It’s a quarter to dusk. The dark blue moon, sixth of the twelve, stirs into penumbra. The red sun hides beneath it, their lights mix into a range of purple and blue that cut the gray battlement of clouds that dot the skyline, thinning them into multi-colored strips between the black smokes that come out from the encampment below. The day has begun to eclipse into the night. Outside of this tent, under the red-and-white forest, below the shadow of a once space-faring labyrinth, hushed between the loud cicadas and the moaning of the injured and the undead, moving beyond this dinky field hospital, following the droves of motor-carriage carrying the same, then drift further and further still, for more than a kin's eyes could reach, away and away to beyond the distance, to the horizon, to the theaters of war…

To the south, along the ruined grass field, the storming rain waged war against gravity, falling down still, like watery bombardment from above, despite the miracles of war shifting reality away from the hold of the earth. Where grand spells of levitation lift men from the earth and flung them to heaven and artillery shells containing resurrection agent gas rolls down like fog that engulfed the land. The Equatorial front. A still picture arrived in the newspaper this morning, where shapes of kin stuck out like nails hammered into the empty sky, their faces obscured by the photographer’s light. When one's eyes shift when beholding this sight, their body follows, even when the sight is forever condemned to be frozen inside the still picture frame.

To the north, where salt plains froze under the forever summer’s sun, black milk of industry worms underneath the drum of failed revolutions. Kin upon kin would duke it out on the street, in their houses, and inside the once-decadent cities of wealth that have since passed. The War of the Coups. The All-War took a different shape here, for there is no open violence of nations clashing upon nations but between brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers, where the young and old ideologies of hundreds of cultures assimilate and then die, all for the benefit of foreign powers. Last week, a convoy of goods arrived at the front, bringing with it crucial supplies for the war to yet reign on for another day - hallucinogenic, spice, and most important of all, drums upon drums of black milk.

To the west, in the land of the papers, giants bear their weight upon the earth. Moving castles, land wyrms, and golems endure the waves of bodies that are thrown upon their footsteps. Where time seemed to unwound and cycle endlessly unto a repeating loop of the same day, the same casualty, the same distance. The Monolithic front. Within these rough, mountainous lands, discontent grew at the ink point of a pen. An age from now, what was written will become truth: the morals of power and powerlessness, the measurement of a soul, and the will-to-power unravel by the musing of a row of inmates. Their stories will destroy life as all'd know it.

A ball rolled along the creeks formed by the endless shuffling of tires from the motor carriage, toward the medical tent. Within a moment, something snapped between the frames, pulling focus back from the grandiosity of the entire world’s machination to the tiny, insignificant joy of a game of balls between exhausted, foreign workers and the odd off-duty soldiers here and there. And with it, the creature realized it was yet in the body of a man again, not some disembodied, all-encompassing, preachy, abrasive voice of a narrator.

You are here again, eastward.

Eastward, from what?

From the Beltic front, even if commanders and captains stationed here would not dare to admit it. Where the major powers set up hospitals and fancy hotels for the troops to stay and recover from the bloodier battle at sea or in the colonial footholds. They would like to believe that they, too, were also of use to the naval blockade and the bloody coastal battles. These lazy, colonial, imperial, “civilized '' skirmishes between squabbling nobles and wealthy sons of merchants serve as a suitable veneer for honor and, to them, a mark of personal character and intelligence. Where captains waive off civilian casualty and plan fights like planning a move inside a board game, and the notion of “sportsmanship” can be applied to gross murder of kin. But most important of all…

They plunder. Plunder the earth. Plunder the tomb. Plunder the very memories of the world itself. The birthplace of kin, as animacy knows it, carved and minced into palatable, profitable, pocketable pieces for personal collections and foreign museums. And, to not starve, to not thirst, to read and to write, to rise beyond the mere the benefit of just being alive, so too will the creature join in with the native of this land and the soldier that he served alongside to indulge this mindless hunger of the elite.

A hunger for their stories.

To be gawked at, eventually. In a historical textbook, perhaps.

As a pitiful example of how bad it could be, maybe.

“Hey. Hey? Are you with me?”

A voice snapped my attention away from it. My mind wandered back into my skull.

“How long was I out?”

“About as long as it takes for drools to reach the tip of your chin. Was it the ball rolling that roused you up?”

“Phrasing?” I tried to joke. It was short, but a pretty quip, I thought.

“Perhaps. Still, the question is raised.” But it didn’t phrase the woman at all.

