It's Always So

9

Lance often tricked himself into thinking that this was some romantic story between Aslan and him. On the days where they had nowhere to be, no one to kill, Aslan took them out to his apparent favourite bar. It was in a small, cowboy-ish town, and the people there were special cases, in the entire system. They were immune to the sickness, but they, as a town, wanted to stay in these zones even if recommended to leave overseas to live in a better place. They fought for the town, and they somehow managed to convince the government. Some people said it was because all the girls there were beautiful, and the convincing didn't take long. Aslan had laughed when he mentioned that. Along with Aslan's smile, the fact that Lance was starting to make friends with his comrades was adding even more to his mind—convincing him that the life he was living was just as normal as before.

When Aslan brought them to the bar for the first time (or, probably just Lance and the rookies' first time), it was evident that the owners of the bar didn't know who Aslan and his group were, only that he was a customer they had come to recognize. He was welcomed happily there, and Lance watched—almost in awe—as his veteran comrades started drinking and singing like normal 20-year-olds. The rookies all looked as awkward as he did, standing around, trying to figure out if they should start drinking too.

Aslan himself even sat down to have a drink, and after a moment's hesitation, Lance joined him.

For a while, with people he started calling "friends" singing in the background, as Aslan and he talked all through the night, Lance thought they lived a normal life.

The next day reminded him of reality.

Along with the day after.

And the day even after that.

The feeling of a gun's handle and the sound of people's cries always reminded him that he'd never live a normal life anymore.

Until, of course, this life became normal to him.

"Aslan—are you, why—" Lance was panicking at the sight of Aslan hunched over behind a car, emptying his stomach of the foods he had this morning. His gloved hand was steadying himself on the car, body hunched, and mask off, even if they were in a town that was just massacred. The sun was high in the sky, but Lance felt as if a shadow was suddenly cast upon him.

Lance picked up the mask, almost pleading his general to put it back on, but Aslan just shook his head.

"Nothing will happen to me if I don't have that on," he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, letting out a calming breath. His voice was weak. "It was just an accessory given to us by the government. They figured we'd feel better killing people if they couldn't see our faces; it doesn't protect us from anything because we're immune anyway."

Lance was shocked by the knowledge, but he set the thought away soon after, more worried about the fact that Aslan was hurling. "Are you feeling sick?"

If Aslan himself caught the disease, he wouldn't know what to do.

The bitter smile, that seemed to be Aslan's trademark, was back, and he maneuvered himself to lean his back on the abandoned car, closing his eyes. "I just saw someone."

"You... saw someone?" Lance repeated, and Aslan didn't say anything else.

Lance stood there awkwardly, mask in hand, listening to the sound of ongoing gunfire. He didn't know what to make of Aslan, who was still closing his eyes, until the words finally started to register.

"You saw... Someone you know?" the rookie nearly whispered.

Even more gunfire.

"Knew."

Lance suddenly felt like throwing up himself.

He couldn't imagine being in Aslan's situation.

When will that happen to him?

All these people had been strangers to him so far, but what would happen when the people he knew back at home—what would happen when their faces were among the crowds of strangers?

Could he even pull the trigger?

How many had he killed, at this point? How many lives had he taken away—how many more will he take away? Lance's days had started to mix together, and it was as if he forgot these were people that he was killing. It, in his mind, had turned into a mere task; move to a town, aim, pull the trigger. Forget.

Move to a town, aim, end lives.

It had never occurred to Lance before, the weight of what he was doing.

He felt sick.

The mask on his face started to feel like it was trying to mould itself onto his skin, and yet, it couldn't cover up his feelings of contempt, of self-disgust. What point was there of covering up his identity, when it was still his finger, his conscious mind, pulling the trigger?

Aslan. He always seemed to be carrying the burden of thousands on his back, and Lance finally saw his actions for what they truly were.

He was powerless. Aslan—who always seemed to have everything under control—was powerless.

So Lance merely took off his own mask, and without another thought, tossed it somewhere on the cracked ground with his general's.

Leaned up next to Aslan, he saw the tiny smile on the man's face. It was filled with nothing but melancholy.

They both knew that Lance finally carried the burden of his actions.

The weight of it would never leave him, just as it would never leave Aslan.

We have stories to tell, the two of us.