted using marked notches as a guide; ranging from 50 meters to, rather optimistically, 500 meters.

“You think they’ll surrender before the lateshift dinner?” Paolo asked with hope in his voice- Stomping could be heard on the scaffolding rampart behind us as more gatling guns were set up, and I heard directions and instructions being barked behind us… some of which didn’t sound like soldiers. On a whim, I dared a glance back.

Non-uniformed soldiers were running around the upper rampart, shaded by the tarps which hung above all our heads. They were attached to large poles behind the rampart and extended all the way to the trench-border.

No, no… civilians were hastily being taught how to assist our crew-mounted gatling guns. Not all the civilians- perhaps a hasty volunteer corps?

“Paolo?” I got my friend's attention, and he hmm’d. “There’s plain clothed civilians running around the upper deck.” I saw him blink in confusion, cocking an eyebrow.

“What? I thought they were on the boat already?” We both sat there in thought… then it slowly dawned on us. We have scout teams that patrol the desert at all hours, keeping an eye out for anything that… well, anything, really. The creepy stripes that would always watch us from the horizon stopped ever since we started paving the first roads towards our oil fields… about a week ago.

“Paolo.” I said, feeling a little concerned. “Someone higher up the chain than us knows exactly how many stripes there are.”

“HAMMERS!” The literal chain of command yelled across the line, and I cocked my rifle’s hammer and took aim. What was I aiming at? Dust and dots, pretty much.

“Guess we’ll find out… Joey, whatever happens, just know that you’re my best friend. Seriously.” I laughed, but it was devoid of any mirth. Good fuck, we were just kids. What were we thinking? What did we know?

“I love you, Paolo… Ah, like a brother!” I made sure to include that addendum quickly, the two of us sharing one final laugh together- “But seriously, man. I love you.” I was getting choked up, and I heard him sniffle. He opened his mouth to say something-

“FIFTH SQUAD, FIRE AT WILL!”

But it was drowned out by our captain signaling us to fire our first volley.

The indescribable percussive roar of our rifles going off had to be felt to be believed. The putrid stench of sulfur already hung thick in the air. I tried to see if I hit anything, but truthfully, I also lied about having perfect vision. The zebras in the distance looked a little blurry, but I was starting to make their shapes out.

I went to rack my rif- !!!

“What the-!” The lever was stuck!

The sound of thunder roared in my ear once more as I tried to rack my gun. More thunder, and I was half-panicking trying to get my lever to mo-

Click. I undid the safety latch that prevented the lever from moving, finally able to rack my gun. Smoke poured out of the chamber as I sent another round home. I fired quickly to catch up, eschewing aiming altogether, as even with perfect vision, he wouldn’t be hitting much.

SNAP! “AH!” I shouted in pain as an officers disciplinary crop smacked my arm. It stung, and tears threatened to fall down my cheeks as he screamed,

“AIM WHERE YOU SHOOT, KNUCKLEHEAD!” The crop pointed back downrange, and I opened the action to jam a stripper clip in. Since it would be faster, I just used my flattened-out palm to jam the bullets in-

“Tst! Ah!” the sheet-metal clip left a nasty slice along the right side of my left pointer finger. I wanted to scream and throw the sharp piece of metal, but I bit my beak and jammed it in my pocket, staining my khaki shirt with my blood. I closed the action with a satisfying clunk, ready to restart and-

“HOLY COW!” I yelled, “LOOK AT ALL THOSE FUCKIN’ STRIPES!” They were finally close enough that we could make out stripes. They screamed and yawped furiously as they charged into our gunfire, and I could just barely make out zebras tripping over their own.

BRATATATATATTATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATATA!

The gatling guns finally roared to life as the zebras charged recklessly into their range. As zebra warriors trampled their own trying to get to us, more details made themselves visible. Many of them either wore simple animal hides for defense or nothing at all. Those few that did seem to have some sort of metallic armor on stood no chance against bullets. There were crossbowmen, who usually operate by staking a wooden shield into the ground for cover… Our bullets outranged and punched through their shields.

I lowered the aperture sight a bit as I took aim for a zebra who slammed his shield down in a desperate attempt to pot-shot our gatling guns.