“No. Not fully. The narration spun into a hostile tone toward me. Pessimistic and accusatory. It - I, wake myself up.”

The doctor folds her fingers together, her pen dangling between them, back and forth and back again as she ponders my statement.

“About your prior statement before the trance. *I can’t remember who I was, or what i am*, verbatim. Was it total and absolute displacement or erasure of the very concept of the current reality that you referred to, or is it something more simple like… losing your memory or vivid hallucination?”

You felt it in your guts. It ain’t that simple as the neurons not firing right within that trash heap you called your head. Not merely the work of some catastrophic failure or total decline of function. More like the mixing, entanglement, between the tapes of a pile of cassettes. Like viewing yourself while you are tumbling down an endless collection of stairs, located entirely within strange geometry and framed only in the reflections cast through a room of mirrors.

“Displacement. An inflated sense of hyper-reality. I’m not sure about erasure… but I do get confused. I’m pretty sure I am not hallucinating yet. I hope.”

The doctor shuffles her paper around, before picking up her pen again. It took a minute for her to finish noting down what she must have interpreted from that pure, simple statement. I remained silent even as my curiosity and perhaps dread, took hold of my attention to every line of ink.

“Hmm.” She mulls.

“Yes?”

“Your name in this document. Perdido un Vergoti. You haven’t updated it with the nurses after you’ve been discharged?”

Perdido un Vergoti. A placeholder name, an abbreviation of a common expression, roughly translated to “the one that has left for the far station”. One that is given to many of the bodies that couldn’t be identified first as a habit, then as a practice to deal with a new and common problem stemming from the use of heavy artillery and grand miracles on the war front - the absolute obliteration of mass and form.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

And now, the creature must have realized, the obliteration of the soul, too.

Out here in the front, as soon as they are enlisted and before a wand could be given to them, each soldier would be given a nickel silver comb carved with their name and serial carved on the front and birthplace and battalion on the underside, which gives them a better chance at having a named grave. Something not afforded to the many foreign and poorer members of the labor corps that they’ve employed to march with them to the battlefield. Something that has not been afforded to me.

It's because they do not fight, the top brass argued, that such things would be meaningless to have. Most of these workers come from regions that issued recruiters to explicitly confirm they are not to be involved in the war. In some parts, the scheme was to feint neutrality while still supporting and gaining monetary benefits from the warring empires, and the other, less outspoken part is to get rid of the waste of breath that crowded their poorer countryside while still keeping a healthy amount of troops to join in the war if the wind blows favorably to one side or the other.

But that is the plot of nations. To these laborers, to the lieutenant, to me… a fireball does not differentiate between one body to the next. It does not know nor does it care if the fiery hell it inflicts be on the willing or the will not. It explodes. Neutrality be damned. Destruction is guaranteed.

“Interesting. That was a second trance?”

“H-Huh? Ah, right. Yes.” I nurse the temple of my head against my palm. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sounds of rushing blood.

The doctor, apparently satisfied with my returned clarity, pour herself a cup of tea. Apparently, I’ve been gone long enough for her to brew it. She tasted it, and grimace. Figures. Not the best place to be having tea, this place. The moisture and bad packaging going to do that to your tea.

“Shorter, this time. How far did you go?”

“Not much, if you count by distance or time. It's just normal musing. Elaborating on a context, I think, of the name. Like hearing a teacher explain something that I should have known, but have forgotten how to recall myself.”

I wait again for the doctor's judgment. Meditating inside my head, almost. Thinking slowly, abruptly. Short and sweet.

It’s quiet.

“You're not going away on me again now, are you?”

“No, doc. I am here to stay, for the time being.”

“If you need to, I can be patient, no need to-”

“I am fine, doc. So let's get back to… whatever we were doing.”

The pen clicks in response, and ink is ready to be drawn under its tip. The doctor looked at me expectantly. Ah, right. The problem of naming me.

No use in recalling it now, the images, the sounds, the innate recognition of a given identity of your own have escaped you. Forever. Shake your head.

I shook my head.

“Alright. One more to the station for the day, I suppose.” She picked up a red stamp and pressed it on the paper, where my name was supposed to be. It's official, then.

“Then, Vergoti, your true name?”

“Seven-Eyed Wolf.” I scratched my hollow cheekbones and tasted the dry air as the words left my tongue. The word came naturally, without much resistance. Power compelled. Miracle made.

“That's one of the more beautiful ones. Fairy root, I think. Seems south oceanic. They liked the eye motif there.”

