Somewhere, in a dark cobblestone alley...

Neuros leaned leisurely against the wall beside the back entrance of a worn down bowling alley, the fog from his freezing breath and the puffs of cigarette smoke mingling together in the brisk winter air. He was dressed for the cold, but not so much that he couldn't pass for a worker out on a smoking break. Which, by the way if you were to ask him, he was.

Not that the topic would come up. After all, this alley, at this hour, was not exactly a hub of society. At least, not most society. Neuros only planned on talking to one man that night. That man had just turned a corner and was walking up the alley, as slowly and casually as any stranger would walk towards another. His gate betrayed no knowledge of the man taking a smoking break until they were within feet of each other. By then, the stranger had spotted the smoker's face out of the corner of his eye. He greeted him.

"Hello, Neuros. I didn't take you for the type that smoked."

"You haven't talked to me in so long, I don't expect you to be able to take me for anything." Neuros said, dropping the butt to the ground. It landed in a dusting of snow and went out with a sizzle before he could grind it with his heel. "I don't, really. Its mostly for cover." he said, smirking as he looked up at his old accomplis.

"I appreciate you meeting with me. I heard you had retired."

"Oh, you know my type...we rarely really retire. " His voice became a bit softer- "At least... not with people like you, Wanderer. "

Wanderer looked away and coughed for a second, then seemed to pause before talking again. "Thanks."

"I haven't seen you since, what... 20? You look a bit different now, you know. Your wearing black." he added, half jokingly.

Wanderer looked at his coat briefly as he produced a small vile from it. "I'm wearing something." he said distantly as he popped the cap off, letting steam rise from the top. He noticed Neuros's inquisitive look. "Nothing from a paper bag, Neuros. Just coffee."

"I must say-" he said in a pleasantly surprised tone, "You've done better then I thought you would have. Your discharge, was it...?"

"It was a discharge, okay?" Wanderer snapped back, "but...I don't think its permanent. "

"Sorry....So, whats the occasion?"

Wanderer put the lid on the vile and slipped it back into his coat as he cleared his throat. "I have a...gardening dilemma, so to speak."

Neuros expression barely changed, but his eyes betrayed a smiling understanding. "Botany; of course. Do tell."

"There is a garden I've been watching back in the country- a very special garden. Its fruits will be prized, its promise is unmatched. I've spent a lot of time walking through its rows, smelling its air. It is a beautiful garden. I've thought about it, and I've decided I want to cultivate it myself so that it can better meet its potential and so I can have the opportunity to enjoy toiling with such fortuned soil.

Neuros laughed softly. "Thats quite a speech... I've always thought you were a green thumb at heart. Whats the problem?"

"Someone else is tending it already."

Neuros furrowed his brow. "Does he own it?"

"No one owns it!" Wanderer shot back, slightly surprised at the seething tone in his own voice. "Its a wild garden."

"But- he got to it first. "

"Yeah."

The man out on his smoking break raised his head up in thought, and let out a slow deliberate breath that filled the air above them with a fleeting fog. "Is this man dying?"

"No."

"Is this gardener a very wicked man?"

"No... I wish he was. He's a very nice man, actually. I almost like him. But I know I could do better- and there is no other soil like this. The fortuned soil suffers from my inaction, in a way. "

"Do you plan on taking it?" Neuros asked calmly.

"Perhaps. " Wanderer turned his head to meet the gaze he could feel being directed towards him. "Look, I know its not...ideal. But it might be an opportunity that I just can't give up. He...he doesn't appreciate the soil, anyway."

"Do you know that?"

"It doesn't matter if I know it! All I can do right now, is LOOK at it. I want to be a part of it, Neuros! I want the dirt between my fingers, I want to be invested in this land. I want to nurse it through the droughts, fend of its pests and celebrate its bounties when they come. I know I can. I know I'm right for the job..."

Neuros was silent, his expression, unreadable. After a moment, Wanderer continued.

"Some fruit- they rolled out of the plot. Several of them, actually. I tasted them. Its out of this world. I need this fruit- and Neuros, I think it needs me, too. "

"So you are going to take it?"

Wanderer relaxed a bit and took out his vile again. "I don't know... not just yet. " He took a sip. "I'll continue to watch it. I'll hold off my decision until another year or so passes by. A lot of things can happen in a year, you know? Maybe, the gardener will take sick. Perhaps he will be distracted with business afar and abandon the land. Perhaps there will be an accident. There is always the chance that he will be out of the equation. Then.... " Wanderer tapped his vile of coffee, nervously distracted in thought. "Then I wouldn't have to deal with it. "

"Your not suggesting...taking him out of the picture yourself, are you?" Neuros asked, his normally blank expression betraying a hint of anxiety.

