Commander Kenneth Buttermilch sighs heavily. He turns to the right. One step, two steps. His thick brow bent as he stares at the ground. A look of disbelief? Perhaps at someone who shouldn’t have been found—but relieved he finally gets to tell a tale?

The Commander’s train of thought breaks—the man looks up at me. His captivating cyan eyes with a hint of green reticle seemingly penetrates through time itself—and javelins straight through my soul. The cells keeping their watery convicts sealed can’t help but shatter into an ocean from the impact.

“Well,” the Commander says, scratching his clean-shaven chin, “I lost my train of thought there, but,” he frowns—or a thinly disguised smirk. “If I recall correctly this is entry seventy-two or seventy-three.” I stiffen up, my knees hurting as if his words are like piercing arrows.

“Commander Kenneth Buttermilch of the MSN Yilan,” Buttermilch recites. His crystalline gaze darts the room as if calculating what to say or not. He opens his mouth to speak but remains silent. He walks from behind the desk towards me. I do my best to maintain pose—the simple desire to see this through to the end, with professionalism that was drilled into me. All the while, the tears are left unchecked, streaming down my face. Doing what I can to keep my chin up.

But the closer Buttermilch gets, the more I find myself racked with anxiety. The guilt beats with ease and without issue. “It should…” I gasp, “it should be you that—“

The holographic ghost cuts me off. “I can’t even remember the last time I even made a recording,” I want to cup my mouth. But I refuse to yield. The carnal desire to break down in front of Buttermilch is simply too much—but this must be done. This has to happen.

Buttermilch continues—as if waiting for me to hold it together. Letting me have this moment to myself, undisturbed. As if he knew this would happen—that he knew what was to come. As if he’s been there himself, trying not to show weakness one last time.

“I give my bonafide green officer cadets so much flak,” Buttermilch scoffs—and he scoffs. “Yet, I can’t stick to a schedule. That lousy Edgar was just as on-point as MacKenzie,” Buttermilch glances at me—or rather, I force myself to make contact with him. “I suppose at the end of the day, I’m just as much a slacker as her and the rest of the cadets… and, they’ve done so much. They’re a good crop of officers. And I’m proud to have served with them.

“It is a titanic shame, I suppose, that they must go through that experience in a time of conflict like this. No young man or woman should ever have to go through with such a careless, poorly thought out military action like this,” Buttermilch says. The commander paces around me without another word. Buttermilch finishes the loop by walking to his desk.

Buttermilch turns around swiftly, his gaze occasionally catching me in his grasp. After a deep breath, Buttermilch continues his monologue, “there’s so much I wanted to talk to Victoria about. So much more… insight into what it meant to be an officer. Maybe more, maybe more as a person. As a person in charge of others and who has the power to make a difference.

“I suppose…” Buttermilch enters a silence, he leans on his desk, glaring at his glass of alcohol that he had sipped when we first attacked mere moments ago. He extends a hand to it but relents. His holographic hand clench tightly, then relaxes so he can support himself leaning on the table.

Buttermilch continues, shifting one leg on the table to rest more properly. “Soldiers should not be subject to risky orders. Risky with no sense of reward. Risks that shouldn’t have too much to ask for in blood. It’s hard to tell if the Commodore’s decision will reflect that. This is a risky mission… but it may be a justified one. The fact of the matter is—a lot of it is circumferential. I imagine that is why the Commodore may have thought. But even so… our mission is not Toscana. It is the Frankish Domain—it is Brenaco,” Buttermilch finishes by planting both feet back on the ground. He tucks his hands behind his back again. Several steps toward me before stopping.

“What might be, what might not be… we simply do not know until the matter comes. What was it I was venting about?” Buttermilch winces. “Democracy be damned, but…” a heavy, hesitating sigh. “It might also work in our favor. The circumcision evidence works in so many ways. We can eliminate piracy once and for all—there might be nothing in the Toscana capitol to oppose us. We can practically walk right in.

“Hell, they might even welcome us with open arms.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

Buttermilch returns to sit on the desk, grunting as he does so. Once again the Commander rests his chin on one knee. Buttermilch clears his throat and begins, “there might not be any worry about us splitting up the fleet. We could knock out two birds with one stone.” Buttermilch’s gaze absentmindedly falls on me—I refrain with all my might from looking away. “Maybe Victoria and I were wrong—“ just the utterance of the name is enough to make me buckle. My arms, held up this whole time, shake violently. But I persist. I do it because I have to.

“If a person like Victoria was in charge,” a long draw of silence, “if she was born so much earlier… commander, commodore… admiral,” he lists off each rank slowly. His head tilted, but looks up at me as he continues, “I have high faith in her.

“I know that one day she will succeed where I have failed.”

“What have you failed, exactly?!” I blurt out, gritting my teeth. It’s harder to breathe, harder to stay calm.

