People are getting used to peace. We still have a long way to go until everything is back to normal, but no one really cares. We pretend that it's already the life we always wanted to live.

Fake it till you make it. Alright. We don't have much to eat, but we have traditions at least.

Ancestors must be respected. Thanks must be given. And war veterans must be decorated.

It's a must.

I'm sitting in a particularly boring session of the Council, listening to the respected chairman of the conservative party, Sir Batton, presenting their proposal.

My name is on their list too. Which means I'm a war veteran. Hell yeah. That's what I needed, a medal that has a very long name, including heroism, homeland, and hummus, in no particular order. I may have misheard the last one, though. Patriotic emotions are making Sir Batton's voice a bit shaky.

Master Duncan Auberon's name is on the list too, obviously. In the very first place, obviously. It's quite self-explanatory.

I can't help but smile. I know how much he'll hate it. I'm a bit sad too, though, because I can't allow myself to lobby for a proper statue of him. Bigger than the Eiffel Tower, preferably. He'd hate it even more. But, sadly, we don't have a budget for such vanities. It would be a too expensive joke just to annoy him. Or to get any kind of reaction out of him at all, hoping that a statue can be more successful in that department than me.

"Madame President," I hear, interrupting my musings.

"What?" I answer eloquently.

"I have my doubts regarding this list, Madame President," Sir Batton announces.

"I'm sad to hear it." I spread my hands. "Now you can't even agree with a list that was created by yourself. It must be hard."

He doesn't get it. He never does. He goes on with an unforgiving expression on his face.

"I'm afraid, Madame, that your position is conflicting with your personal interests here."

"Yes, I noticed, that I was on the list," I sigh. "But I also noticed, good Sir Batton, that it was you, who put my name there. So I can offer you a perfect solution. Why don't you reconsider your own proposal? It's yours, right?"

"That's not what I meant, Madame. I'm convinced, without a doubt, that your name belongs to that list. But it's also you, who has to sign it in the end."

"Oh, okay." I shrug. "Now I get it. I formally can't issue it, right? Never mind, your appreciation is more than enough for me, Sir Batton. I won't cry if I don't receive the medal. So—"

"It's not your person that raises questions, Madame. It's another name on that list. In which case, your well-known personal attachments suggest that you can't be impartial."

"Please, enlighten me, Sir Batton," I sigh, "what the... erm... are you talking about?"

"It's Master Auberon!" he bellows dramatically.

"What?"

"You were romantically involved!" he says, pointing his finger at me in a comically accusing way. As if we lived in the dark Middle Ages, and I was a sinful woman caught committing adultery.

The good Sir Batton probably believes that I am, in all seriousness. Somewhere deep down I kinda like him. He's a man of principles. Quite stupid and obsolete principles, but at least he's enthusiastic about them. And he's so easily embarrassed, yet he never gets tired of trying to embarrass me. Just to get his ass kicked. Again. And again. And yet, he always comes back for more, like a stubborn mule he is.

"There was nothing romantic about it." I shrug. "When you probably die the next day and you don't want to spend your last night alone, it can hardly be called romantic."

Sir Batton's ears are bright red already. They must look like two little red standby lights on the screen of every good citizen of the Post-Earth, watching us live. And we haven't even started yet. He really should stop, and he knows it. But he can't. It's a crusade for him, to expose my terrible, terrible secrets.

"I'm not here to discuss... erm... the right word to describe the nature of your relationship, Madame. But his name is on the list too. So, formally—"

"Do you think he shouldn't be there?" I raise my brows.

Sir Batton pales visibly. Now his colors are contrasting beautifully. He's all red and white. We really should add something blue, to make him look perfectly national, in the old school way.

"No... erm..." he stutters, "it's not what I meant, Madame, I would never dare to question Master Auberon's role, he's the savior... bastion... erm... who else, if not him?"

"Then what?"

"As I said, Madame, you have to sign the proposal, so formally you can't if you two... you know... so the nature of your relationship is a matter of public interest! There, I said it!"

I sigh. I could go on, pointing out the fact that the fool's discussing his own proposal, and, if everything else fails, we also have a substitution system for issues like these, obviously, but I'm too tired. I feel too tired to find excuses for something that doesn't even exist.

"Okay, Sir Batton." I nod. "No problem. I wish all your questions were this easy to answer. There's no relationship."

"With all due respect Madame," he says, furrowing his brow, "I have my doubts."

"I really like this one. With all due respect. Which means, clearly, that you're about to disrespect me. And you did."

He pales even more.

"But Madame," he protests, "you seem to forget that there are witnesses. A whole army, so to say. And they report... erm... a strong mutual attraction."

"Did you interview a whole army for such an insignificant and inconsequential thing? Wow, that's really something, Sir Batton. But it was unnecessary. I could have told you the truth, plain and simple. There's no relationship. Period."

"Why?" he asks, trembling slightly, as if he was afraid of the consequences of his zealous courage, as he sees it, or his pathological unwariness, in other words, as I see it. That I wipe the floor up with him, in both versions. He doesn't know that I seriously don't have any secrets to conceal, sadly. So I simply give him a normal answer.

"Because he didn't want me. I wish I could give you a less trivial and pitiful reason, but there is none. It's as simple as can be. So, those witnesses were wrong. It was a one-sided thing. Do you have any further questions, Sir Batton?"

He doesn't. He honestly seems taken aback. For a few seconds. Then he takes a deep breath, and with a determined expression on his face, opens his mouth again.

"No offense, Madame, but have you ever thought about the possibility that just his injuries were that—"

Then he notices the look in my eyes, and he shuts up, as abruptly as if someone pressed the mute button on him.

"Wow, Sir Batton," I say, smiling at him appreciatively, "you're really in your best form today, aren't you? Another great classic! No offense, which means, without a doubt, that you're about to say something offensive. And you did! And not only for me! Good job!"

He pales even more, if that's possible at all, slowly shaking his head. He might be thinking of Master Auberon's wrath. Which must be something even more unpleasant than mine, as he imagines it.

"Can you explain, by the way," I go on, "how does this question belong under public scrutiny? Or... oh, no... are you just feeling nosy today, good Sir Batton?"

He raises his hands to protest, looking as if he was about to shit himself.

"Okay," I sigh, "no offense, as you said. Injuries can be a good reason for not wanting me, indeed, just as good as any other. But, you know, I don't have the luxury of using my skills for personal aims, and I'm quite strict in this matter, so I have to do it in the old school way, just like any of you. And I believe it's not necessary to look for reasons, if a decision was made already, based on those reasons. Well, this was his decision. End of story."

The good Sir Batton looks humbled. It's probably a first for him, as he becomes strangely emotional too.

"Thank you, Madame President," he says, with a suspicious glimmer in his eyes. "And I really didn't mean to—"

Before he breaks out in tears, facing half of the world's population watching him, I slam my hands on my table.

"Alright!" I cut in. "Thank you, Sir Batton, and I apologize for the boring story. You know what, once, before the Wasps came, I smashed a rockstar. Now that was interesting. I don't know, if the respected Council votes in favor, I can tell a thing or two... but sensitive data requires a qualified majority, right?"