Two

War rages on an earth-like planet somewhere in the galaxy. A billion tons of concrete and steel rises into the afternoon sky and breaks the serenity of sunset. Multilayer overpasses stretch on for miles; the jewel of the country is suffering from military occupation. Beneath one overpass, at street level, a giant machined-metal dome dominates the exterior décor.

The sound of a boot, gripping pavement, eclipses all activity of the ruined, dead street. Cutting around a corner, one soldier appears and runs with all the haste he can muster. The bulked man races in a semicircle through the intersection and turns to a side alley.

A second sound materializes, mechanical, man made, the noise of an engine. The soldier presses his back to the curved metal of the dome; he looks all directions in a panicked progression and spots a slow moving aircraft. Bolting across the street to the covered alley, the modern soldier exposes himself for a moment.

A fierce volley of rockets unleash from the threatening aircraft. Explosions cover the street and pound every building on the block. The covered alley marks safety; the veteran runs hard, every step bringing him closer to salvation. In the background, the metal dome explodes in a thunderous roar, showering the street with fragments of shiny sculpture.

A screaming streak passes overhead; instantly the aircraft explodes, wavers of energy disseminate the path of a rocket. The soldier looks out from the alley; smoldering scrapheap remains of the vehicle crush on impact with the ground. Taking a moment to relax the man brushes concrete powder from his uniform, a tag mounted over his breast says ‘Bail Odan’. Bail secures his weapon, a rifle, and heads out the other end of the alley; he emerges clean from the encounter.

On the street, Bail removes a small scanner from his belt. He manipulates the controls; searching for another survivor. Watching the blank screen, the brazen warrior’s exterior begins to break down. His eyes puddle, the scanner falls to the ground and shatters. For the first time in days, he speaks; Bail opens his dry mouth and screams to the empty city.

“Cho-gad!”

Somewhere among the ruins of the city, a nametag on an unconscious soldier reads ‘Yuka Loren’. Slowly, Yuka awakens from the darkness. Black hair, cut in the traditional style, attacks the chin and accentuates the oriental features of her young face. She wears a uniform patterned opposite from Bail’s; two soldiers on different sides of the battle. After a few tries, Yuka manages to find her feet and pick up a weapon.

She first takes careful note of the surroundings; her assault lander is nearby, bullet riddled--struck by enemy fire in flight. Yuka bailed out at low altitude, escaping the crash. The bodies of her squad mates litter the area; they all appear dead. Fighting back emotion, she knuckles down on tired military training; Yuka heads down the street looking for something to fight.

Bail emerges from the blind shadow of a citizen’s abandoned vehicle; the two spot each other and begin firing without a second delayed. Trained to fight for different ideals, the two solders employ the same tactics. Bullets whiz by each as they close in, circling and firing. Sensing a final moment, the two dive for cover: Yuka behind another abandoned vehicle, Bail behind a pile of rubble, released from a nearby building during the initial attack.

Bail looks at the digital readout on the side of his weapon, reaches back to grab a reload, but only finds an empty pouch, the result of previous firefights. Yuka pops the clip from her weapon, a single glass bullet remains--clear liquid slides around inside the transparent cartridge. She reaches to a pouch to retrieve a reload, but finds a large hole in the bottom. Bail rolls out from cover and scans the other side of the street for activity.

Yuka bursts out from the safety of her position and runs directly at Bail; dropping to a slide and firing the moment she feels his attack coming, a miss. Bail tries to track with his target, but runs out of ammo-when he finally gets that last perfect shot, the weapon just clicks.

Feeling delivered from death by the coincidental circumstances, Yuka backs away while slowly rising. Bail drops his rifle, a loud clang echoes through the modern, skyscraper cave. Yuka pulls a snap release and unsheathes a short sword; hefty for her stature, the weapon is thick at the end and designed with a re-curve, perfect for hacking through armor. Bail falls back to a secondary weapon, a much smaller, standard-issue knife.

While holding the blade, Yuka’s demeanor changes from soldier to warrior; she bull-rushes forward with a flurry of deadly swings. Bail concentrates on staying out of her reach, but one strike passes so close that he instinctive blocks it with his knife. The heavy sword sheers right through the metal of his weapon; Bail drops the useless hilt on the ground and dives at Yuka. The two wrestle for control of the last blade.

