House and Home

The hardwood cane creaked under the weight of Nathaniel Wright, now known as Oliver Edwards, as he leaned on it, looking up at the abandoned and scarred concrete building towering above him on one of the streets of Agley, colonial capital of Victoria. Running his hand through his now gray hair, Wright started to move towards the abandoned building, planting one foot in front of the other on the instacrete pavement. Reaching the door, he knocked it several times with his cane, the metallic thud of each impact echoing through the empty street.

With no response, Wright knocked it several more times, this time as hard as he could. Soon enough, a light turned on inside, and the door opened. "The hell do you want?" responded the middle-aged man who answered it, the dim illumination of the streetlights defining the lines of the scowl on his face. Sighing, Wright said "You don't recognize me, do you?"

"No, and I don't want no soliciting thank you."

Before the man could close the door, Wright responded "We'll fight hard and well..."

The man's annoyance gave way to surprise and embarrassment as he responded "We're Agley's defenders, and we'll fight like the devil....Colonel Wright?"

Wright nodded, and the man stepped aside and motioned for him to walk in.

"Private Richard Ilyich, at your service...sir."

"At ease. I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm just here for a while, to remember some memories."

"Memories?"

"Yes, memories from many decades ago..." Wright responded, trailing off as he looked around the building. Walking into the kitchen of Ilyich's first floor apartment, he sat down, laying his cane on the table, and looked around. It was all the same. The same place he had eaten meals with now long-dead men when he first joined the Independent State as a young rebel. It was the same place a bullet had flown through the window and nearly killed him in the battle as the military worked to clean the area of criminals. It was the same place he had made his first order as de facto commander of the Independent State's forces. And it hadn't changed. The pots, the pans, the tables, were all the same, the wooden table still bore the scars of cigarettes and cigars put out on its surface. Even the drywall still bore the scars of battles past, bullets that he had survived, if only barely.

"So why are you here again, sir?"

"Like I said, memories, Private Ilyich. Memories"