I have no idea what to call this.

A soft cry escapes, his head jerks upwards, staring with shocked eyes. Pages of paper slip from numb fingers; his hands are shaking. He stares for what seems minutes, anxious voices trying to grab his attention. His lips move, forming words without sound. With visable offort he pulls himself together.

"How? This's from him. But he's gone - how can this be from him?" He looks just like a lost little boy. Just like he did all those years ago...

Sighing, I drop my head into my hands, realsising suddenly he's not the only one shaking.

"I got an e-mail one day." Ali rolls his eyes, muttering something indecernable. Angie elbows him in the ribs. "It didn't say who it was from, he didn't have to."

Finally leaning back I gaze round at all of them. Rye still looks like I've just told him the world is flat. Angie looks confused, but tendrils of dread are slowly slipping through her mask. Mya stares back at me, the thirty-something smiling encouragingly. I swallow, I have no idea how to frase this.

"Will someone please, tell the rest of us that don't speak Vague, what the bloody hell is going on?" Ali scowls, easily ducking the swipe Angie aims for his head. One elbow sends the salt pot scattering powder over the table. A sheen of pure snow.

"Sorry. The e-mail was a diary, his memories. You remember the Demolition boys from the war? That's who it's from." I refuse to say his name, it still dredges up to much hurt. Still reveals to many flaws within myself I'd rather not examine. "Read it out. I, can't and I don't think Rye can either."

A tear runs down Mya's face, Rye's hidden in his hands. The only one of us uneffected seems to be a seventeen year old girl. Pathetic really, but then Ali, bravely begins to read his story. The one we really never knew.


As the days pass by and I find myself losing track, I fear I will be consumed. The irrational terror grips my soul, guiding my every movement - every command. Sometimes I wish that bloody war had never ended. I started training at fourteen. A year later it all became real. Yeah, I'm not lying, I find it hard to lie when I struggle to remember the truth. There were others like me, I wasn't the only one. We came from all over, military families, orphans and street kids, the one's no one wanted.

It was a dark time in the war, we were losing, civilians were dying. And for some reason that was unexceptable. The first ever place I was drafted to was a town close to the border in between the lines. Our enemy held it, and come hell or high water the higher ups wanted it freed. With minimum casualties.

They allowed us to fight as part of a regement. We'd infiltrate the enemy lines, blow them up - after all, who suspects a child? They didn't. We learned more in our first month than we ever did in training.

A couple of times I'd found a brick or rock or something in my pack. It was their way of pushing me, so they'd feel less guilty if I died. And some did die.
They took care of me - watched my back. And in return I kept smiling; trying to point out the positives, because no one else would. Then they died. They called this time 'Recompence.' What that was supposed to mean or apply to I have no idea. I'll always remember what happened after.