Arop's eyes slowly blinked open as he regained consciousness. Immediately his vision was swallowed by darkness. Awake enough to grasp the situation, he tried to get up and move, but his limbs were tied.
"You're awake."
His head shot up, looking directly at the line of light beaming through a small opening, before it closed. Moments later he heard the sound of turning locks and the loud creak of a heavy door. As it slowly opened, light bathed his face, then was blocked. As Arop looked up he saw the president standing in the doorway with a smile on his face. He stared at Arop with a look of surprise and confusion before motioning that the guard was dismissed. He took a couple of steps toward him without breaking eye contact. Arop looked up, holding it, until the president suddenly stopped. He looked down at him, studying his face, before saying,
"How strange. …Aren't you afraid?"
Arop didn't respond; he just continued staring up at the president. Then a sudden smirk appeared on the president's face.
"I take it you're the one who told us where exactly the revolution was hiding? Did you have an accomplice of any sort?"
"I'm the only one who contacted you," Arop said.
"I find that hard to believe. You're telling me a child somehow gathered deep information about a revolution and learned about its allies. Not only that, you mapped out the entire structure of where they were hiding, ins and outs."
A smirk appeared on Arop's face, followed by a chuckle.
"It doesn't matter whether you believe me or not. What matters are the countries allied with the revolution. You should know that with them around, your ambitions will never reach reality. …But despite that you still carry on with your madness. …Is it because of the great blessing?"
The president's eyes widened. His once calm, confident face morphed into shock and wariness.
"Who are you?"
"What do you mean, president? I'm a slave. I'm nothing more than that."
The president glared down at him, opening his mouth to say something, but before he could get the words out, Arop already knew what he was going to ask.
"Don't worry. Eric has nothing to do with this. He doesn't know a single thing about what's really going on."
"It doesn't matter whether the child knows or not. He poses no threat to me."
Hearing this, Arop looked at the president and burst out laughing.
"Did I say something funny?"
"Yes. Yes, you did. You honestly think Eric is weak."
"Am I wrong? What threat could a child possibly pose to me?"
Arop looked up at him with a smile.
"I myself won't deny that I'm weak. But the man trapped inside the body of a boy will one day be strong enough to stand before the goddess."
For a moment silence filled the room as they stared at each other. Suddenly a smirk appeared on the president's face, followed by laughter.
"You must be joking. A boy who can't even keep his resolve together will one day be worthy enough to become the goddess's consort?"
The president continued to laugh in amusement and disbelief at what he'd just heard. To him the words that had just escaped Arop's mouth were nonsensical, no better than gibberish. But to Arop those words were the truest thing he'd said in his entire life.
Suddenly Arop's eyes flickered, and in that brief moment he was somewhere else—somewhere he'd once been—and in front of him was the person he'd always strived to catch up to, but no matter what, he never could.
Finally the president's laughter came to a halt.
"That might have been the most amusing thing I've heard in a while. Reminds me of someone else I knew."
The president turned to leave.
"I'll be holding you captive until humanity has received the great blessing. It's probably best for you to stay here anyway."
As the president's hand gripped the door handle, Arop stopped him.
"You think Eric's weak. I'll prove to you—or rather, he'll prove to you and the entire world—that he's not."
The president paused, then turned to look Arop in the eye once more.
"Oh, yeah? Then I look forward to the birth of this messiah of yours," he said, before exiting the room.
As the door closed, the light began to vanish from the room. Before it fully shut, the last ray of light illuminated Arop's face, revealing a wide grin, until that ray of light disappeared, leaving Arop trapped in darkness until the promised time came.
"I look forward to it as well."
