1 . Name: CoffeeInHell @ 2012-05-21 22:27

Hi there you silly, delightful people. You may refer to me as Coffee, I suppose, or whatever pleases you (Hell? Just like metropolis! It’s funny ‘cause I’m a robot) and up until now I have just been a grade A top notch lurker. But not today!

I’m actually a screenwriter by trade, or at least I will be when I finish school (it’s my major). I have not written prose in a looooooong time, but I found myself missing it. So forgive me if I’m rusty. I did my best. Also, proof reading is not one of my strong skills, as I generally seem to be pretty sharp on the first go (not to mention that screenwriting is a lot less grammatically demanding). So if there’s something blaringly obvious that I have missed, feel free to point it out or fix it in your head. Either way, it’s all good with me. Crit always welcome.

There is an awesome mock movie poster floating around the interwebs titled “Blue Spy Must Die.” This piece has nothing to do with that. I tip my hat to that artist. That being said, who’s ready for some angsty-ness? Drop anchor from the SS Moody- Feels ahoy!

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RED SPY MUST DIE
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Life here was an exercise in futility. Both teams had long ago discovered the meaning of their employment- charged to fight for a couple worthless patches of land for a pair of rich elderly men who had never grown out of a sibling rivalry. And they knew it was all a charade, that each point captured, each payload delivered, all intel captured, meant nothing. At the end of the day, the week, the month, the year, nothing would be different, the two teams would still be locked in an unchanging stalemate, strung along by that woman and the dubious forces at work behind her.

Each team and its members had gone through the phases of coping and acceptance; denial, anger, bargaining, depression. Sure, it was just a job, but to discover the tasks they had been doing so long, the life they were living, were stuck here living, was meaningless, hit hard. But they stayed, and they performed. They could keep playing the charade. It paid well, and it wasn’t like all of them could just walk away. For some, like the engineer, families had disappeared, gone without a relocating address, since he had left. For others like the sniper, they were wanted men, bought out from governments at high prices by the affluent brothers. For some like the soldier, there was simply nothing else.

On a wooden wall in the RED base, “somebody” had graffitied the phrase “Everything is pointless”, a sentiment written with fire, scorching the letters darkly and deeply into the boards. They had all expected the soldier to corner the pyro, harassing him about respect and dignity, bullying him into finding a way to erase what he had done. But he did not. Perhaps more haunting than the burns on the wall were the sounds that came from the soldier’s room that night, sounds all of them pretended not to hear. A low, muffled sound, like a sob, coming from a man who wouldn’t wince while stuffing his intestines back into his abdominal cavity.

That had been a year ago. They had moved on since then, settling into a semi-permanent state of coherent melancholy. That wasn’t to say the lethargy was without respite- times were had that were enjoyed by all, spirits were lifted, things felt right. This could go on for weeks at a time before they all settled back down into the desert dust.

The red spy would not describe himself as a good man. He was not a good man or a moral man, and these things he regretted from the bottom of his heart. He was just a man, living here in the desert, doing things, violent despicable things, because a woman, somewhere far away, told him to. He was not a good or moral man, he was not a learned man, or a well read man, or a wise man, or a particularly special man. But his mind ticked constantly with these grave, introspective thoughts, as they twirled with him, around him, on the battlefield by day, and he painted them all over his ceiling at night.

His decision was not a decision that was made after considering all points of all sides of an argument, weighing the pros and cons, preparing for either route. This decision was made as many of his were, following his instincts and his heart. It all happened with the coming of the Sunday mail.

There were two letters, bundled up in the same bulky envelope. One was addressed as if to be sent on its own, “Mr. Renauld ____ , P.O. Box 78345, _____ District, New Mexico, _____” all written out in her distinct elegant handwriting. The other just had his name. Curiosity always being a deciding factor for him, he ripped open the unrecognizable letter first, and when her ring tumbled out onto the desk with a musical ting, his heart crashed through his ribcage, through the floor, and right into the engineer’s workshop downstairs.

The letter was written plainly but decisively, and graceless hot tears in increasing velocity ran down the bridge of his nose to plop down on the paper, smudging the cheap ballpoint ink it was scribed in. It described the events of what was now three weeks prior. Written by a kindly neighbor, it described the incident that happened outside of their building, how she was there in the wrong place at the wrong time, how she was caught in the cross fire, how she died on the sidewalk while the ambulance was on its way, her groceries strewed beside her. The neighbor held her hand and she asked for him in her final moments, him, Renauld, and said how much she loved him. The neighbor had found her letter on the kitchen counter and along with the ring, had sent them along.