I pulled the trigger, and the world seemed to go in slow-motion as my bullet sailed towards the zebra. A few chunks of wood from the shield were dwarfed by the spurt of blood that shot up behind it. His bolt landed far into the sand in front of us; adrenaline distracted me from the fact that I’d just murdered someone. They planned to attack first, and we were defending ourselves… Defending this empty fucking sandlot in the middle of the scorching desert. These stupid fucks were running into machine gun fire because they don’t want us to have it!

“HOW MANY ARE THERE!?” Paolo yelled over his screaming rifle, barrels smoking from the heat.

“WHY WON’T THEY STOP!?” Was what I wanted to know the most. I don’t think I’ve ever shot this many rounds through my gun before without stopping to clean it. In fact, we were specifically trained to never shoot this much without stopping to clean it… I just don’t think anyone realized how hard they’d fight for this sandlot. Gunpowder and the friction of bullets made my barrel so hot that it hurt to touch; soot coated my firing hand and caked my rifles action so much that the insides looked matte-black. As an afterthought, I hoped the cut on my hand getting filled with soot, dust, and salty sweat wouldn’t get… too infected. It burned like hell, though. Throbbing constantly, almost like my brain wanted to keep reminding me to reload properly. Cycling the action became more and more of a hand-exercise with every bullet.

When the whites of their eyes could finally be made out, operating the rifle like normal was no longer feasible; I used two thumbs to cock the hammer, thankful that soot hadn’t stuffed the sear. Then I’d bring the rifle up and literally beat the lever open against the lip of our trench, hoping and praying that the smoking hot spent cartridge, blackened with soot, wouldn’t get flung into my shirt; it’ll make you feel like a wasp flew into your collar and got stuck.

I heard gurgling somewhere a couple spots down from me- one of my squad-mates was writhing on the ground with a bronze bolt stuck in his neck. Their crossbowmen had been mostly wiped out at this point, except for a few lucky bastards that managed to get a shot off within range.

I swear, he was looking right at me in that moment I glanced in his direction; and the look of utter terror in his eyes at the face of death has yet to unburn itself from my mind.

The sun began to fall behind us; as such, bright flares were sent soaring over the zebras heads, and I noticed their shields had depictions of the Zebra Sun on them. It’s a striped design, representing both the sun in the daytime and the moon at night… or some other such tribal nonsense. But our flares were like miniature burning suns, arcing over the zebra’s heads and drawing their eyes; the gatling guns began to slow for some reason as clusters of zebras broke apart from the main group to run the other way… smart ones.

I smacked the ladder sight down as the remaining bunch- at least 800 or so zebras, continued their desperate charge. Then, one by one- the gatling guns were stopping. It was subtle at first, but somehow, the absence of the ripping-roar of gatling fire was chillingly deafening. There were no doubt half-yellings of What’s going on? And Where’s our suppressive fire going!? getting shouted out, many of us too afraid to turn around and look.

I witnessed the barrel of one of the gatling guns- so violently red hot that all the barrels had begun to sag and cock downward, rendering it too dangerous to use. Later on, I’d find out that some of them were getting so hot as to permanently deform the outer brass casing. All it’d take is for a single round cooking off at the wrong time to render the entire thing inoperable… which in many cases is exactly what happened. But the process took a while, gatling guns stopping one by one as they kept thinning their herd out.

“KYAAAAAHHH! MY HAAND!” I heard someone shout to my left, only two soldiers down; her scream is one that I doubt I’ll ever forget. She’d dropped her rifle, her left hand looking like she stuck it in a blender. “MY GUN BLEW UP! MY GUN BLEW UP!” She shouted at the top of her lungs; her rifle got so hot that the rounds in the magazine detonated… sending all kinds of shrapnel right into her off-hand.

I gulped, moving my still burning hand to the trigger, simply bracing my firing hand with it; I fired off the last round in my magazine just as the last gatling died with a bang. I heaved the hammer back and beat the lever open, another empty, smoking casing to join the piles at our feet. I reached in my ammo pouch, eyes widening as I pulled out my last stripper clip. I fumbled with it a little as the shouting zebras grew near. The bullets felt like they’d barely even fit, but I managed to ram them home.

