Returning to Aetherpeak was slightly strange. The news of the war had not seemed to spread here yet, though Nero expected it would be only a few hours at most before that changed. It was early in the day, Nero literally hadn't even had breakfast yet, but people were still out and about.
There were the ever present police patrols - those never really stopped no matter the time or day. But as they drove deeper into the city, more and more pedestrians were visible. Almost everyone was walking with a sense of urgency, probably because it was not so early that offices had not opened yet. Many of the people on the road were probably late for work.
But occasionally, a person could be seen casually strolling by. Most of the time it was an older person, or someone with some kind of wound. Amputees were a common sight, and even when they wore their prosthetics, their gait would often give them away. Prosthetics were usually lighter than the limb they replaced, and over time, that translated in how people walked.
Nero had long learned how to identify them.
Regardless, whether it was the wounded or the aged, they often seemed to treat life with a… Nero was running short of words. If he was being earnest, then he would say they were cavalier about life. If he was being polite then he would say they had a carefree attitude. Neither of those were exactly right, though.
Whatever it was, they had their own place among the community. In fact, most community centres were run by amputees and wounded veterans. They were also common in orphanages.
Nero could not help but wonder what their role would become in the war. Would they be volunteers? Would they take over the civil jobs formerly done by those who were about to be drafted?
In the cars around them, Nero could see parents driving their young children to school - kids who were barely four or five years old. How would the kids feel when one or both their parents had to be drafted?
To an extent, he could imagine. After all, when he was very young, his mother was still in active service. Patrick never talked about it, but he had let slip once or twice every time their mother went away on a mission.
Their father was, more or less, always around. Even if he was doing missions, they never learned of it. In fact, if he hadn't disappeared recently, Nero would have thought that he was long retired from the Whisper Guard. He just seemed much too ordinary on normal days.
As the car continued to drive through the city, Nero couldn't help but take it all in. Whether it was the traffic, the pedestrians, the street stalls, shops, patrol cars, all of it. It was all about to change, and he didn't know if it would ever be the same.
Nero looked out at the mountains in the distance. It was funny, even though the fog prevented any of them from actually climbing those peaks, they had been the most fixed constant in Nero's life. Yet now, oddly enough, that constant was to some degree the source of the change that was happening.
Even though he tried to distract himself, during the last leg of their drive, Nero could not help but feel melancholy. He knew that the moment he stepped off this car, he would not allow himself to rest. If his schedule had been hectic before, it would be even more so now.
Footer was right, Nero felt uncomfortable if he didn't have a plan of action, something to guide him in the direction he wanted to go. Even if there were too many uncertainties to plan adequately, he would do what was in his power.
He would scrutinise every detail, consider every possible action that could help him in the future, and begin preparing to the best of his ability. He would gather more cards. He would train with weapons. He would learn everything he could about the Eldrim and their ruins. He would do it all.
Which was why, for now, he allowed himself to get caught up in the swirl of emotions he would have no time for. A small part of himself even wondered if Patrick was still alive, and if this would affect him somehow.
But his mother had been very direct with him. There was an over 90% casualty rate amongst convicts who were sent to the front lines, even though that meant cursed zones and not the actual front lines of any war. At the same time, his father told him they never got a letter confirming that he was killed in action.
Or maybe they did. Their house had been empty for quite a while now. Who knew what kind of letters were there, waiting for them?
"This is your stop," Footer said, as he drove up in front of the hostel gates. "Before you do anything else, I recommend you go and talk to Ms. Zim. Chances are, she'll get caught up in the draft as well, in which case she'll want to leave you with some words of wisdom."
"Thanks. Try not to die, because I won't have time to attend your funeral."
Footer snorted,and then handed Nero a plaque.
"Your commendation."
Nero was surprised he actually got it, but he didn't care too much about it - until he realised it was made from actual wood!
He immediately grabbed it and couldn't help stare at it. He did not care for the praise of exceptional bravery, though he was very pleased with his name being engraved in it. He couldn't believe he had a piece of wood with his actual name on it!
The texture was not exactly smooth, but his fingers flowed over it easily, as if it welcomed his touch.
"Damn, this is pretty cool," he could not help but say out loud, which just got him another snort from Footer. The past few hours had been the most expressive he had been in months, probably even years.