I’ve decided to write this in hopes that, somehow, it will end up in the other side, back in the world I came from, and, with this knowledge, that the people of my world can better educate themselves on the world I ended up coming to.
In order to do that, I will simply tell the story of the most important things that happened here ever since I transmigrated. That being said, this is not my story. It is the story of those that, with or without my influence, came to mold the world and the Movement I’m a part of now.
To do that, I’ll be relying on my own notes and journals, as well as with some interviews and conversations I had with the parties involved. I’m helped in my efforts to write this with the material support from the Movement – at the same time as I write this, I'm writing a very similar text, only the other one is destined for this world, with no mention of a different one, or of transmigration. The ‘censored’ version of this text will be useful for the movements propaganda campaign.
That being said, let's start the talking:
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The first thing you see when our story begins, dear reader, is a young man sitting atop a travel bag. The bag could be thought of as a very big bag, where it not responsible for carrying all the belongings off the boy, all 17 years of a life's history, all the clothing, books, notebooks, all the junk and knick-knacks that one can accumulate – everything – in a single bag.
The boy is resting both his hands and his chin is a large sword. He has sharp features, a hazelnut hair that is just begging to get out off shape, and his eyes seem to look very far, yet to nowhere in particular.
He sits there, and he waits.
.
.
.
.
At some point, a train stopped in front of him. In between the crowds coming and going, one officer in military uniform, a captain by the insignia in his chest, stops in front of the boy:
> “Hector?”
>
> “Yes, sir”, he said quietly, getting up from the travel bag.
>
> “Follow me” the officer said, turning back in the direction of the train from where he came from, and continued without looking at Hector – “And please leave the sword in the weapons cabin, they will return it to you if you have the papers to take it out to the third district.”
>
> “I’m afraid I didn’t manage to obtain them, sir.”
>
> “Then it will go into the Army deposit in your name, and you will be able to recover it if you get the papers or if you return to the second district.”
Hector’s jaws clenched and his eyes shifted for a bit, before following the officer and leaving his sword at the first cabin of the train.
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This scene might provoke some wondering amongst the readers about what kind of setting I’ve been transmigrated to, with trains and swords. Well, we’ll get there, but for now, you should know that I ended up going to a different version of earth. Same continents, same plants and animals, no magic. The only difference I could find is that in here, there are no explosives. No gunpowder. No combustion engine. there is still fire tho. It made me confused for a while, but when I went to ask someone that knew more physics than I ever did, he thought my idea of a rapid burning chemical reaction strange, since the heat generated by the chemicals naturally pushes the oxygen away, therefore regulating the rate of heat dispersal in a negative feedback loop.
In this world, if you try to light afire very energy rich substances, they end up putting themselves out by a lack of oxygen, and to be frank I have no clue as to why they don't back in my home world. So, something is different in the fundamental laws of our worlds, but only barely.
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This, in turn, means that history is diferent, of course. The first changes I could identify with certainty is that the City of Constantinople did not fall for the Ottomans in the XV century (altho I’m sure there were other smaller differences, but as my memory isn’t perfect I simply don’t remember the exact details from our world to compare). After that, we have some crazy butterfly effect. The industrial revolution still happens, as coal is a burning substance, and not an explosive one, but no diesel or gasoline engine comes after that. And, again, no gunpowder, so swords and melee combat never really left the mainstream.
Well, that is about all the infodump you need for now to make sense of things as I tell the story. I’ll keep explaining things as they come up.
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Hector was placed in a cabin further back, where two other junior officers helped raise his baggage to the compartment above his head. The Captain gave instructions to one of the Cadets to guide him to his destination and left both of them. They sat, and the Cadet got uncomfortable with the silence very quickly:
> “I heard what happened with your uncle. I was there at the funeral. Heard he was one of the greats - I can’t believe they are throwing you out just like that.”
>
> “Don’t worry about it.”
>
> “No really, how can they let this happen to the child of one the best Steam Knights in the Whole of Francia! that’s …”
>
> “I wasn’t his child, he was just my uncle”, he corrected, slightly annoyed, “and really, don’t worry about it. In six months I’ll be eighteen and I’ll be able to enlist. I shall probably have no trouble getting my spot back in the officer’s academy through the normal civilian test. And until then, Lieutenant Peterson has arranged a pension for me with meals included”.
>
> “Oh” he said, losing some steam, just to get it back up “so, you plan on enlisting and going back? I don’t know if I’d recommend that, you know? It is a tuff life. Tuff but good you know? I myself just got in. My father said it builds character, you know? That sort of thing that fathers usually say…”
Sometimes Hector still found himself surprised with how insensitive people who grew up with parents can be. Even if they know you are an orphan, they almost always talk as if they understood you (or as if you understood them). He wasn’t particularly upset with the lack of sense from the man, but back in the barracks where he grew up, some of the guys would have picked a fight half as much said or unsaid.
Either way, the Cadet lost all his (already little) interest in the conversation with the second faux pas and he started to look through the window while half listening to his travel companion. In half an hour, they would be leaving the massive gates of the second district, and for the first time in his life Hector would be leaving the enormous military base. He thought about the friends he was leaving behind - it would be a bit more than a year until they met once again – if he, in fact, got good grades in the academy test – (and if they didn’t flunk any of their current preparatory classes).
Hours latter, after disembarking from the train into a smaller Urban Tram, and from the Tram walking uphill with the heavy baggage for quite a while, they got into the pension he was to stay in, and only then did Hector manage to get a few moments of silence, with the Cadet finally leaving his side.
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The Pension was a four stories tall corner building, made from exposed white stone. It seems to try to go for a Neoclassical look, but the lack of resources was notable, and not in a minimalist fancy way. In truth, the same could be said about the whole neighborhood. Nuestra Señora de la Soledad was located in the west part of the city, in the outer reaches of the third zone, nearring the Third Defense Line. It used to be the neighborhood of Spanish emigrants, but after The Greatest War and the massive refugee waves, poor Brits ended up occupying most of the area.
Hector came to the reception, where he met Mr. Cortez, mostly known by the locals as Senor Bigode. Middle age, fat, bald, but with an impressive mustache that protects his lips from viewing even when he speaked. Sñ. Bigode is the pension owner and caretaker. He began, after a couple of long stairs, to show Hector where he would be living for the next months: his bedroom, a small living space, just enough for a bed, a table, a closet and enough space to walk from one furniture to the next. It had an averaged sized window in front of the desk.
Sñ. Bigode then showed him the shared Bathroom that he would be dividing with the other pensionista, (There were three bedrooms on each floor, but theirs, the 2, had only two rented rooms), the kitchen was downstairs, on the first floor, as well as a cafeteria and dining hall, where all the people that had paid to have their meals provided by the pension ate.
Then he got started on the rules: all the usuals, no smoking, no drugs, no alcohol, no escorts or “friends sleeping by” (Sñ. Bigodes used to say that line in a tone that suggested he was mocking someone), no dirtiness, no loud noises, especially not at night or early morning. – “And no trouble” – he would always end the shpiel.
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Hector walked up the stairs, alone for the first time since embarking on the train.
He laid on his new bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering what was to come of this new life.