Able to make out their facial expressions, I growled defiantly as I jabbed my rifle towards the lip of the wall to drive the lever home.

Bang!

Driving the round home this way must’ve made the sear slip, as the hammer fell as soon as the lever was closed. I jumped, as hearing a gun go off when you don’t expect one too will make anyone clench their cheeks, even if it just hit the dirt.

I wrestled the hammer back, and it set with a much softer click than normal. I performed some quick percussive maintenance… Also known as just beating the rifle off the trench wall. The hammer clicked forward, telling me there was something wrong with the sear. Normally, you can beat the hammer directly with a rock or something and it won’t budge…

Desperately, I tried cocking it again- but this time, there was no click. I pulled the hammer back and let it go multiple times; I hoped it wouldn’t mess up the firing pin too badly. Snap. Snap. Snap.

“FUCK!” I muttered under my breath; the zebras were approaching our camp, bathed in artificial sunlight from our flares. There must have been only a hundred left; a far cry from the actual thousands I later found out we fought off. Four-thousand zebras… and these were all that was left.

“AFFIX BAYONETS AND CHARGE!” We heard the commanding voice of Field Marshall Ulysses over the speakers. “SURROUND THEM! THERE’S 400 OF YOU, A HUNDRED OF THEM!”

My bayonet was sheathed at my side, and I was still fumbling with it when Paolo took flight out of the trench. Finally it clicked into place on the end of my rifle; I steeled my nerves as I prepared to charge into the melee.

Even now, a glass of whiskey is the only thing that’ll calm my nerves enough to think about what happened next… let alone write it down.

I climbed over the trench wall, holding my rifle-turned-spear under my arm. I narrowly avoided javelins as they were thrown around; I kept my bayonet pointed downwards, using my momentum from flying to skewer zebras that broke away from the group. I’d land on one and bury the point of my blade in its back or chest; By then, I was getting numb to the awful squelch and the subsequent blood splatter that comes from stabbing someone and rapidly moving to the next target.

“WE’RE ALMOST THERE!” I heard Paolo yell at me, the two of us mid-flight. “THEY’RE ALMOST WIPED!”

I turned with a relieved smile on my face, just as one of their javelins pierced his left side, puncturing his lung. “PAOLO!” He glided down, barely in control as he spun and crash-landed away from the combatants. I paid no mind to everyone else surrounding the last couple-dozen zebras to slaughter as I made my way to my best friend’s side.

“PAOLO!” I yelled again as I landed roughly, risking spraining something as I slammed down. Another flare was shot across the battlefield, the flickery light slowly revealing my friend as it rose. “Paolo!” My voice was barely above a whisper as I collapsed at his side, rolling him over to ask if he was alright.

“Oh, fuck…” His neck was bent at an unnatural angle; his eyes and beak wide open in shock, blood running down his chin. “Paolo?” My voice cracked at tears poured down my cheeks- I was in such disbelief, moving him was like moving a bag of potatoes… yet I was in denial. “Wake up, please!” The world around me didn’t exist anymore- it was simply me and my best friend.

“Please, you-you gotta…gotta be a-a-alright…” I could already feel him growing colder, my head pressed to his chest to listen for any sign of a heartbeat. I thought that if I could hear something, even the faintest heartbeat, I could save him. “You-you can’t -sniff- can’t do this to me, b-bro!” I was thankful my nose was blocked, as the scent of rot and blood was already clinging to the sand. “I… I promised your daddy you’d be back safe!” I screamed as I wrapped my arms around him, crying into my best friend's cooling chest.

“I… I’M SORRY!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, hoping he’d somehow hear me. “PLEASE, I WANNA TAKE IT BACK!” I never should’ve convinced his father to let him sign up. I told him he’d be safe with me- that we’d both come back as heroes. Why wasn’t it me? Why wasn’t it me? “I DIDN’T… I DIDN’T THINK ANYTHING WOULD HAPPEN! WE’RE BROTHERS! WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE THERE FOR ONE ANOTHER-HER-HER!” I could barely form words anymore, babbling apologies into his uniform while the world went on around me.

