I don't understand nationalism.
Maybe I did once when I was young. Back then everything seemed simple. You grow up hearing the stories, the slogans, the speeches. You wear the flag like it means something deep. Something pure. And maybe it did. Or maybe it was just easy to believe when you didn't know better.
My country fought for independence. We won technically. We got the papers, the anthem, the fake smiles on TV. But what did we really win? Cities crumbled. Graves dug too deep, too wide. Families left with pictures instead of people. It didn't feel like a beginning. It felt like someone forgot to end the war.
I used to fight with purpose. Believed I was protecting something. Turns out I was just useful until I wasn't. The moment I stopped nodding they turned. I became the threat, not the man who pulled children out of burning homes. Not the man who stood his ground when others ran. They couldn't afford someone they couldn't control.
So they did what they always do. They rewrote me. Turned me into a symbol of betrayal. A traitor. Not a soldier. Not a hero. Just a name on a list. An article on the sixth page of a paper no one reads. I stopped fighting for flags after that. I fought to survive. Nothing more.
Now I'm a 43-year-old ghost in a mercenary unit, knee-deep in African soil, fighting for foreign pay. We're an ugly mosaic—French, Central African, ex-soldiers, drifters, young kids like Daye. He's the only one I bother to remember by name.
"Hey Cap. If we survive this one, you're buying the drinks this time eh."
I didn't look over. "You never pay."
He laughed. "That's 'cause I keep almost dying for you."
"Almost doesn't count."
"Tell that to the guy who missed me by an inch this morning."
I shook my head, barely suppressing a smile. He always had something to say. No matter how bad it got, Daye joked like the bullets were just background noise.
We were clearing out a convoy route. Nothing new. They'd holed up in a hillside shack near the road. Rifles sticking out the windows like porcupine quills. Local militia with enough training to be dangerous. Not enough to be smart.
We went in silent. Uphill. Through the brush. Three ahead. I was middle.
First contact. One of them leaned out. I didn't think. Just raised the rifle and dropped him with a clean double tap to the chest. His partner screamed. Sprayed wildly. I rolled left. Closed the gap. My shoulder hit the wall and I pivoted through the broken frame of the door.
Two more inside. One aimed. I moved first. Grabbed the barrel. Twisted. His finger pulled the trigger too late. My elbow cracked into his jaw. Sent him stumbling back. I caught the second with the butt of the rifle under the chin. He went limp.
Room clear.
Daye stepped in behind me. "I swear you see in slow motion."
"Just fast enough not to die."
That morning we returned to camp. The base wasn't much. A few walls. An old shipping container. Sandbags that hadn't been replaced in months. The kind of place people forget exists until someone burns it down.
I sat near the fence. Resting against a crate. The cigarette was bitter and stale. But it was something. Daye joined me again. Squatting with his back to a fuel drum.
"We did alright."
I didn't reply. The smoke hung between us.
"We saved those women in the second truck. That has to count for something."
I glanced over at him. He wasn't smiling now. Just staring ahead. Thoughtful.
"It does. It does."
That night, I took the first watch. The wind carried the smell of burnt rubber and rain. One of the newer guys — a quiet kid we pulled from the remains of a village raid — was resting near the shed. Thin arms. Tired eyes. Couldn't have been older than thirteen. Daye brought him in. Insisted he stay.
Around 3:20 AM, I handed the shift to one of the Frenchmen and tried to catch a little sleep near the truck.
I don't know how long I was out. Minutes. Maybe less. But I woke up in a snap.
My chest tightened. Not from noise. Not from anything I could see. Just a feeling. Low in the gut. Tight behind the ribs. Like something heavy pressing from the inside.
My heart beat faster. But not like fear. It was sharper. Focused.
I sat up. The night was quiet. Too quiet.
I checked my rifle. Checked the dark. Then—
Gunshots. Short. Tight bursts. Not random. Coordinated.
I rolled behind a fuel drum just as the east wall exploded inward. The compound lit up in fire and screams.
Voices. Shadows. The air reeked of blood and fuel.
Daye's voice cut through the smoke. "Cap. They're inside already. Some of ours let 'em in."
He was dragging a wounded man. Limping. Bleeding. Fighting.
I stood. Aimed. Dropped two in quick succession. One had been about to shoot Daye. The other was sprinting toward the comms tent.
"Back to the rear fence. Pull back."
One came at me directly. Tall. Fast. I let him close. Then shifted my stance. Rifle to the side. I stepped in and drove a knee into his gut. He folded. I slammed his head down on my forearm. Clean. Gone.
We fought like cornered animals. No formations. No tactics. Just instinct and grit. I lost track of time. Every corner brought another flash. Another dead man.
I made my way toward the north side. That same pressure in my chest pulsed. Danger. Close.
The shed door swung open.
The kid. The one we saved.
He stepped out holding a launcher. Too big for him. His hands trembled. His eyes darted. Not panicked. Just… unsure.
"Put it down."
"They promised me food. Real food. And money."
His voice cracked. It sounded almost ashamed.
I kept my eyes on him. No anger.
"You did what you thought was right."
He blinked hard. Then pulled the trigger.
I don't remember hitting the ground. Just the burst. The impact. The metal in my side.
When I opened my eyes, the smoke was everywhere. The sound was distant. Like underwater.
The kid stared at me. Still holding the launcher. Frozen.
Then he dropped it and ran.
I saw Daye go down in the chaos. Reaching. Maybe calling out. It all blended.
And then—
Metropolitan Tokyo. The poorest slums of the city. Sanya district, Arakawa Ward. 04:56 PM.
The first thing I noticed was the cold. Not jungle cold. Concrete cold. Thin. Soaked through me.
A heavy wetness pressed at my side. My cheek stuck to something gritty. I opened my eyes slowly. Blinking through blurry shapes and gray light. I was lying on the pavement. An alley. Narrow. Littered with trash. Rusted cans. An overturned shopping cart. The smell hit next. Rot. Stale grease. Urine.
I tried to sit up. My body didn't listen at first. My arms were too light. Hands smaller than I remembered. Joints stiff. I pulled my knees in slowly. Leaned against the nearest wall.
The sky above was blank and overcast. Distant city sounds filtered in. Tires over puddles. Conversations I couldn't understand. Footsteps that didn't stop.
I looked down. My clothes were baggy. Torn in places. Soaked through. My skin. Paler. Unfamiliar. My breath fogged lightly. My feet were bare.
A man walked past the alley entrance. Glanced in for a second. Then moved on. Nothing in his face. No curiosity. No concern.
I stayed like that for a while. I didn't panic. Just watched the cracks in the wall across from me. Watched the rats move around a pile of cardboard. My throat was dry. Stomach aching.
I didn't understand what happened. Last I remembered, I was bleeding out. Half my ribs shattered. A war zone.
And now I was here. In a city I didn't recognize. In a body that wasn't mine. With pain that felt dull but constant. No dramatic signs. No voices in my head. Just hunger. Cold. And the sound of a city that didn't care.
I leaned my head back. The wall felt like ice. I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. I didn't even know where I was. Or who I was supposed to be.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just breathed.
One breath at a time.
It was the only thing that made sense.
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Hey to you all. Hope you're doing well, actually I was bored since I have nothing to do these days, so I'm writing for the fun, leave your thoughts on the prologue, since I'm trying my best to write this. love y'all.