Her letter was simple. It spoke of her being well and hoping he was the same, how she was learning to cook a new dish she wanted to make for him, how she loved the spring and how beautifully the begonias in her windowbox were coming in. She missed him and she loved him. She hoped to see him soon.

The red spy had been with a great deal of women in his life. Some were memorable, many he had forgotten, some tread the line between occasional remembrance and disappearing completely, only recalled at certain moments after certain things were said or done. But only one could be described as a soulmate. Up until her, the spy had never believed in such melodramatic things. She was different. They hadn’t known each other long, only a year and a half perhaps of frequent letters and occasional meetings. They had plenty to talk about, sure, but the silences were just as meaningful. They were comfortable- and it was as if the air between the two of them buzzed- with passion, yes, but also with something so much deeper.

“I know you”, the air seemed to whisper. “I know you too,” was the answer back.

Shaking violently, he put his face in his hands and he cried. She was gone. He cried through dinner and didn’t stop when somebody banged on his door sometime after. She was gone. She wouldn’t write any more letters, come for any more visits, be there when this “war” was over. They couldn’t buy that house together, a little white one in the French countryside, living off his checks from Reliable Excavation and Demolition, watching her begonias blossom and growing old and grey together, still smiling like the day they met.

A familiar phrase floated into his mind. “Everything is pointless.” He had been walking by that maxim on the wall almost every day for a year, and now, it meant something to him.

At long last, his tears dried up and he could cry no more. He lay on the floor, just breathing as if oxygen was a gift. From the crack of window visible under the blinds, he could see that it was now deep night. Who could say how long he had been there. His entire body aching with sorrow, he propped himself up on his elbows, then sitting rag-doll-esque on the floor. From there he slowly stood. He picked the pretty little ring from off the desk. It was silver and inset with turquoise, a combination he knew she would enjoy, and he was right. It was a tiny little thing, but after some careful trying and twisting, he found that it fit nicely on his little finger.

He went to the mirror and looked at himself. A strong chin, sharp nose, thick hair. He looked like a broken man. And in that moment, he made his decision.

His balaclava hung by the glass pane. He wouldn’t be needing it anymore. Secrecy now was pointless- he no longer had anything to hide. He had made up his mind, and if Reliable Excavation and Demolition, Mann Co. or that abrasive administrator got their hands on him, he was a dead man. He had a very slim chance of survival, he realized. It didn’t matter to him anymore. If they didn’t kill him, the cigarette he was putting in his mouth would.

He changed out of his red suit, carefully hanging the jacket and pants as not to crease them as if it were any other day. He selected a different suit, rarely worn, grey, with no vest. He put it on, made sure he had everything he might need; his gun, his knife, his disguises, his watch, his picks, other dubious trinkets. A briefcase. He did a visual sweep of the room, checking for forgotten items. Her letter. He stuck it into his suit and made to leave.

It occurred to him that he should leave a note, so he did. He taped a piece of paper to his door reading “go the hell away”. He locked his door and made off for his destination. It would buy him a little time, he thought as he walked away, before the others realized he was simply missing.

He had never seen what he was looking for. None of them had, not even the engineer or the medic. It was top secret, but the red spy knew these lands well. He knew where just about every secret was hidden, even if he hadn’t seen the secret himself. And just a day earlier, the descent down that long, long spiraling staircase far down into the deep cold earth would have filled him with anticipation and excitement. Now he felt nothing. He cracked the vault doors and went inside, helping himself to Mann Co.’s most precious secrets.

“And so it begins,” He muttered to himself, pulling what he needed out of the cabinet and shoving it into his briefcase.

He hadn’t told any of his teammates about his plans, nor had he told them about the letters. Perhaps if he had, the administrator’s mission for the day wouldn’t have come as such a shock. “Defend the point!” She would demand, and they would do it and nothing would change. “Deliver the payload!” she would order, and they would do it and nothing would change.

Today the administrator’s demands changed everything.

The P.A. system crackled loudly and the teams barely shifted in their seats at the breakfast table to listen.

“Today’s mission,” the woman began to bark through the tinny, electronic speakers. Eggs were still being shoveled lazily into mouths, coffee was still being sipped languidly. Today was to be the same as every other day, as the thousands of other days that had come before this one. Nothing changed here. At least, that’s what was they believed. And then the administrator gave them their mission.

“Terminate the red spy.”

Nothing would be the same.