LLZ-0: To Sustain The Living

We won the war.

We pushed them back to their last hiding place. The locals helped us with food, water, and information. Vibrablade was used per regulations and rules of war. Our oppositions bent the rules as much as possible, transforming their capital city into an unnavigable maze, road covered by wet, sloppy, and smelly substances. Felt like a scene from a horror movie. It was confusing, tiring, exhausting, but we got through their defense either way.

The opposition was called Milium, a country that shared a border with ours, a recipe for a war when things got hot. The media already called it, “One Week War”. The war was ended by various diplomatic transactions, through those damn bureaucrats. Their so-called legislative accepted the terms of defeat without much deliberation. The newspapers mocks and celebrates Milium’s demise, while our soldiers mourn for the dead. My phone stopped ringing after the end of the war, which is odd as there’s plenty we need to figure out after this event. The newspaper updates the “Dead Counter”, an independent statistics of war. The number of people who are displaced, injured, dead, and missing in action, from both side of the battlefield. They stopped bringing it up after the first million.

The government mandated two weeks of no work for every industries except hospitals, electricians, and other fundamental services. This was done to relieve the tension and give the masses some time to reset their routines. Meanwhile, The Court of War never sleeps, rounding up every soldiers and civilians that broke the rule of war. I can tell you for a certain, the paperwork for it was massive. It all culminates in a tribunal which was held five days ago.

During the tribunal, The President of Milium’s mind never left the battlefield. Eyes down, mouth still like a stone, and his limbs stiffen by the horror of what he has done. His Lawyers sweat profusely, their defenses are paper thin against all of his war crimes. Fifty thousand souls owed in manslaughter, unaccountable amount of financial damage, embezzlement, nepotism, and five counts of lying under oath. He is now waiting for his punishment in captivity. They repurposed an old warehouse to keep him in place. It’s damp, dark, and pretty much not meant for human captivity under the international human right’s law.

His judgment and punishment will be broadcasted. Radio stations, social media streams, and uninet news channels, all in unison. The government provided a live capture of a secret room in the House of Law and Order, the building where the tribunal took place. Official representative from The Republic gave the rights to the raw videos without censorship, at no cost, to anyone with uninet connection. It will be a sensitive topic, parents were recommended to let their children play in the parks, away from any electronic devices. It was rated to be Not Safe For Children (NSFC).

Outside my window is a park full of schoolchildren. Their parents watch them from afar, their head glued to the screen. The children are running, tugging, and playing with sand. They play with low powered magic scripts, floating, and pranking each other merrily.

My wife rested her head on my lap. Her hands wrapped around my back, facing my now relatively flabby stomach. Exercise didn’t help when you’re eating more than you can burn. She cooked everything on the menu after the war was over, her own way to bury the pain of losing her colleagues. My mouth is still chewing potato chips she fried this morning.

We knew the rundown of the live stream, we were there for the dress rehearsal. It’s unnecessary for her to watch it. I caressed her head, slowly until her breath is stretched. “Tell me once it was over”, she said meekly. She made a low groan when I pat her head twice.

My television, something that I slap multiple times this morning just to start it, starts to produce a hiss. Black and white static took over the screen, overlayed by a logo on the top left. That’s the emblem of the defense department. My eyes was distracted by a buzzing phone, a friend of mine messaged me. He said he’s recording this monumental event, for archival purposes. I ignored him.

The program starts, a man in a white suit walked into the frame. The background matches his clothing, only the shadow from the lights were able to give him a recognizable silhouette. Something starts moving at the bottom left corner of the screen, a timestamp that increments each second, done in a “seven segmented font”, colored black, contrasting the white. Feels like a found video type movie.

“Hello everyone, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lieutenant Colonel Almar Amber, your host for this program. I am a part of The Republic Army and has been an active military personnel since I was 21 years old. I lead around one thousand fourteen men into battle, specializing in tactical close-quarter-combat. I of course, like every other member of our company, operates within the bounds of The Rule of War.”

You couldn’t produce a more neutral tone of speech. This was planned, yet it feels like he’s holding a lot of emotion. His hand tucked behind his back, probably hiding a stage fright. The skin on the back of his hand was darkened from multiple blunt trauma, explosions, and scars. His fear of public speaking wasn’t helped by the other six cameras pointed towards his face.

“To begin, we are currently streaming with seven cameras including what you’re watching right now. All of them are remotely controlled by operators at another room. This studio’s location will be kept private until the end of the ceremony, as per procedures and best practices.” He continued to explain.

Both side of the war agreed on procedures regarding punishment and disagreed upon tactics. The background of every videos must be neutral and inoffensive, doesn’t really leave a lot of room for creativity. White has become the default, thankfully the wardrobe are free to be chosen by experts.

“This program will not introduce any redaction. The government mandated this program to be broadcasted liberally, gratis, and openly from our peer–to-peer networks. A team of experts will give out copies for archival purposes, you may request it from your local archivemeisters.”

He took another breath before continuing, “Let us commence the ceremony. Major Black, please open the door to your left.”

The short man with thin mustache is Major Black, his direct subordinate. He knew the drill, his left-hand swipes a key, the door’s knob turned, an automatic puller slides it open. Behind the door is a man in cuffs, his head tilted down, hiding his true expression. Someone pushed him from behind, he steps forward, yet his feet dragged across the floor, such a childlike tantrum. I can recognize his almost pristine facial feature, that is the former president of Milium.

