I Wake Up Feeling Depressed
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I wake up feeling depressed and lonely. I don’t think it’s my imagination that the dormitory seems emptier than usual, though there are always people in the corridors or going about their business, but today it feels as if they’ve all gone home already and nobody is left behind to make conversation with me.
I eat breakfast alone at a table for two, then get changed into my uniform and go down to the infirmary to collect my medication from Nurse Joy.
“Good morning.” She smiles at me as she hands over the bottle of pills. “Enjoy your break? Good weather out, I hear?” Her smile doesn’t seem genuine—it isn’t really an expression associated with nurses anyway (why else would you train to be one?) —and something tells me she’s got some sort of hidden agenda this day.
It reminds me just how long it has been since we last saw each other; the relationship between Nurse Joy and Professor Elm is considerably more intimate than ours.
But because our roles differ so widely, no matter what happens on this vacation her need will not supersede mine. Even as I enter class, my mind keeps churning over ways to twist her intentions around without betraying myself too much …
The first-year lessons commence exactly how I expected them to: Misty draws near me during our afternoon snack time but finds herself unable to speak aloud once she spots me studying the notes taken by a younger girl beside me. Isabelle nods silently when I pass her a copy, making it obvious that she wants to talk to me but can only stare and swallow hard instead.
And so after school, I find myself forced into an impromptu meeting with her during which neither of us says anything.
Still, a little progress every now and again must count for something. My mood lifts slightly as I leave campus, realizing that by doing away with all social interaction with girls who care nothing for me whatsoever I can actually enjoy spending time with friends I actually do like talking to.
That evening we have dinner together and then walk home along a trail leading through the woods bordering Pallet Town toward Saffron City. All around us trees are blooming brilliantly in the spring sunshine, casting blue shadows across grassy fields where Pokemon go about their daily chores.
No doubt Brock runs a thriving poultry farm here somewhere while Ash looks after his garden. On our way back I turn to look over my shoulder; at least someone cares enough for me to visit. It isn’t until later though, lying beneath the same old sky, when it dawns on me why things suddenly seem different.
This town feels empty somehow, no Pokémon, no humans, just dirt roads and broken buildings. Only these aren’t even derelict structures anymore! They were still being maintained at one point in time … When was that? Right before everyone went missing?
The last of our kind, save maybe Red and Leaf Green trainers, spent years wandering the world searching desperately for traces of what had become of the human race. None came across anything.
Yet if this place hadn’t been deserted for so long and yet still looked so unharmed, surely somebody else would have stumbled across evidence sooner or later… Doesn’t that mean that while there might exist proof of life beyond our planet, humanity itself died off centuries ago, wiping itself clean off the map without leaving any clues as to its whereabouts?
While I’m lost in thought the sun sinks lower and lower behind the towering pines, illuminating everything under the cover of night in fiery shades of crimson, ochre, pink, and violet. Eventually, the sky grows pitch black once more, perhaps signaling a shift into another season, only now it happens instantaneously.
So much for seasonal cycles; their existence wasn’t relevant anymore anyway. As the stars emerge overhead I sit up and gaze upward, awed. Such beauty existed within the heart of nature for ages and then vanished just like that. Now it lingers faintly again, reminding us of what has passed away forever.
What an unimaginable tragedy: to see a million faces and never know whether one of them belongs to our loved ones. A sobering reminder that living beings don’t last very long, in whatever form they choose to assume, that our lives are brief and short and fleeting, but nevertheless a valuable experience that should be enjoyed to the fullest.
Perhaps it shouldn’t come as such a surprise that mankind failed to build anything lasting: after all, who could envision a future beyond mere survival, or even imagine the concept of tomorrow when the past is uncertain enough? We’re here, we live and love, and then poof —we’re done.
It makes perfect sense that all humanity chose to simply give up and die out rather than face extinction and struggle forward blindfolded with no hope of finding salvation.
I wonder, however, why everyone seems to feel that being alive is nothing special; after all, it’s just another fleeting moment. Why does nobody realize how precious it is, how rare and delicate the human condition is? Maybe some do understand, maybe even take advantage of the opportunity given to them.
Still, unless someone starts talking openly and freely about his thoughts I cannot possibly fathom what lurks in the minds of others. Being raised as a man in modern society may keep me from developing an appreciation of true freedom, but as far as I’m concerned it also helps prevent me from appreciating my life.”
As they returned home, Alkland headed toward one of the warehouses near where he had been living before enlisting in the Navy. He did not need anything specific at the moment and could use only a little time for himself anyway: he was happy with the company of friends and acquaintances, much happier than when he needed to be alone.
And if there were no people around, perhaps some kind soul would send him news or gossip so that the days passed by quickly enough until a visit from some relative arrived on short notice.
It usually did happen sooner rather than later—Alkland found out just how often family members called upon him while doing reconnaissance missions on land in the Earth-Moon system or visiting Earth orbit—but he was sure he could get more work done now that the caseload had dropped off.
At the end of January, he got a message summoning him to Kinskrath Station—the local personnel office wanted to talk to him and had sent the note without saying why exactly.
A little curiosity prompted Alkland to accept the summons instead of trying to find some excuse or delay: the latter move might cause resentment among those who knew what lay beneath his impromptu absences; he did not want to make enemies and hated people whose sole function seemed to be the pursuit of petty jealousy and spiteful rivalry, even though Alkland never turned such feelings back onto them. Such people did not deserve anyone’s respect or friendship, least of all Alkland. They came across as power mongers and bullies.