I felt a large wing drape over my back, calming me down significantly.

“M-Ma’?” It honestly felt like my mother had somehow arrived in this hellhole to comfort me… Only to see the imposing figure of Field Marshall Ulysses standing at my side.

“WHADAGA!” I vocalized, “FIELD MARSHALL ULYS- GAH!” In my startled excitement, I somehow thumped my forehead trying to salute.

“At ease… Joey, right?” He asked casually, and I finally met his soft gaze, utterly juxtaposed by his rough, gravelly voice emanating from behind a bandanna. “You and Paolo here were friends, I take it?”

I sniffled, that paralyzing grief returning as I turned my gaze downward, nodding slowly.

“L-lifelong, Sir.” He put a wing around my back and grabbed my rifle as we headed back towards camp.

“No sense in staring at a corpse.” He said plainly, and I meekly nodded my head in agreement. “The wounded won’t take long to stabilize- and lucky him, he’ll have an open casket funeral.”

I shuddered when he brought Paolo up again, my beak trembling as I tried to hold it together.

“Believe me, that's a good thing.” He gestured off to the side… where a griffon lay with a javelin through his face. I cringed, looking away as fast as possible. “Or, you could’ve wound up like me.” His eyes gave off the impression of a smile as he lifted the bandanna, revealing his stiff, emotionless prosthetic beak.

“I g-guess.” I muttered as we turned into the medical building; a long log structure, quite simply.

“Nurse.” Ulysses growled, one of the nurses yelling back- There were surprisingly few that were wounded; compared to the slaughter that just took place, this was a slow day to the nurses. We were approached by one of the prettier ones- but I was so out of it, I barely noticed. It stung like hell when she cleaned the wound on my hand, bandaging it up for me while I remained dazed.

Then, Ulysses brought me to his quarters, instructing me to take a seat on a small wooden table. He produced a flask from his pocket and passed it to me.

“Drink. It’ll help.” I hated my Daddy’s whiskey because it made me cringe every time I took a sip… but despite that, I took a good couple swigs from the flask, trying to focus on the burning more than anything else. “Take a couple minutes to relax before you join in the cleanup.”

My eyes shot open, shaking my head rapidly as I set the flask down. “I-I can’t- can’t go back…” I didn’t wanna go back. “F-field Marshall, please! I wanna go home!” I cried, ashamedly looking off to the side and muttering, “I want my Ma’ and my Daddy… I wanna see them! Please!” I begged, and Ulysses just gave me a flat look.

“You knew what you were signing up for, boy.” He said, taking a swig from his flask. “A soldier’s work is never done, and it waits for no-one.” So after all that? After all I went through already, I had to go back? Wasn’t what I already gave enough!?

“P-Please, Sir!” I was begging, ready to grovel if necessary. “I-I told the recruiter I was eighteen! Please, I’m only sixteen, I haven’t even finished high-school!” I whimpered, “I-I’ll come back when I’m grown! Just… I wanna go home…” I buried my face in my palms, still filthy from the trenches. It felt like every hair and feather was matted down with coarse sand and dried blood, and I hated it. “I-I’m just a kid, I don’t belong here!”

I just shuddered while Ulysses sat there in silence.

“A kid?” He chuckled, showing me my rifle. “What kid’s gun looks like this?” It was caked in soot, sand, and blood. It mixed with the soot and trailed down the barrel as it dried, and not a single part of it still shined. “Whether you accept it or not, you’re a man now. Soldiers out there fought and bled just like you did, and they’re already cleaning their rifles so we’re not defenseless if more come. Or do you regret the act of killing itself?”

I shrugged… but after a few moments thought, my mind could only reach one answer.

“Sir, my only regret is that I didn’t get more of those stripey fucks.” They murdered my best friend- fuck ‘em. “You know I shot one in the head, right through his shield earlier!”

Ulysses huffed a mirthless chuckle, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Go back to the barracks to clean your rifle and restock on ammo. After that, join your fellow soldiers in zebra cleanup… before the morning sun starts fumigating the entire desert in corpse stink.”

