Journal of Luella Penelope Bancris ||

                        Peacetime 13, 2058

   

Well, the kid's still alive, and I'm not angry anymore. Not quite as much, anyway.

His name is Olan, and it turns out he really was a day past sixteen. Yesterday was his seventeenth birthday. Hell. His blue eyes are a little too trusting, I think. It's not good to be trusting in the kind of business we're in. We're soldiers. We have to kill people. But I wish he didn't have to do this anymore. There's just something about him that screams "Hi, I'm cute and lovable, and it's impossible not to hate this face, so how can you possibly even think about killing me?" And sitting here, watching helplessly as he dies, no matter the cause of death, seems to me a lot worse than actually killing him. At least if I killed him I could use the least painful way possible.

He asked me my name, and I said "Luella." He smiled all goofily up at me from where he lay and said it was the "pertiest" name he'd ever heard. I haven't cried in a long time, but I have a feeling I'm gonna cry a whole lot A.O. (After Olan). Hell. I'm crying a little right now. He's asleep, so it's okay.

Wait, no, he's waking up. More later.