die Stadt

xxvii.

Danveur couldn't sleep. He seldom needed sleep in the first place. As a result, he spent the first few hours of the night holding Evan by his neck with his mind a static white noise and his line of sight solidly directed above.

A recap of what had happened in the office momentarily flashed in his head and he paused from stroking the boy's neck.

The general was furious at him, called him an irresponsible slacker who uses too much of his time doing something else rather than what he was paid to do. He spat words he thought would terrify and guilt the younger man but he merely let the words roll over, a different scenario running inside his head. 

"You're not supposed to be lodging here -hell, you're not in a vacation, Lieutenant Jones! You're heading there with them tomorrow."

Danveur knew he was the one at fault but he couldn't care less. He could spit on his feet and walk away with a boisterous cackle without looking back. But what prompted him to keep his mouth shut and condescend himself was the fact that he needs to keep his foolish title and his job. With those two, he'd be able to keep the townhouse- his townhouse- and that goes with the workers too. He can't afford to lose income (and maybe some sort of entertainment to ease his long, uninspiring life).

Especially now that there's a new mouth to feed.

Evan had a drastic change from when they first met. He used to be thin and jittery, too small and too fragile despite him proving he was more to that. Now, as he lay there on the floor, asleep, Danveur could see he had gain pounds and was healthy looking aside from the bags under his eyes and bruises littering his body.

The boy had grown to tolerate his advances and aggressive outbursts. Danveur didn't understand why he hadn't chosen the gun yet, why he had to live through hell when hell itself was better than what Danveur was offering him.

He had a background check ran for Evan and he learnt that he lost his mother the moment the invasion had pioneered, and his father was captured and was put in a concentration camp. Danveur had visited the man and had not so discreetly told him that he now owns his only son; and after that went back to the office and beat the said son up.

When dawn silently approached, Danveur rose from his bed and cut the skin contact with the boy, immediately missing the warmth he was producing. He has life. If there's one thing he could steal and make use from him, it was his life.

A life he once also owned that had been stripped off from him without consent.

He cleaned himself, change into his battle uniform, and slicked back his blond hair with what's left of the oily substance that he usually uses. He thought about wearing white gloves but decided against it and took a fresh pair of black ones instead. White would be too messy, white would standout.

He then deliberated whether to leave Schmidt without saying goodbye or at least wake him so he could have a head start of what was up. But before he could pull him up and roundhouse kick him in the stomach, he was already picking the boy in a bridal manner and laying him gently on the bed. Which was uncharacteristically him.

His small form made Danveur want to pull the blankets to his chin but that was unnecessary and would turn out really odd if he awoke all of a sudden. As an alternative, he peeled one of his gloves off and tucked it inside Evan's front pocket.

Then he sauntered outside, immediately hearing a cacophony of voices and shouting commands booming everywhere.

He was ready.

xxviii.

"I heard this one's different from the others. Is there a possibility that we'd lose?" One soldier asked in a drained tone; it was perceptibly a rhetorical question.

He was young looking, age somewhere in between late teens to early twenties, most probably the former by the lack of facial hair and scathe marks in his chin. He directed this to no one in particular but Danveur felt obligated to comfort him as he was the squad leader, their presumed beacon of hope in a dark, bitter setting.

"No, we would never lose." It was pathetic, but he couldn't conjure more words with all the tensed soldiers not so subtly straining their ears to hear his reply. Danveur couldn't sympathise, he believed he would be the last person on earth to sincerely coo people while leading them to their death beds; but he has to try. He wanted to be honest, tell them that they might; but he didn't want them to bolt away like a deer or he would shoot them himself. 

The journey to their designated city took a day and a half with obstacles littering their path. They were supposed to enter it today by sunrise but the pounding rain had obscured any chance of light to guide their path.

Danveur took out his pocket watch and it read five-thirty in the morning. He stared at the inside for too long that a random soldier caught onto the monochromatic photograph that was attached next to it. The man gave him a firm pat on the shoulder and assumed that it was his father or grandfather in their youths or his own brother in an odd costume and that he was being sentimental.

Danveur snapped it shut and glared at him.

"Lieutenant Jones, we are entering the enemy's territo-!"

What could have been a starter note was cut off by a shrilling whistle of a mortar, not giving Danveur a chance to alert his troops. They all quickly duck as the carriage swerved violently to the side, throwing soldiers off of balance as the path before them was enveloped in a blinding cloud smoke.

They were second in formation from fifteen carriages, each containing 40 soldiers; and Danveur hollered for the one responsible behind the wheel to sharply turn left as another bomb descended in their direction.

It was a big town, and Danveur knew what it was called before they renamed it with the present one. He could see people ushering children to run as the soldiers from other carriages stepped down and began shooting everyone from the opposite side who were resisting.

As their own vehicle came to a halt in what could be considered an erroneous spot, Danveur hopped off and instructed everyone to move, capture, shoot, do whatever they prefer in the name of their country.

Some started firing bullets in every direction, others ran head start to wherever they thought an enemy was hiding, and a few waited behind the carriage with guns clutched tightly to their chest, their eyes pressed shut.

Danveur was the only one who who stood on his ground, his jaws clenched and eyes scanning everywhere like a predator looking for a prey. 

There was another enormous explosion.

The ground shook from the recent blast and Danveur, despite inhuman, is not exempted from that type of hell. His ears were ringing, far more painful than a normal man's pain from the fact that his senses were heightened.

He gritted his teeth, walked forward as soldiers and people alike spontaneously flopped around him, and he struck a man in the head once when he tried to stab him. He shot him then at a closer range, never faltering as his pleading eyes looked up to him. 

He didn't know where he was heading, nor did he remember much about this place. It had underwent a radical change and what was once the town square is now occupied by a large grey building. Danveur pressed his lips into a thin line and asked his men to bomb the thing into pieces. 

He was furious, emotions were running in his head and were conflicting one another. He wanted to tear the whole town apart, kill everyone rather than capturing them as prisoners. Or no, he'd do the latter, give them temporary happiness then kill them in their least expected moment.

He shot men, grabbed women by the hair and throw them face first on he ground, kicked children, shot children. He didn't know anymore. 

He was lost.