His face reminded the audience of their dead relatives, they must be gritting their teeth until it’s flat. Their hatred are understandable, he made an active participation in creating such a dystopian living conditions. Millions of people’s life were affected, whether directly or indirectly by his actions.

The man that pushed him was a doctor. I knew him to be a man of sorrow, his family are not around anymore, yet he’s still working despite being in his late fifties. He’s dressed in a calm green scrubs, carrying a clipboard with checklists, and a stethoscope dangling from his neck. I read the ceremony event breakdowns, he is there only as a silent expert, a set dressing to the program.

Almar took the doctor’s clipboard and examine it thoroughly. His eyes darts around each paragraphs of the checklists, flipping through pages of health reports. He nods five times while reading, bet he doesn’t understand a word of it. It’s all medical jargon that goes right past his head. He already memorized the script, so that flaw should not affect the program.

“Doctor William, do you testify of the originality and accuracy of this health reports? Do you testify that the Former President of Milium is in good mental condition without any reasonable doubt about his sanity? Do you testify that the Former President of Milium is in good physical health?” The doctor nod once to every questions. Almar nod once to confirm, and let the doctor out of the premises. He let the clipboard down on a table, leaving the former president alone with the camera.

The former president’s expression is a spectacle, such a cathartic end to his story. My once silent phone rang with notifications, the group chat went wild by the view count of the program. We are now at two hundred thousands viewer base, and counting. The ladies in my coworker’s group stayed in the office, hijacking one of the auditoriums for their own group watch. They had snacks and free flowing drinks, I felt a tiny bit jealous. Meanwhile, people of the uninet reacted by turning to political commentary channels. Some of them condemn this program, others are anxious to what comes next.

“Everyone in this room, please leave me and the Former President of Milium alone. Major, escort everyone out of here.”

Major Black ordered everyone in the room to leave the premises, including the camera-man. He took five steps forward, deploying a metal chair in front of the camera. The Former President walked up to the chair and sat down, following the rehearsal. Major Black left the room while locking the door behind him.

The Lieutenant’s chest expands rapidly, his lungs ate every molecule of oxygen in the air, his blood pressure increases ever so slightly. This is the first time I saw his right hand ever waver, while holding a weapon. It’s a recently stoned and personally crafted knife made by a randomly selected blacksmith from a nearby industrial area. A well-known words of advice were inscribed near its spine, successfully and painfully etched to the hard metal, after three tries.

DEATH WAS PAID TO SUSTAIN THE LIVING

A proverb so old we found on a five hundred years gravestone, near then city center of The Kingdom, now at the border between Milium and The Republic. The Former President already saw, held, and inspect the knife beforehand. He is allowed to make demands if the knife is dull or ineffective at cutting.

“We are now at the last phase of the ceremony. We have emptied the room and every action afterwards are mine alone. The tribunal have facilitated us with this room, cameras, knife, logistics, and crews. I now will hold this knife unto your throat, and slit it, ending your life, according to a jury made decision. By the power vested in me by The Government of The Republic, the winner of the One Week War, I will kill you. This is to punish you, to take revenge of the minds of my people, and to give closure for those who mourns. May God rest your soul. Do you have any last words?”

His tear was out, raining down his perfectly white clothes. The former president sobs, his voice echoed within the room. Almar slightly lift his blade away from his throat, his immersion was pulled away by the sudden outburst. This is either a well orchestrated lie and performance, or he really did feel sorry for the war and crimes he chose to make. His mouth opens, for the first time since his capture, he finally said something.

“Please don’t hurt me, I have a family to go to, please don’t kill me—”

A stream of consciousness entered my head, clear images and sounds of knife stabs, projectiles flinging, and screams of agony. This president facilitated the chaotic living conditions of civilians near the border. Children playing soccers with a man’s skull, dying men calling out to their mother, a girl’s body hanging from a tree branch after she was blown up by mines. Almar must have thought the same thing, his face turned flat after he saw a streak of tear on the president’s face.

“That would be your last word. May God help you, may God help me, may God help us all.”

Almar pulled his knife from his throat, creating a clean wound that split his thorax in half. A stream of blood came out of his mouth and wound, like an endless red fountain. He gargles and coughs, the viewers even saw his eyes bulge from shock. Almar threw the knife away and hold the former president’s body from dropping out of his chair. The former president moved frantically, his hand tries to hold his throat together, but Almar hugged him, binding his upper body together.

Their white clothes were stained red, Parma held my stomach tighter than before, her face are buried in it. This should be the moment people turned their screen off. I kept watching. There’s a sense of responsibility, like I haven’t done a good job if I didn’t watch this until the end. This is the war they created, and I helped to end it.

This went on for four minutes before his body reverted to its natural, dead state. Almar released his hug and let him fall from the chair. The shirt he is wearing still drips with blood, I imagine it reeks of metallic smell. He cleaned his hand with the other, wiping away the blood of his kill.

Almar stared into the lens, his eyes are locked into every soul who watches the program. He is supposed to end the stream by pressing a big red button. Going against protocol, Almar instead added a sentence to close the ceremony.

“We won the war, and this death ends it. May his death sustain the living.”

Silence.