Wanderer put the vile back and dusted off his coat. He looked at the ground and appeared as if he were about to say something, but instead he just shook his head. Finally, he looked up.

"Well, thanks. Thanks for listening, friend. "

"Thats it?"

"Thats all... we haven't talked in a while, and I'm not sure when the next time will be so.... I figured I should let you know what I might do. "

As Neuros looked at Wanderer, one could not tell if he was more angry, surprised, or proud. It didn't really matter. Wanderer went on.

"Because I know- if anything goes wrong? Any plan you could start working on right now for just that occasion will prove itself very useful. "

And with that, Wanderer turned and walked away.



TO BE CONTINUED...

A boy named Wanderer- A true story.

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Wanderer. He grew up in a good home with good parents and good siblings. But even those so well fortified in life are never truly safe from its darkness- for while he was still young, the boy was visited by an evil. For a season it wreaked a quiet and untraceable havoc on him, making no visible damage but sowing dysfunction. And then it stopped. The boy was spared by the Hand of God.

Wanderer seemed to show resilience to the evil. After a few short years he had all but forgot the dark force that had visited him. He became an ambitious child and continued to grow up as an apparently well-adjusted child. But two forces resided in him that he knew not of.

The first was a parasite. This parasite was an agent of the darkness that had invaded the boy, and its purpose was to corrupt him to the very darkness itself. The parasite hid itself and masked its symptoms behind things normal to a growing child so that it would not be detected. Meanwhile, the boy developed a love for the Cause, wanting and training earnestly to fight the forces of evil as a warrior. The boy became vigilantly on the lookout for The Darkness- he set garrisons about the property and gazed over them with watchful eye. He tried to keep himself informed of the Enemies plans- he knew of all their latest movements. But he never realized the threat within himself- the parasite was so close and so hidden, that he did not see it. And so the greatest danger to all was allowed to grow.

As the child developed into a young man, the second force started to appear. Wanderer grew apathetic and weary. It was another symptom of the parasite, but he did not know it. His far sight was attacked and his Vision blurred. His dedication to the Cause waned and faltered. He always knew the drills, but his heart was not always in it. He knew in his mind what the moves and strategies were and he remained engaged with others in his ranks, but he grew less and less motivated. This force he at least recognized. He called it different things- lack of self-discipline, laziness, and more. He tried to correct it. He decided he needed an infusion of discipline- a personal morale booster of sorts.

He volunteered with the Cause for a dangerous deployment far away. He submitted himself to the riggers of discipline and danger, and he felt the tide turning. He returned to his native shore, alive and stronger. He was no longer weary and for a time it would seem that the force of apathy had been ridded from the man named Wanderer. But the parasite was still there, and though damaged by the Hand of God, it was not destroyed.

The parasite was smaller when Wanderer first came back to his native shore, but it grew past its previous size in mere months. Wanderer was again tired and careless. He knew he was being damaged and so once more volunteered for more missions. Each mission would take longer to restore him then the last and each time he returned his morale and energy would last shorter. Each time his morale was dampened, it became harder for him to get up the courage to volunteer for more missions. He volunteered less frequently, until he finally stopped altogether.

Now the ideals and Man behind the Cause are noble, just and good. But the institution of the Cause is never perfect. A man can sometimes too easily fall aside from the true meaning of the Cause. He becomes weary and dysfunctional, but as long as he maintains the correct drills and courtesies, the commanding officers will never notice the difference. Such was so for wanderer. He attended all mandatory drills and followed proper courtesies and customs. But he was no longer in it. His body was a husk; an empty shell.

He became a man divided, and deeply introspective. His outside mannerisms were controlled by courtesy, by custom and by upbringing. He never lost that. His conversations were intelligent and polite, for the parasite attacks these more visible things last. But his mind was growing more corrupted by every minute. He soon grew worried that his inner demons were stronger then most. He knew everyone must deal with them themselves, and so he never thought to ask for help. He began to question this line of thinking. But still the parasite grew and established more control, all the while unnoticed.

