Slowly he made his way through the old town square, the heart of Rohania, and saw the boarding school he was educated in before the revolution began. The four pillars holding up its white stone roof were now cracked and broken, one of the pillars nothing more than a pile of broken white stone. A rusty sign hung loosely off the front of the building, peppered with bullet holes, but Spurious could still make out the name — The Rohanian Boarding School for Boys.
Spurious slid his hands into his pocket and gazed at the sign, tucking his face back into his collar just in time to shield himself from a cold blast of wind. He shuddered, freezing, but did not move, his eyes locked on the old school house. The last time he heard the voice of his parents was also the last day he saw this place.
He could vividly remember his teacher Elma, a little old demon of a woman with deep wrinkles and a nasty cough, coming to retrieve him from class and take him to the office of Superintendent Angelo. It was there, in that dimly lit room, he was informed half-heartedly of the untimely death of his parents. The next day he was shipped off to the Tisaian Academy for Youth. He had thought The Rohanian Boarding School for Boys was hell, but it wasn’t until he entered TAFY he truly understood what it meant to be miserable.
Another gust of wind shook Spurious out of his trance. He was exhausted, freezing and petrified he would be caught, but now he knew he was close to his old apartment. Tucking his head back into his collar he pressed on, his walk turning into a jog down the narrow brick street.
He pushed his way through the citizens, ignoring their gloomy faces and disregarding the smell of broiled cabbage filling his nostrils with every step. In the distance he could make out a market area where vendors displayed vegetables and fruits grown on rooftops and community gardens.
Spurious continued on, paying little attention to the shouts of the vendors who desperately tried to sell their goods. He would not let the noise of the crowd distract him from his mission of finding the place he once called home.
The state of the buildings could not help but remind him of the refugee camp he visited less than a year ago. The camp was called Halo by the State, but was known by the locals as The Inferno. Its purpose was to house all immigrants captured and awaiting deportation. The conditions at Halo were atrocious, and the State purposely built the camps far from Lunia, hiding the view from the State employees. Spurious had toured the camp to become familiar with the plumbing upgrades the State had commissioned to help mitigate the stench the camps created.
He knew comparing Rohania to Halo was a considerable exaggeration, but he also knew many of the residents, especially those dwelling in the Boondocks, were not living to see the age of fifty. He’d seen the statistics himself in a report a few months ago. These few notorious blocks were a black hole, and he was being extra cautious not to drift into their dark alleyways.
By mid-afternoon he was exhausted, struggling to make his way down the winding cobblestone streets. It seemed like he was traveling in circles.
Shaking his head, he veered down one last street he hadn’t seen before, realizing he might never find his old flat where he had spent his youth.
He tucked his hands deep in his pockets, and surveyed the new alley for a sign from the past. And right when he thought about giving up he saw it — a metal door covered in two-by-fours.
His calm stride transitioned into a jog as he made his way towards the door. Seconds later two gargoyle faces carved into the thick wood came into focus, their ugly faces barely recognizable behind the wooden boards imprisoning them.
Spurious stopped as he reached the door, raising his hand to the soft wood exterior and running his fingers across the incredibly smooth impressions of the gargoyle’s faces. He remembered this place. It was the door he used to sneak out of when his mother had chores for him to do.
Finally, I’ve found it!
He paused, overcome with nostalgia. Moments later, he was rushing back down the alley towards the front entrance, quickly noticing the red brick wall ended where he remembered the front of the building used to be. It was here a wall of white stone had been constructed and connected to the red brick of the old building. Puzzled, he took his first right onto a sidewalk, and looked up at what should have been the entrance to his old building. Instead, the same white stone wall towered over him; no door or windows, just stone.
His eyes scanned the exterior of the building, stopping on the remnants of an old CRK poster flailing loosely in the wind. The ghostly blue glow of a Knight’s goggles stared back at him. It was the same image posted throughout Rohania and Lunia, one he was accustomed to seeing on a daily basis, but he read the words he had memorized nonetheless.
Do It for Your Future! Secure Your Spot in the World’s Last Honorable Army — Sign up for the CRK Today.
The poster, riddled with bullet holes, was in the wrong neighborhood. And its frayed edges implied it had been there some time. He shuddered at the propaganda, his eyes fixating back on the stone wall.
What was the State hiding? The white stone appeared new, smooth and almost polished, like weathered bones. It was a clear error by whoever designed it, if their intent was to hide something. Or, it was a warning to keep away. Spurious wasn’t sure, but as he examined the exterior of the wall closely, he realized the material did not match anything he had seen in Rohania, which meant the State had hired a contractor to come in and build the wall to cover up the building.
Spurious plopped down on a park bench across the street, studying the building, while questions raced through his head. He sat for what seemed like an hour, the urge to find a way into the building growing inside him. And yet he stayed, contemplating his past and watching the faces of strangers pass.
Ten years ago he would have recognized nearly every face, but now they were no different than the faceless Knights. He realized it had been over ten years since he last saw Rohania. Up until today, he had no desire to remember the past, and especially not to revisit it. Yet for some reason, his conversation with Lana compelled him to seek answers to questions suppressed for years.
A group of children ran by him, their laughter distracting him momentarily, and for the first time in the day he smiled. He remembered what it was like to be a child; to run and play and not have worries, and above all, to be free. The last time he felt any of those things he was living in the building across the street from where he sat, a building now covered by a mysterious stone wall.
A small piece of paper caught his eye as he looked down at the brick street. His eyes followed it as it floated in the breeze, until it came to a stop next to his left boot. He reached down to pick it up, frowning as he realized it was just another advertisement for the CRK. In fact, it was the same image posted to the stone wall across the street from him. The only difference was that the last sentence read “Become a foot soldier.”
The unmistakable sound of a loud speaker broke out in the distance, shocking Spurious from the bench. He instantly followed the noise, curious about the source. Carefully he maneuvered his way back into the crowd. He pushed through the patrons, catching the occasional sound of the loudspeaker in the distance. Standing on his toes, he tried to see over the heads of the people in front of him, but to no avail. A block later he came to the market area where his mother used to hunt for cheap food.
In the center of the cobblestone plaza, a growing crowd gathered around a black truck bearing a CRK logo across its midsection. In the bed were two heavily armed soldiers, their machine guns pointed at the growing crowd. Between the two guards, a man dressed in military fatigues handed out the same yellow flyers Spurious held tightly in his hand.