Buttermilch muses. “My failures, huh?” He scoffs. A nod. “I suppose I succeeded somewhere—I helped our officer cadets grow and improve their skills. I pushed them to the breaking point during simulation and testing.” Another scoff from the former commander. It practically murders me that this was the last time he would ever laugh. I took that away from him. I took that right to laugh and cry, to enjoy life away from him.

Buttermilch continues; a sly smile creeps up on his face. “The drill sergeants and academic instructors merely broke their spirit, I wonder if I broke their soul? Ha, ha.” I want to laugh, I want to chuckle and bounce the joke off him. I want to gasp and tell him he did more in nearly a year of training than any of them have done over three or four periods. “But I had to, because if they don’t learn anything then, they would be ill-prepared for the future.

“And when that future happens, the risks and costs would be enormous. There wouldn’t be as many bright futures—fewer children and grandchildren to come. Future generations may look back at this and wonder if it was the right choice to make.”

Buttermilch twiddles his thumbs. He glances for what seems like an eternity at the shot glass next to him. And this time, he caves, and downs the contents of the small glass. Buttermilch carefully sets it down. He reclines a little, his head shaking as he grimaces at the awful liquid.

Buttermilch grabs the glass again, twirling the tiny thing in his hands as he begins to speak. “Humanity has been making this dreadful alcohol to consume for nearly ten million years,” Buttermilch says. “There’s this saying that the dog, which exists and essentially subjected itself as man’s companion simply because it does not know how to exist on its own…

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“Or maybe they had forgone the knowledge—at the expense of their descendants how to exist for themselves—how does such an animal come to be delegated as man’s best friend?

“Was allowing themselves to be domesticated better for them as a species?” Buttermilch muses, lowering the glass onto his lap, “or were they better off not being man’s best friend? In any case… the matter is much the same as our predicament we are now in.” Buttermilch examines the shot glass, running his thumb along the rimming.

“But what does that make alcohol? Does it exist as a way for us to cope with our misgivings? Or do we rely on it as a clutch so it takes responsibility for our deeds? For the last ten million years, I imagine military commanders muse over the same thing.

“And I imagine for the next ten million years, someone will sit down and ask themselves the same question,” Buttermilch says. “It exists to take the blame, I reckon.” Buttermilch sets the glass down. “How else can we come to terms with what may be our greatest regrets?

“Sometimes, we drink it in celebration. We drink for those that couldn’t. And I hope after this campaign ends—“ I can feel my heart rip itself in two “that I will not have to drink at all: I will not drink to cope and I will not drink to celebrate with those who couldn’t make it.”

“But…” Buttermilch begins, “everything begins to happen for a reason. Isn’t that right, Victoria?” I freeze, goosebumps all over. “Once, when I was young—I begin having this interesting dream—no,” Buttermilch shakes his head. “Less of a dream. I usually don’t recall my dreams. But when I do, it’s only this one… so maybe it’s more of a premonition?”

Premonition? My eyes wander processing what he means. I could feel my blood freeze. I bite down on my lip. He doesn’t possibly mean…?

Buttermilch stands but still rests against the table. His arms crossed. Like me, his eyes wander off, as if searching for something. “I remember it almost perfectly—which is why I think it maybe wasn’t a dream. I was alone—standing on a plane—it was hazy except for my immediate surroundings. And next to me… a figure. As time went on, I had no idea who it was.

“It didn’t matter if I called out to them. I couldn’t move at all—mostly. I was stuck in place, staring into the shrouded void. Of course, things became clearer the older I got. Bit by bit, the dream became clear. It was a woman. One of average build. She wore a uniform which back then—it didn’t make sense to me, but now, I started to understand.”

No, I want to scream. Don’t say anymore. I don’t want to hear it. My knees buckle with each urge to shout at him to stop.

But as if ignoring me, Buttermilch continued. “A young, beautiful woman. The older I got, the less distance there was between us. It’s as if…” Buttermilch tilts his head, scrambling to think of something to say despite my pleading silent screams. “It’s as if fate was beckoning for me to interact with her—in some way or form. But… no matter what I did or said, she wouldn’t answer.

“She wouldn’t respond to anything, I couldn’t move my legs. Whenever I reached out to grab her, the dream would end—just as something fast came in front of us. As time went on, I would give up and watch as whatever it was impaled her.”

“B-Buttermilch, please,” I gasp, the tears rejuvenating, “I don’t want to—“

Undeterred, the commander continued. “In the times I didn’t bother reaching out to her, I watched that sequence, over and over. I watched a woman of my dreams die, repeatedly, and this would go on for years.

“Needless to say, it was always haunting. But the more haunting thing was I was powerless to do anything. I literally couldn’t do anything. But I want to say… for a while, it stopped. And I never knew why. Did divine judgment give up on me?” Buttermilch muses, and he looks up at me—no, staring directly into my soul. “Was I so hopeless in preventing this woman from dying—repeatedly, for all eternity? Or was there more to the dream?”