Some people simply took pleasure in their own sense of superiority, most frequently because they felt lacking, inadequate, and therefore entitled to other people’s sacrifices; what mattered was not whether this feeling actually justified itself but rather who else shared it.
But still, these self-appointed guardians of right conduct made people like Alkland cautious. How could you tell which side somebody fell on in a situation with multiple players? After all, how could anyone be certain whom any particular person meant harm for in order to accomplish something?
The answer was obvious: absolutely no one! Thus Alkland tried not to harbor any antipathy toward anyone and to be friendly in turn, no matter how unfair some things appeared to him. In a nutshell: try your best, then let God take care of the rest.
When he stepped into Kinskrath Station’s lobby, a tall middle-aged woman looked up from behind a counter and stared at him expectantly for a few seconds. “Good morning,” Alkland greeted her politely.
“Good morning yourself, Major Alkland.” She offered no further greeting beyond that. What would he have thought of the courtesy she extended to him otherwise? Alkland wondered. Would he think less of the military service he volunteered for if soldiers became so pushy that the very notion of civility sounded jarringly offensive to him?
Were rules of good behavior applicable only during peacetime, whereas under combat conditions soldiers would become fanatics so intent on serving their country as to completely disregard etiquette, consideration, and ethical considerations?
Yes, we can safely say, but would anybody care about our opinion if those regulations became necessary in the event of a conflict against other countries or, for instance, giant space monsters invading Earth, along with hordes of ravenous aliens eager to devour us all in a single gulp?
As a rule, Alkland refused to set foot inside buildings of any kind, not even open spaces, lest he hears words of praise directed toward his achievements, opinions, or wisdom, words of praise so crass they smacked of outright falseness and false modesty.
Nothing terrible ever happened to him at home thanks to this attitude. That day, however, he had accepted an assignment, and although the lobby contained empty tables, chairs, and sofas where people waited, nowhere did the old habit show itself, so Alkland went over to the desk in front of a bank of windows and sat down, waiting impatiently for someone to invite him to sit.
Finally, a young officer in a green camouflage uniform with a shiny silver insignia on the left breast pocket of his jacket approached and stood next to a short fat man in civilian clothing, a middle-aged balding fellow who was wearing an admiral’s hat.
Apparently, the lieutenant colonel accompanying the general was none other than Captain of Operations Alfred Linscott. No one spoke a word in reply to his greeting or gesture, apparently due either to politeness or fear of breaking out in rashes.
“General Channing requests your presence in conference room six, Lieutenant Colonel,” said Linscott without looking at him. The name itself raised dust in Alkland’s eyes; the guy really needed to get a new job, didn’t he?
As expected, once they reached the hall leading up to a door labeled 6, Alkland received nothing more than polite smiles from everyone here too—the receptionist, the men posted on duty nearby, and officers belonging to different companies, branches, and sections sitting around a table on the side of the hallway opposite the entryway.
It seemed they’d just been told to greet the major and nod when appropriate before returning to their work, while they continued to discuss what they were working on instead of listening to anything the man in the black suit might say, which clearly was something they used to do anyway.
For some reason, Alkland found himself wishing these guys would show proper respect and pay attention when it came time to listen to orders; obviously, the country’s top brass was meeting today to discuss the situation in the South China Sea and ways to counter the growing threat posed by the PLA and its increasing number of mobile naval task forces.
Having lived through all manner of events spanning four decades, including all sorts of catastrophes (including natural disasters) in which the U.S.’s vast superiority has proven meaningless, he knew how frightening things could get despite having overwhelming military advantages; as such, he wasn’t particularly optimistic, though if there was someone able to cope with the crisis in person, then he strongly believed that man must be Admiral Ziminsky.
There simply was nobody else worthy of comparison in this regard, nor anyone capable of taking charge better or being more inspiring and responsible than him. General Channing might perhaps come closer, yet it would require many years of experience as a commander before one got to a comparable level.
Channing’s knowledge was deeper than average because he hadn’t taken part in any combat actions, but to become a true war hero like that takes time.
The current crisis in Southeast Asia and the ongoing War of Tolerance could prove decisive; even if the American Navy won, the costs of such victory would be incalculable; if they lost, however, the damage caused wouldn’t be worth mentioning, especially given the possibility that they’d lose not only the Battle Group 2 but also the whole region.
Alkland shuddered at the thought: yes, indeed, he still remembered back when the South China Sea belonged to the Vietnamese, and Americans’ role had consisted of training locals; what horrors might happen now where he and his comrades fight alongside Chinese soldiers!
Alkland turned the key in the lock, pushed aside the red button affixed to the handle, and opened the door. A frosty silence pervaded the air inside as soon as the big black double doors parted, which was certainly uncharacteristic of military people whose professional routine typically involved talking throughout operations. Maybe Admiral Ziminsky had already delivered his prepared statement and left.
Despite feeling quite nervous after noticing no one paying any particular heed to his entrance, he stepped forward and made his way down the short corridor without bothering to knock since both front doors were wide open and thus made little sense.
That said, though he really didn’t know who all those armed men seated in two rows were, none of them looked in much of a hurry to leave, so the major assumed everything should be fine.