* * *
Micheal's eyes flew open at a sudden noise, his heart trying to break free from his chest. He paused for a second, trying to make sure what he'd just heard was just a dream. But he heard it again, and immediately he knew what that sound was. The orchestra of war. The sound of bombs exploding through the air, their force shaking the very earth and structures. The heart-stopping sound of screams quickly followed, further filling the air with panic and fear. The North is here, he thought. For a second he considered staying where he was, praying this battle would end in his faction's victory. But he couldn't do that—not when he had his sister to think of. But what if Mom and Dad already took her to safety? I'd just be risking my life for nothing, he thought, biting down on his fingernail. But what if they weren't somewhere safe? Suddenly a vision of his sister being carried away by soldiers flashed through his mind. He'd heard stories of things like that happening before—army men taking children by force to fight in the war, putting guns in their hands, sending them off to their deaths, turning them into the same kind of people they were. Normally boys were the ones forcefully recruited into the military, but Micheal had heard a recent rumor that girls and women were now also being forced into service. Though their roles were limited to nursing and cleaning, the thought of his sister being forcefully recruited scared him. Biting his nail off, he got up and ran out into the street. He could feel his heart rate accelerate drastically, black smoke filling his nostrils and lungs, burning them. He coughed reflexively as he stared at Bentiu spread out before him. People scattered across the streets, screaming their lungs out as they tried to find safety. Buildings he'd once known were either burning or already reduced to rubble. The once-starry black sky was now covered by a veil of thick, dark smoke, completely masking the moon and stars.
"I have to hurry," he said.
Micheal ran past the rubble and burning buildings, pulling the collar of his shirt over his nose to reduce his intake of smoke. Suddenly an aching feeling struck the back of his head, telling him to move slightly to the left. He ignored it for a while, until he finally listened, and as he did an orange light zoomed past his eyes, nearly grazing the bridge of his nose. He quickly turned to find its origin, and was met with the sight of men mounted on heavy military trucks, firing at their enemies. He couldn't even tell if those soldiers belonged to his faction or not. That's not important right now, he reminded himself. Please, please…please let her be all right, he thought, merging with the stampede of people running for their lives. As he ran he felt the violent pushing and shoving of the erratic crowd around him. Men, women, and children alike were all caught under the curse of chaos, screaming, scrambling, pushing and shoving to secure their own safety. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the building to Micheal's right exploded, sending rubble down onto the stampede of people. Micheal didn't even get the chance to react before he was hit by an avalanche of debris, completely burying him. His vision was painted red as it faltered, until he lost consciousness once more.
Now waking from his dream, he could hear voices in the background, though he could barely understand them through their distortion. He tried opening his eyes; his vision, too, was distorted, but after a few blinks it slowly began to recover, well enough for him to make out the ceiling above him. He tried to get up, but as soon as he did, pain shot through his torso and left leg. Ignoring the pain, he gritted his teeth and managed to get to his feet, walking toward the voices. He could hear them coming from the other side of a door. If he had to guess, they seemed to be discussing the loss of their comrade and what they'd just seen at the town square. The images flashed in his mind; he could still feel everything he'd felt in that moment. The tense atmosphere weighing down on him. The hot sweat dripping down his face. His anger and anguish, eating away at his soul. He'd hoped it was all just a dream, but as he'd learned long ago, illusions won't save you. So, gritting his teeth, fists clenched tight, he twisted the doorknob and opened the door.
Almost immediately all heads and eyes turned toward him. His men sat on chairs in the living room, forming a circle around a fire. Glancing around, he noticed the front door and windows were barricaded with stacks of furniture, forming a makeshift wall for one of the worst-case scenarios.
"Captain," a soldier called.
He turned toward them, his vision still blurry, but even so he had no trouble seeing the tired looks on his comrades' faces. He also noticed the lack of spark in their eyes. At the beginning of the mission their eyes had been full of light, but now that light had completely vanished, replaced by a hollow spiral of black—so black it could be mistaken for the eyes of the dead. But he knew he hadn't befriended or trained with dead men.
A sudden headache, along with a wave of static memories, washed over Micheal, causing him to stumble. "Captain, are you okay?" one of the soldiers said, getting up.
Micheal, trying to regain his balance, motioned for him to sit back down as he pulled out a chair for himself.
"What's our status?"
The men glanced at each other for a couple seconds before one answered.