He shoved the rifle back into my arms; I simply nodded, realizing he had a point. What makes me special? I went through the same hell everyone else did. And now, we all have to work for many more hours to ensure things don’t get substantially worse tomorrow.

Back at the barracks, most were wordlessly scrubbing away at their rifles. As I watched my fellow soldiers scrub their rifles, using their bed-trunk as a table… I couldn’t help but draw parallels to my current state. Like mine, their khaki-colored uniforms were stain-dyed from dust, soot, sweat, and blood.

I unrolled my cleaning kit and got to work, disassembling my rifle and spreading the parts out on my trunk. Looking around, I also noticed- while most were caked head-to-toe in dirt on their uniforms, a few wore relatively clean looking pants. They were part of our uniforms to keep sand from immediately filling our fur; as it turns out, those now wearing clean pants wet themselves at some point or another during the half-hour battle. But despite this, no-one made fun of them or saw any less of them for it. I couldn’t bring myself to do that, anyway; I can only feel sympathy for how awful of a situation that would’ve been, and I’m thankful I wasn’t the one fighting in pissed pants.

The night went on, and soon, all of our rifles had been cleaned long before we even had a chance to clean ourselves. But for cleaning up the battlefield? We didn’t know how the fuck we’d pull it off.

There were so. many. corpses. But if there was a silver lining here, Paolo had been taken away in my absence, thank goodness. They numbered in the thousands, we numbered in the hundreds; we gave up on digging mass graves about two hours in, instead electing to drag them into organized piles to burn with gasoline.

We were working well into the next day, piling corpses and lighting them up. Despite our best efforts, bodies had already begun putrefying in the hot desert sun; nothing kept that smell from hitting your nostrils. It was as if the sand itself were rotting, and I was worried this desert would never smell neutral again. It was all hands on deck- so even if we had the time to stop and eat, nothing would’ve stayed down anyway. That night, we finally got a proper meal consisting of heated emergency rations; and despite the fact that I’d never even heard of hardtack before… it was surprisingly terrible. The smell permeating the air made me queasy as I forced the so-called “hellfire stroganoff” down; at one point, I’d bit down on what I thought was the tooth of some animal they used for the meat.

Turns out? It was just bread. Bread. I almost chipped my beak on bread. I guess people who came in the army before I were made of tougher stuff, because this used to be part of the standard rations! But you may be asking; why are we on emergency rations? Did zebras run off with our food?

No. Some fucking bozo left one of the ovens running in the kitchen… which is why the gatling gun fire started slowing halfway through- they needed someone to help put out the fire! All this was happening fifty feet behind me, and I never realized until after the fact!

But, anyways… we quickly got word that within a few days, we’d all have a two-week leave while a new set of soldiers would be left behind to guard Dustbowl. Some of us cried tears of joy when we heard the news. A lot of us started celebrating, jumping for joy in our shared victory… but I remained stoic.

The ship took us back to mainland Griffonia where trains awaited to return us to our home towns, scattered across the Syndicate. Civilians crowded the docs, cheering and celebrating our return! Balloons were released, black and gold confetti flew, and the Syndicate’s banner flew off poles, scattered about like wildflowers.

The Battle for Dustbowl had made national news in Griffonia, evidently. The papers told an embellished story about how 400 soldiers fought off an army of 4000 zebras with only guns… Not embellished, actually- sanitized. There were many mentions and memorials to our fallen and wounded- that one woman had to have her left hand amputated from when her rifle’s magazine blew.

But not a single article had the balls to mention the stench, or what we did to the bodies. Especially after the fight, when we were cleaning up- more than a few soldiers would laugh and piss on them before chucking them unceremoniously into the grave. Others drove knives into the bodies out of a feeling of defiant anger. Some guys would get bored and shoot the corpses with their rifles, just to see what would happen. I couldn’t bring myself to do any of that stuff, though; even if I wanted to, none of it would bring Paolo back. And if, heavens forbid, we lost the battle- well, I’d at least hope mine and Paolo’s corpses would be treated with basic dignity. There was even a corpse that somehow had a boner- so for a laugh, one of the women tried stroking it to see what would happen- much to the amusement of her compatriots.

