Territory

An original short story about journey and obligation. October 10, 2016.

Sean planted a small flag onto the soil, and patted the base to keep it stable.

The field of stars and stripes that alternate in colors stay in stasis from the windless sky.

He tried to lick his finger to check for any sign of wind, but the kevlar refused to let it come remotely close to his mouth. He looked at the sky, the blue-purple intertwined with the dots the stars made from millions and millions of miles away.

He took another look at the flag. Still no movement. Back home it would catch this thing named wind and drift away from the flagpole slightly.

Now it's barely a flag at all with its suspension. It's more of a sculpture, or a monument without the historical value. It means nothing other than the fact that a country conquered something outside of its borders.

And countries have been doing this for ages. They call it annexation, but in the theoretical infinite reaches of the treaty drafted more than a while ago, no one actually can annex the soil the flag sat on from now.

He didn't quite understand the exact meaning of such a move. Sure, it's a symbolic motion to say "we did conquer this piece of land". But if no one is there to recognize it, why is it still being done?

Sean didn't ask. He didn't dare question. Out of the many appropriate candidates, should he dare to ask a question that looks vaguely like you're going to step out of line, they will cut you off from the mission.

So he planted it down. The statement has been made.

They can go home now. Speaking of home, he had thought of it hundreds of times. Every time it's a new perspective.

His parents at their old home. His siblings, whom he had shared a room with. His co-worked that pelted him with cream on his birthday during the party. The nights where he weighed and weighed before he took a deep breath and filed the papers. "Home" is such a foreign concept to him, to a point where he doubted the existence of "home". This is his home, as he believed, this place is the only place for him to be in. One week on the ground after three months of travel. No true human contact other than the six that will be sharing a roof with him.

His memories of "home" had all but washed away. It's unfortunate, but he knew the risks. He was fortunate that he was here in the first place, for the vehicle hadn't drifted off-course and they couldn't even see here.

But now they can. They know that they will most likely never return. This is, from now on, their one and only home. Every possible relationship has been severed, yet it is not quite a death. It will entail soon enough, but when it's imminent, you start to fight for the opposite on that.

Yet everyone is on a suicide mission.