“Demon. It felt dry inside my throat. I can’t confirm the location. Nothing seemed to come up. Sorry.”

“Alright.” She noted it down.

In an earlier time, an earlier tradition, there would have been a discussion on the merit of the name on this woman's part as a researcher of the miracle craft. Of the name’s meaning, of its worth. It is now widely understood: that true names have no meaning. They are just titles. Recognition is their worth.

“Your circles?”

“Circle. On the right wrist. Just the one.”

“I assume the others are?”

“Yeah. One on the back of my nape. One between the shoulder blades. One at bottom of my left foot. All cracked when I uh, perished, presumably. As you can see,” I touched my neck and show it to her, just to check. “Yeah. It's gone. You can probably see the scars.”

“Hmm. That going to take at least a lifetime to make up for and heal your capability for miracles. Did you recover the gems?”

“No. It was gone when I woke up.”

“A pity. That is going to be expensive to replace. I guess your sight deteriorate since then?” She motioned at the cumbersome pair of glasses that is currently resting on my nose.

I nodded. “That, and well, I think the aesthetic suits me. And no, doc, I’m not going to replace it. Cost too much.”

“Well, I’m sure you can get some of the cheaper ones. Many doctors sell used gems under the hood after an operation to replace them, which I do not recommend but understood the temptation to if your pocket is light.”

“Is that advertisement for your business, then?”

“I don’t engage in the field, but know people who got rich doing it. Not that it isn’t tempting or illegal, but I am well off enough that I don’t have to place my wealth in a competition with my morals.”

“I see.”

She nodded, “Now then, your birth?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your place of birth. The date, too, if you can manage it. Occupation, travel…”

“Oh. Are you-” I noticed that she had pulled up an entirely blank registration page.

“Yes. It seemed the paperwork for you was shoddy, to say the least. Well, not that we really keep track of the labor corps. Most have the bare minimum filled out by their recruiter before they even left for here. But sadly, I don’t think we managed to locate yours.”

“I… don’t know. Couldn’t you leave it blank?”

“I could, yes, but I’d much rather not have the captain breathing down my neck later on. It is a war after all, and spies and saboteur is supposedly a dime and a dozen. I’d still hope to write a paper about the medical implication of this whole nasty business when I return from the front line if I do return. And being implicated as a sympathizer to the enemy would probably destroy that plan.”

I rub my eyebrows.

You were born amidst a crimson sky. Your birth saw the end of another great civilization. You were alive to be a slave.

“Nothing comes up. Just nonsense. Grandiose, to boot.”

“I guess we are at an impasse here. Your records are scant, so I can’t exactly… It’s amazing that you managed to get the treatment and send it back here. Must be some sort of logistic mistake that they didn’t throw you elsewhere or shoot you on the spot.”

“Well, we can still have this talk without worrying about it?”

“We could yes, it just. Hmm… how about this? I am going to document this as civilian treatment, which is usually something reserved for collateral casualties by the occupying force. So, us.”

“What would be the differences?”

“A total sign off your service’s medical benefit. You will not be able to approach or sign off for further treatment without proof of injuries - in this case, you can’t argue for a treatment to your-”

“Death?”

“Yes. If there is any future injury from it, you will not be compensated or treated without proof that it was caused by war. Well, you could. But it will be difficult, and costly.”

“I see.”

“...And, while I will still treat you as any other service member that will be put before me, I can’t guarantee any other doctor will do the same if you happen to be transferred to the front in the future. There is only an ethical, but not codified, law on non-combatant right to life in effect. Unspoken law. Anything further than that and, well...”

“Doc, what choice do I have?”

“You can postpone this. Even if I am curious about your recovery, I will not fault you for not wanting to continue. The question is: do you feel like you need medical, no, chemical, help? I can prescribe hallucinogens that will perhaps alleviate the headaches or the sense of removal or displacement from your body. But it will *not* helps you recover from it. If you are patient, once we got the paperwork cleared up or your memory refreshed enough to give me a name…”

What now?

You feel fine. No, *fine* is perhaps the wrong word. You feel there.

So *there* in fact that it needs what it *felt* like described to it. Pray tell, have it remembered its faces?

You only have one head. There are no faces on it.

“Doc, do me a favor before we continue…”

“Yes?”

“I can’t see my face. I can feel it, yes. But it will not show up. Not in the dreams. Not in the mirror. Not in the reflection of the water of the painting that the lieutenant made of me. Even amateurish as they are.”