Somewhere far away, in a vast, sprawling meadow, reminiscent of a certain operating system’s wallpaper from yesterdecade, two classy men sit at an antique table with two equally-made artisan chairs. In front of either is a CRT screen on top of a tray trolley, seemingly unplugged. The one on the right, known by his mortal namesake Kenneth Buttermilch, holds a glass of lime-colored wine. Across from him is Jung Lee who is preoccupied with cutting up a leisurely medium-rare steak.
Buttermilch sips quietly on his glass as he watches the program on television. “Say,” the former Metropolitan Commander utters after an intermission plays on the television. “I’ve been wondering for a while,” Buttermilch turns to address his acquaintance, expecting him to respond. Jung remains quiet, still intent on cutting the medium-rare steak with a plastic knife and fork. “Mr. Lee?” Kenneth repeats, huffing through his nostrils.
Jung pauses, stabbing one helpless slab of steak and graciously dousing it in a crimson-dark sauce. He smacks his lips, before promptly chewing on it. “Hm? Oh, yes. Sorry, Kenneth, was it?” Jung replies after swallowing the piecemeal meat, “I was deep in thought. Sorry, what was on your mind?” With a scoff, Kenneth leans back in his chair. Clearly, the man is tired of having to endure what feels like years of babbling into each other’s ears about absolute mundane topics. But it has been, at most, only a few days since either of them have died. The concept of time in this realm of nothingness is, well, nothing for either of them. It’s basically Hell, torment, but it’s not so bad according to the fabrication by mere mortals drunk on fiction throughout the last two millennia regarding the phenomenon of life after death: that is, Heaven and Hell. Compared to having to hear never-ending tangents by Jung, Hell sounds more comfortable than this disturbingly peaceful paradise.
“Don’t you think this is all rather unfair?” Kenneth asks, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring more than a gracious amount of wine. On the other hand, the former Commander doesn’t have to worry about poisoning his liver anymore. Also, he never has to worry about running out of alcohol—or anything for that matter. “Tragic, even,” Jung only replies with a grunt and continues to slice away at the steak. With a deep sigh, Kenneth continues. “The first time either of us died in the original draft, it was lousy. It lacked meaning. But come around the second draft I can’t help but feel some jealousy that your buildup still overshadowed mine,” the hungry Wulf across the table lets out an unsolicited snort, and he pauses his act of cutting the medium steak bleeding red liquid.
“Jealousy? Hah, color me surprised,” Jung answers, forking another piece of steak, “you at least had some characterization and you had a name,” Jung points with the fork at the messy stack of papers piled around Buttermilch’s side of the table “I didn’t even have a name!” Jung snorts, “I had at least a paragraph and a half dedicated to me—and then I’m quickly glossed over to give leeway to the little one.”
“The little one…” Kenneth muses, “you mean that Madame Scarface? Er…” the Commander clicks his tongue and frowns with a heavy brow “—Li, Chou, was it?” Jung nods with a sigh.
“So? Do you feel your death was still meaningless?” Jung asks twirling the fork in his grasp, “is that it? Worry that you weren’t used much and tossed away to give some character development to your little one?” Buttermilch contemplates the question but shakes his head.
“Well, in a way, yes, but no. I’m rather amused that you were given such a lengthy…” Kenneth pauses and taps his chin. He peers into his glass and shakes it gently; the liquids splash like calm waves against the transparent walls of its dwelling. “How should I put it? You had such a lengthy buildup to your character arc. Do you think it was to make up for your lack of presence—er, for lack of better phrasing—in the original draft?” As Kenneth finishes, the tired Wulf takes a few more bites of piecemeal steak. “Even if it meant that my own gets shafted as a result?”
“That sounds like a loaded question to me,” Jung remarks wryly, taking his time to swallow the meat in between, “maybe it’s… hm,” after finishing most of the bites, Jung sets the fork down and frowns, “it would’ve probably slowed the plot down to a crawl if you had such a lengthy buildup like I did. But even so,” Jung leans forward, fork in hand to point the plastic-gray fork at the curious Buttermilch, “your death was a lot more direct than mine, don’t you think? Bound to have a long-lasting impact than mine—for your little one, I mean. I imagine after the focus shifted away from her, she’s probably pretty traumatized after the whole thing is said and done,” Jung finishes with a snort. “I imagine Li might brood on my passing for a while… but it was bound to happen sooner or later. Space radiation cancer is still very much a real concern these days, you know?”