"…Well, as you know, we lost one soldier during the mission. In our escape we exhausted our ammunition. And two soldiers were shot—one in the leg, one in the torso—but thanks to their vests the wounds were shallow. However, they're not as effective as before, due to blood loss. …I recommend we retreat within the next hour. The longer we wait, the more—"
"We're not leaving."
The men exchanged glances, trying to figure out if they'd really just heard what they thought they'd heard.
"Captain, I don't think you heard me correctly. We can't fight. Our men are wounded, we're low on ammunition, and we can't accomplish the mission anymore. Not alone."
"Listen. …I know, all right. What I'm saying is we can't leave the way we came. I'm almost positive they've either sealed off the sewer or reinforced it with more guards and cameras. Nobody can get in or out of there."
"So what you're saying is we're trapped in this town."
Micheal nodded. The men glanced at one another, their expressions switching from hope to fear. Micheal noticed one soldier clutching his rifle tightly before asking,
"Sir, are we going to—"
Micheal immediately cut him off before he could finish.
"Nobody's going to die, Emanuel. But if we're going to make it out of here alive, we need a strategy. And I have one. Radge, is the communicator still picking up signals?"
Radge, the soldier he'd been discussing logistics with, shook his head.
"I thought so. If we're going to make it out of this town alive, we need information—how many men are guarding certain buildings, how many hours a day they spend patrolling the streets, and where exactly they're jamming the signal. If we can find that out, we can contact the revolution for the reclaiming of Bentiu."
He glanced around at his men, noticing the uncertainty on their faces.
"Or, instead, we can all just die here."
They all looked up at him, shocked.
"What are you saying, captain?"
"It's either my plan, or we die. Probably end up in a furnace somewhere, …or a death much worse. …Listen up. Now is not the time to be afraid, to have low morale. Our backs are against the wall, and we have nowhere to escape. It's either we do this, or we die."
Micheal extended a rifle, offering it to his men.
"Anyone who wants to take the easy way out can do so. Put the barrel of the gun to the roof of your mouth and blow your brains out. You have my permission. I won't dictate how or when you die—that choice is yours. But if you want to keep living, act like it. Now tell me your choice—do you want to die, or do you want to live? Hurry up and tell me. I don't need weak men."
The soldiers glanced at each other, taken aback by the captain's sudden change. Then one of them violently smacked the rifle from Micheal's hand and said,
"Of course we want to live. We're not going to die here."
Micheal smiled.
"What about the rest of you? Are you all going to meet your maker?"
"No, sir."
Micheal stared at them, a smile appearing on his face once more.
"Good. Now, Radge, you take care of the wounded. Emanuel, you and I will do all the heavy lifting. I have a feeling by midnight they'll have a shift change, so at about 11:45 we'll survey wherever's heavily guarded. Do you both understand?"
"Yes, sir," they both said.
"Good. Now everybody get some rest. Come get me if you need me," Micheal said, entering a room and quickly shutting the door behind him.
Immediately he slammed his fist against the wall.
"Damn it. If I just, …if I'd just never hesitated, …Malik would still be alive." Tears began flowing down his eyes as he clenched his teeth in self-fury. Then he remembered exactly what he'd seen through his scope. Men and women, locked up together, burning alive, screaming in pain as their flesh burned into statues of ash. Among the condemned was a woman, decades past her prime, but Micheal could recognize her anywhere. That woman was his own sister. He clenched his teeth even harder and dug his fingernails into his skin, drawing blood. He wanted to cry, but the tears from earlier, for some reason, refused to come. Micheal wanted to cry, to reminisce—though it would be painful—to get rid of all his pent-up emotions, or at least hold them at bay for a while, so that when he met the man responsible, he'd take his life with a clear mind. Suddenly that image from earlier flashed across his mind again—the president, staring right back at him through his scope. He oddly resembled someone Micheal had known long ago.
"Could it really be him? No, it can't be. He wouldn't do something so terrible. …And besides, he died a long time ago."