But alas, these were not the only forces working in him as a young man. There were forces called in, forces of Goodness that had been sent by the Hand Of God. They were appointed to him while at the outpost “Love of God”. And they were agents for truth and love and courage. They were forces of spiritual stimulation- forces that began to shake Wanderer’s apathy, even while the parasite struggled to maintain it.

The battle was played low-key. Forces from either side never openly assaulted one another- there were only munitions fired in burst at targets of opportunity, poorly aimed grenades and botched assassination attempts. It was a secret stalemate, each side hiding enough cards to be one step in front of the other and just out of sight enough so that no witnesses were aware of what they were witnessing, even when they saw it.

The struggle awoke ideas in Wanderer. He continued to be introspective and to think on things long forgotten. He watched for patterns. He noticed his mind growing darker and darker. He felt a vague horror. He had disgust for his own thoughts- but yet he held a spellbound twisted fascination with them as well. He was recognizing something… but what was it? He thought on it often. He had seen these thoughts before.

Meanwhile, he continued to try and function for the Cause. He would escort less skilled forces and assist them. An ambush would happen, and his old training and his well-ingrained skills would come back to him. He would lay down a suppressive fire, he would route the enemy. He was commended. But sometimes when this happened, he felt dizzy. He would falter for a second, and in his confusion he would point the weapon at his own forces. He scared some, but it only lasted a few seconds. He would get it under control and retreat for a time. He would wonder what happened- his thoughts…were they were being rendered? Were they really animating him now? And where, where did they come from? He grew tense with the question, and the uncertainty of when it his spells of confusion would strike again. But he continued accompanying younger troops. It was what he did intuitively; his instructors always said he seemed to be born for backup and escorts.

Once, he was accompanying a small group, and there was a surprise ambush. They were badly outnumbered and outgunned. Wanderer quickly created makeshift bunkers, and laid down return fire. It was an intense fire fight- the younger troops hardly fought at all. Bullets were flying everywhere- the air was filled with the stench of sulphur and of the dirt that was kicked up in clouds from the bullets that had missed their marks. It created a haze and freighted the troops who were not properly trained. After an hour of holding the enemy back, Wanderer knew they needed to retreat. He began to think of the plans in his head- who he would call, the platoons he could radio in- but the leaders above him beat him to it. An extraction force came in valiantly and scattered the enemy long enough to make an escape possible.

When Wanderer returned from the battle, he was exhausted but proud. He lay down on his bed and thought. I may be losing my energy, but I still have it. It felt good to Wanderer to know he was apart of such a dangerous mission and that he defended the Cause’s new blood. Just then a medic came up to his bed.

“Were you the sergeant on escort duty for the new bloods today?” the medic asked.

“I was.” Wanderer replied, rising out of bed.

“Come with me.”

He followed the medic into the infirmary. All along his way, the camp was abuzz with the news of something. People were talking in excited tones and almost all who were talking seemed to have on their face a look of disbelief. When they arrived at the examining room, he recognized a recruit a few tables down. She looked sad and in extreme pain; her gaze met Wanderers and her eyes filled with pain. He had never seen anyone look so sad before. She was in bad shape, too. Blood was everywhere- it looked like she had a head wound. The doctors and nurses assistants were buzzing around her quickly, only meeting Wanderer’s gaze for a brief second of recognition before returning to their work. Then, suddenly four fully armed military guards closed in around her, and stood on alert. He could no longer see her.

“Hey!” Wanderer shouted out to the medic “I know that person! She was with me today on the field-“

“Yes sir… she…” the medic looked out into space for a second as if not exactly sure what to say.

“Is she badly hurt?”

The doctor looked back at him. He seemed angry.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Wanderer was upset with the question. He ignored it and turned to her.

“Lieutenant, your going to be fi-”

The guards tensed and raised their firearms in his direction. The medic grabbed Wander by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

“WANDERER- You are not to talk to the Lieutenants anymore. That is an order.

“What?!?”

“Do you know why you’re here? You nearly KILLED her. Wanderer- you shot that Lieutenant in the face!”

Wanderer reclined slowly on the operation bench. His head was reeling, but suddenly he wasn’t confused anymore. The excitement at the camp, the reason he was here… it all began to snap together. The escort job that day, the pattern in his thoughts… then the piece he was missing, the part he had nearly forgotten so long ago-

The evil that visited me… it didn’t leave. It never left. Oh God…

And he knew he had the parasite. It was the last thing that he remembered for a long time. Whether from fainting, exhaustion, or the needle in his arm, Wanderer fell asleep. They were to try and operate.

THE END.