I want to tackle him and tell him to stop. I want to grab him by the collar and scream—beg him to stop. But it wouldn’t make a difference. I’m frozen. I’m powerless. All I can do is stare and listen helplessly.

Buttermilch clears his throat, never once breaking his gaze off me. “It wasn’t until this morning that I got the full picture, and perhaps, until now, reflecting on the whole situation and that dream. Did it finally make sense?

“I was on a ship bridge. A ship bridge that I’m all too familiar with being on, in a spot that I usually find myself in… and thinking about it, it spooked me at first. Knowing what that spot may entail. There was no one else around—except for that woman.”

I drop to my knees, the tears becoming a big blot on the carpet. “Buttermilch…” I mutter.

“That woman was younger than I remember. She had long wavy hair, a blue, well-kept uniform. I couldn’t make out her face—it was covered by the shadow of her hat. Her attention wasn’t on me—but ahead of us.” Buttermilch stops, as if waiting for me to settle down—and continues it’s apparent my uncontrollable sobbing doesn’t stop.

“The same thing happens—after a few moments of curiosity, the fast object comes flying at us—and I leap forward. I leap into a run and push her out of the way. I have no idea who this is—this person who haunted my dreams if only for a brief moment for most of my life. I just know I saved her life. I saved her from suffering that same grueling impalement every time.

“But, interestingly enough,” Buttermilch continues, “it didn’t end there that time. I saw her again—in front of me this time. But our surroundings were in a…” Buttermilch stops, and I look up to see him pinching his brow. “I forgot the rest of it. I took steps toward her, and the dream ended.

“I wonder what the meaning of that premonition was…?”

“You knew all along,” I gasp, trying to dry the tears. “You knew all along… you knew all along you were going to—“

“I suppose I should wrap this up,” Buttermilch cuts me off. He gets to his feet, moving past me. Disappearing… for good, into that familiar mist. To the bridge, to the spot of predetermination—like second nature to him. To that spot that means death. I jump to my feet, intent on grabbing him… intent on chasing after a ghost to stop him and plead.

“I hope that after all of this is over,” Buttermilch continues, stopping me in place.

“Buttermilch,” I beg, “please… please don’t go. Don’t go to that bridge. It’s not worth it,” the tear ducts shift gears again. Seeing that holographic ghost become blurry and distorted haunts me like no other experience I’ve ever had. “Don’t disappear on me—just let me die, Buttermilch. Just let me die.”

Buttermilch turns to face me, and I stumble to stand upright. His pained expression—that look of what he has to do—of the duty he must fulfill. No amount of tears will bring him back. No amount of grief will reverse what will happen mere minutes from now. Buttermilch is dead. He will go there to die. He will push me out of the way—something that has been subconsciously wired into him for decades. I will live. I will live a life that was meant to be cut tragically short.

Buttermilch looks at me all over, a smile forms along his face. “I hope that one day… when everything is all over. I will apologize to Victoria. Maybe share a drink with her someday—perhaps long after we’re both retired.” Buttermilch phases through me—a considerable shiver overcomes me. I turn around, freezing to see him pick up the recording device and look back at me. “But for now,” he continues, “I hope we can just all survive.”

And just like that, Buttermilch is gone. Forever. The last fleeting memory of a man just disintegrates before my eyes as the holographic recording ends.

I drop to my knees. My body shakes uncontrollably. My sobs and hiccups fill the room. Unsure what to do now, aimless. My purpose here is fulfilled—a filling of nothingness after the fact. I struggle to get up, my arms just shaking too terribly. I use what strength I have to wobble over to the table for a breather.

I sit at the edge of the table, slowly recollecting my thoughts on everything. I take several deep breaths, turning to open the drawer and taking out Mackenzie’s sunglasses. I twirl the pair in my hand, opening and closing the arms.

“So that’s that, huh?” I mutter, rubbing my throat. A feeble response to everything that just transpired. A hint of humor. Of course, I knew the answer already. A thought crossed my mind: coming here wasn’t the end goal—it was part of it. I still have to visit Buttermilch’s body. Just for some closure, to release what grief I have left. Otherwise, I feel, coming only here specifically wouldn’t change a thing. I could say this was only in preparation for the real deal. Buttermilch’s temporary resting place—to address him directly. If I don’t, then I feel all of this will be for naught.

It would make me feel as though I’m still running through the gauntlet—just barely short of the finish line. If I don’t finish it, everything I would’ve done would be for naught.

I slip the sunglasses back into their case, caressing the leathery container before clenching it tightly. I want to leave no loose ends before the forthcoming operation begins. No regrets. If I don’t make my peace with Buttermilch now… who knows what might happen in the future?

With a heavy sigh, I push myself off the table and make my way to the door. I turn around, casually, and perform a final salute. Afterward, I clack my boots together one last time, and about-face. Heading out of the dark, crimson room to seek out the last lap of the gauntlet.