Four hands interlock on the weapons hilt; Bail physically overpowers Yuka and breaks her grip on the sword, he springs back with blade in hand. Bail looks to a side building and launches the melee weapon; the heavy piece of metal whuffles through the air and smashes through a window. Bail tilts his head in concern and holds out empty hands. In pure frustration, Yuka turns her back and walks away. Bail looks to the side, a comfortable seat, but he dismisses rest and instead follows the other soldier-the other survivor.

Later in the day, the two pass by a mobile radio truck. At first, they ignore the vehicle, but Bail turns back in search of answers. The batteries still have full power and the transmitter is online. Bail picks up the communicator device and speaks.

“Gla-cho… Com-drin gla-cho.”

Yuka tries to put together the puzzle of his words; the two have not yet spoken, and do not share a common language. After a few minutes of nothing but static in response, Bail throws down the communicator and looks back to check on his companion. Patiently waiting in the wind, Yuka is cautious, maintaining a safe distance. Bail gets up from the console and continues down the street.

Yuka is quickly behind the controls, “Ye’ness ne’lar sold’urn… sold’urn.”

For half an hour her questions fall on dead ears. Hearing someone approach, Yuka hops up and looks for activity. In seconds Bail reappears, his uniform is gone and he is now wearing a stylish retro suit complete with vest and tie. With a bit of a giggle, Yuka studies his new outfit. Bail ushers her to follow down the street.

After a short stretch of war-torn road the two walk into a commercial district, the first shop is a specialty, vintage clothing market. Yuka looks into the window from afar; one dress catches her eye, light gold in color and simple in design. After a quick spot of daydreaming, she moves on down the road without stepping foot in the store. Bail revisits the interior and retrieves the dress from the mannequin.

The two walk through the deserted cityscape for hours and do not find a single sign of another survivor. At nightfall, an abandoned restaurant offers some food; Yuka and Bail sit in opposite corners of the diner waiting for anything to happen; eventually, they fall asleep. The city, the world, slows to a stagnant silence as the last two living people rest.

The light of a new day peers into Bail’s eyelids. A few minutes pass before he actually moves--a soldier with no army, no war, and no motivation. In time, he gets to his feet; looking around the room for his only companion, he can see that Yuka already left. Bail picks up a cup from the petit diner table and downs the remaining water; returning the cup sends a hollow echo through the utterly silent room.

Footsteps fade in from the back room; Yuka appears in the doorway, wearing the golden dress--a glimpse of purity. Bail cocks his head in consideration, and then offers a pronounced grin and nod. The two pick up a simple sandwich and return to the desolate city road. The barrier of empty space between the two has shrunk, but still remains.

A short bit down the road, a loaded weapon lay in the open--nameless dead soldier nearby. Bail and Yuka look to each other then back at the gun. Forward movement begins, the casual walk quickly transforms into a hurried jog, soon transcending to a frenzied, scrapping plunge. Taken by indomitable training, the two veteran soldiers grab the weapon, four hands interlock in a familiar pattern, the muzzle facing skyward.

An instant before the tool of destruction chambers, Yuka releases the clip with subterfuge. The weapon clicks in the busy commotion: unloaded, nothing happened, loaded, someone would have died. Bail and Yuka are equally horrified at the thought of what might have happened; she relinquishes grip on the rifle.

Bail, holding the weapon, pulls away. He looks down casting a mournful glare on the ground, with a haphazard sling the rifle skips down the street, skiffing sounds fade out. Yuka begins to pick herself up and finds an arm in the way, she reaches out; Bail grips her hand, giving gentle assistance--the first time they touch.

The two reconciled soldiers embrace, sharing a deep gaze that stretches out forever. Yuka looks to the horizon, to the wilderness beyond the city, and to a new beginning. She drops the rifle’s clip, the clear liquid designed to motivate destruction and death oozes out from the shattered glass cartridge. Bail begins to walk to her dream, hand in hand, having never let go; the two leave the battle, the war, behind.

<end>