But, anyways- I didn’t bother sticking around for any of the celebrations. I had two weeks before I’d be returning to Dustbowl; I had something dire to take care of. I was still in my khaki scrubs when I stopped by the flower shop to pick up a bouquet.

My girlfriend was named Katrina; I called her Katy-kay.

“Katy-Kay!” I called out to her, knocking on the door to her parents home. Her father’s Ben’s wasn’t in the driveway; that’s why I had such high hopes.

“Joeeeyyyyy!” I couldn’t help myself, throwing my arms around her and pressing my beak into hers. “G-goodness! You’ve gotten strong!” She glanced around flustered at being suddenly pulled into such an intimate hug in her own doorway. Despite her being a year older than I, I loved her so, so much…

“It’s because I’m a man now, Katrina.” Her pupils shrank, a blush across her cheeks when she heard my voice.

“Goodness… Even the way you talk is…” She started, and I interrupted.

“Different? I dunno how!” I admit- I’ve gotten a little more… reserved since it happened. I gave her a smirk, gesturing for her to back up with my hand. I shut the door behind me gently- presenting the bouquet to her, which she took with a giggle. “Katrina, can I be honest with you?”

She swallowed and nodded, and I chuckled. “We’re not getting any younger- and what we have, I want to last forever.” I tilted the bouquet, almost daring her to look closer. I heard her gasp in disbelief as she slowly pulled one of the roses out of the bouquet. A shiny diamond ring was tied to the stem… and it was hers. “Let’s get married. Why wait?” I asked rhetorically.

“I-I… but my father wouldn’t like that!” I just gave her a wide grin.

“Who fought off four-thousand fucking zebras? Me, or hi-!” She thrust her face into mine, wrestling my beak away from me.

“YES! YES, JOEYYYY!” Tears of joy streamed down her face as she threatened to shove me to the ground.

“You were my first stop. What say you and I break the news?” If I’m old enough to commit murder for the state, then the state better fucking grant me that marriage certificate.

There was also a large banquet held in Fertilia- all the soldiers and civilians that helped to defend Dustbowl would be there, all expenses paid. The Don wanted to thank us all herself- which would be my first time seeing her in person, rather than hearing her over the radio. She got on stage and delivered a heartfelt speech- one which I… wasn’t paying attention to. I was just… in awe, feeling inadequate in front of one of the Syndicate’s greatest heroes… even if she is a little… larger than I imagined. But for someone in her position, who could blame her for gaining some weight?

She actually called us onto the stage by name to personally shake our hands; she’d turn the mic off, allowing us to return to our quiet conversation… but when she spoke into the mic, everyone went dead silent.

“Joey Pasticcione. Please, come on stage.” She spoke into the mic plainly before clicking it off, giving whoever she was speaking to some discretion.

“That’s my husbannnnddd!” My girlfriend sing-songed as my Daddy slapped me on the back.

“Atta boy! I didn’t think I could ever feel this proud!” If Ma’ wasn’t here, I’m sure he’d be shouting THAT’S MY BOY! Every chance he got.

“Just be careful what ya’ say, alright!” Ma’ nagged, earning a nod from me. In other words, she was telling me don’t embarrass us!

As I made my way up the stage, the conversations slowly returned. I wanted to hesitate, but I forced myself forward- I was a man. Men don’t back down. On the left side of the stage was the table her inner circle/family was residing at; chatting away much like everyone else in the crowd. The Don stood a good ten feet away from them, greeting me on the stage with a warm… almost motherly smile. Perhaps this is where the moniker of Godmother came from?

“Don Grimfeather.” I stood at attention with a salute, and she just chuckled.

“At ease. Call me Leona.” She casually held her hand out, and I didn’t hesitate to shake it. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”

I blinked in shock- “Wait, how did-” She chuckled, explaining-

“I like to know how my people are feeling, as it makes it easier to fix problems before they fester.” She let go of my hand, and I held it in the air momentarily before standing like normal. “You really shouldn’t be standing there. You’re too young- tragically so.” She had a glint in her eye- and I just shrugged.