Buttermilch scoffs at the comment and turns his attention back to the television as Jung continues. “It’s better you than your little one. The story would be all over the place if Victoria didn’t survive the very beginning of the story,” Jung likewise glimpses at the stack of papers and then the television, “even if your part of the play wasn’t all that much important in the beginning, it’s still bound to have a snowball effect later on in Victoria’s life,” Jung says somberly “and as for me…” Jung must not be paying much attention to the actual art of cutting the steak, since his knife frequently scrapes the plate.
Buttermilch leans forward in his seat, clasping his hands forward. “Even with all said and done, our part was rather tragic, weren’t they?” Buttermilch says quietly “we chased after ideals that seemed so far out of our grasps—all we can hope for is the younger ones to carry on our legacy,” Buttermilch raises his head “I suppose?” With a part sigh, part scoff, the former Commander turns his attention back to Jung. “Mr. Lee, do you consider your death… your sacrifice, rather, in vain?” Buttermilch inquires “you seemed rather disinterested watching events unfold with Li and Jean,” Buttermilch flinches the next moment when Jung scrapes the plate rather harshly. Jung remains quiet, but after a few moments of silence, the rather perturbed Wulf lets out his typical snort and sets the knife down. Jung opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out of it.
“Sorry,” Kenneth quickly rectifies, “that must’ve been hard on you to watch.” Jung blows heavily through his nose and gives a shake of his head.
“It is what it is,” Jung remarks with bitterness, “but even so,” Jung raises his head and looks his counterpart in the eyes “it’s out of her system now… I have a firm belief that they will bear no grudges against one another. As Li put it…” Jung trails off and scratches his beard, “well. She put it nicely, I’ll say that much.”
“You don’t sound so convinced,” Kenneth retorts, and the old battered Wulf in his classy suit scoffs. “Even after all this time, you don’t hold Li in contempt?” Jung lingers on the question and merely shakes his head.
“She did what she could,” Jung states, perhaps in an attempt to reassure himself “I do not blame her for my death—and I do not believe anyone should either. In the end, nobody could beat this old Wulf but himself,” a slight snort and grin. Jung’s grin, however, disappears when his gaze shifts into the distance, his eyes narrow. Curious as to what he’s looking at, Kenneth follows his gaze: two blips on the distant green horizon.
“Visitors?” Kenneth muses. Just as the former Commander turns his attention to the Wulf, he jumps in his seat when Jung’s chair clatters to the floor—the delicacy of the artisan chair now broken. Jung strides towards their visitors, which Kenneth now recognizes as Jung’s mistress; Fa Yuriy. But as for the other person, Kenneth feels as though she looks familiar, but it’s rather difficult to tell since she is partially mummified.
From a distance, Kenneth watches as Jung nearly breaks into a run to close the gap between him and the visitors. As he approaches the duo the Wulf slows down to a walk. And after exchanging a few words with Fa, he apprehends the lanky mummy accompanying her. After what seems like little to no resistance from the mummy, the Wulf reels her around and accompanies her back from which they came. Fa sees them off before returning alone to Kenneth.
“What was that about?” Kenneth asks as the cool Fa approaches him, “oh, that bloody hound broke the other chair—you can have my seat,” Kenneth quickly adds, offering his seat to the woman, which she accepts. A cup of tea materializes for her, and she quietly drinks from it while the former Federation Commander awaits the details.
“A wandering soul came to a place it has no right to be just yet,” Fa states, her eyes trained on the cup, “Jung took matters into his own hands and shepherded her to where she belongs—to accompany another that needs her the most,” Fa continues before finishing the rest of her hot drink. She looks up at Kenneth with an innocent smile. “Is it unreasonable for him to mitigate the pain and sorrow after such a tragedy has unfolded?” After more or less forfeiting his life for the Ensign, the former Commander responds with a nod. It’s the least they can do as parting gifts for those they left behind.