“Let’s not pretend I’m innocent.” I said, wondering what would happen now. “I just lied about my age. Didn’t stop me from performing the same duties as everyone else.”

“It’s not about capability. But you’re definitely not innocent… at least, not any more. I… I can sympathize.” This “Leona-” is nothing like the Don I’d imagined. She spoke without the optimistic grandeur with which she normally dictated; before me was just a regular woman. And a soldier- just like me. “If you don’t wanna go back, just say the word. Your destiny is your own- but this is your last chance to back out. No-one’ll think any less of you- especially not me.”

“I’ll think less of me. My family will think less of me… my soon-to-be wife will think less of me. My unborn baby will think less of me.” I explained simply. “I will defend the Syndicate to the last because it’s the path I’ve chosen.” She gave me a wide grin, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Your bravery makes the Syndicate proud, Joey. It makes me proud. I probably don’t even need to tell you how proud your family is.” She pointed to our table where my entire family was staring at us with excitement painted on their faces. My father waved his hand, and both Leona and I waved back… but she shook her head faintly when she looked at me.

“They don’t have a fuckin’ clue…” she muttered, adding- “What it’s like, I mean.” I just nodded slowly, wordlessly.

“I’d rather keep it that way.” I said, nervously shuffling as I prepared to ask about something.

“So uhm… I know I’d normally have to wait to get married, but-” I started explaining the situation between me and Katy-Kay…

“Done. I’ll officiate it myself if you want.” My eyes shot open at the utter lack of hesitation on her part. “You two are gonna be getting married, you said? And you got a kid on the way?” I just chuckled, unable to resist responding-

“Yeah, I’ve been real busy since I got back!” The two of us shared a laugh,

“HAH! Oh, believe me- when I came back from that last den, about half the time I spent with my wife was behind a locked door!” She joked… causing her wife to speak up from her table.

“Huh? What’d you say?” The Empress spoke, Leona waving her off.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to you!” She said, turning to me- “Look, kid, are you sure you wanna get married?” She put a wing around my back, saying sarcastically- “Believe me, it’s more trouble than it’s worth!” I couldn’t help but laugh aloud.

“You know, my Daddy says the same thing!” She went into a full-on cackle- and believe me, hearing the fucking Don laughing like that was something I’d never heard before. She was guiding me towards the stage’s exit, saying-

“And you know? Before I forget, I’m just gonna send your wedding gift in advance. Keep an eye out in the mail!” She said mysteriously- and I tried to be humble, I really did.

“No, no, I- I couldn’t-” The… glare she gave me… I backpedaled instantly “S-sorry, uh… thank you! I… I appreciate it, I really do!” The glare softened, a smirk gracing her beak.

“You know what, just for that wisecrack?” She reached into her coat and pulled out… a wad of bills. “Take this too! Kye-hahaha!” She laughed as she shoved the fat stack of bills into my suit pocket, all but shoving me off the stage.

So… imagine our surprise when we drove to my wife's house… only to find a four-seater Ben’s in the driveway. For the Betrothed! Said a note on the steering-wheel, the keys already in the ignition. Compared to her own parent’s car, it was a fucking down-payment on a house in value! Their clapped out old People’s Car was like a mutt next to a purebred.

Before my two weeks were up, I personally made sure that by the time I returned home from the sandbox, I’d have a wife and child waiting for me. I don’t care if I have to kill 4000 more zebras by myself; for what I did to Paolo, it is my atonement. He had no business being here- and now I do. His parents won’t forgive me, and I don’t want their forgiveness. I wanted Paolo’s forgiveness- and maybe this way, I could earn it. Earn it so that he’ll forgive me in whatever Hell we were both destined to.

I just heard a foghorn- signaling that we’d be landing ashore Dustbowl soon. Mamma, Daddy- if this is the last thing I ever write, I love you both. To my Dearly Beloved- I’m sorry to have let you down.

Author's Note

I have a discord server for this fic out now!! It'd be real cool if u joined :333

Surely this minor incident won't have any worldwide ramifications :p

BTW... the gun in this chapter is basically one of the russian contracted Winchester 1895 rifles.

As always, thanks so much for reading! Likes and comments are greatly appreciated :3