This place sucks!!! Jimmy scribbled in his notebook, followed by an aggressively outlined word balloon. The gripe completed his latest sketch of the lone Hat Warrior, standing atop the battlements of the outer wall.
Jimmy found the Hats easy to draw as they were the only Warriors that typically stood rigid for hours on end while maintaining a watchful vigil over the fog-covered plains of the Valley below.
He slapped his notebook shut and exhaled slowly and noisily, staring out at the bleak surroundings from his small apartment window.
A small group of Umbrella Warriors diverted his attention away from the Hat as they flew over the perimeter wall, coasting along a fast-moving fog current toward a larger group in the distance. The group appeared to be practicing aerial attack maneuvers above the surrounding Deadwood Swamp.
Watching the swirling fog currents intertwine and dance their way across the landscape was a sight that Jimmy had previously found soothing, but lately it only fueled his depression. He presumed he would feel differently if he had the ability to ride them, but he was no Warrior.
Jimmy was envious of those who had the ability to ride the currents, an ability he had longed for. But everyone had a place in Wren, and his was to monitor and advise from the safety of the Hive.
The thinner fog coverage in the mornings allowed him to see the outline of the eastern mountain ranges in the distance. No new skirmishes appeared to have broken out in the vicinity of the Factory, and all seemed to be unusually still.
The swamp was at high tide; its greyish-brown waters glowed with a slight green tinge as gentle waves rippled onto the muddy shore, not far from the Factory's huge perimeter walls.
As he stared mindlessly into the seemingly endless abyss, the same questions played out through his mind like a broken record.
What would life be like beyond the Great Divide?
Will this war ever end?
The only thing he knew with some certainty was that the war had raged on for around seventy years, give or take a few. No one could really remember exactly when it started, how it started, or why it looked like it wouldn't be coming to an end anytime soon. Everybody just accepted it and moved on about their daily lives.
"Life is boring," Jimmy said as he turned his back on the view. He threw his notebook onto the bedside table and began to straighten his bedsheets. His impaired memory had prevented him from remembering his past, although he could still recall feelings about certain events, people, and objects. War, for instance, was supposed to instill feelings of fear, anger, or sadness. This war had none of that for him, it was just boring, like everything else.
He vaguely remembered a time where his attitude and feelings regarding the war had been different, but after many years of the same, he had become indifferent to everything.
Jimmy was afraid of death, although he did on occasion morbidly wonder whether becoming one with the fog, would at least provide some respite from the monotony of everyday life.
The battles against the various Clans and Gangs of Wren occurred on nearly a daily basis; his job, along with thousands of other Analysts, was to assist the Tribal Warriors from the Hive without ever having the need to engage the enemy directly. It was a relatively straightforward and safe job that made Jimmy feel like a coward. Something within him believed that there was more to his life than the war and that he was somehow capable of more, but access to his past was locked away behind several impenetrable doors within his mind. Doors that he had been denied access to no matter how hard he tried.
Once Jimmy finished straightening his bed sheets he reached for his pain medication and realised that something was different. He rotated his eyes from side to side to confirm and breathed a sigh of relief when he realised the absence of the incessant migraine that had plagued him for the last few days.
"Maybe it will be a good day after all," he said, feeling a little less morbid.
In the past Jimmy had attempted to talk to others about his migraines and fainting episodes, but no one seemed to listen anymore. It was a common trait that they all shared, and the last thing anyone wanted was another complainer nagging about how much worse their suffering was in comparison to everyone else.
As the ailments got worse, the quieter everyone had become, with the vast majority now moving about their day as if they were running on autopilot. This was just another symptom of the war; there was nothing else but fighting, eating, sleeping, and repeat. Jimmy couldn't remember a time that he had actually looked forward to anything.
He sat on the edge of his bed and began rubbing his legs, working out the knots in his thigh muscles. It was one of his daily morning rituals that he felt helped prepare him for the long day ahead. He barely noticed his burn-scarred hands anymore and had given up trying to remember how they had become disfigured as he reached for his leather gloves from the bedside table. The tan-coloured gloves were not standard issue and contrasted against his disheveled and slightly stained white uniform. As far as Jimmy could recall, he was the only one who wore an item of clothing that was not some shade of white.
Once the gloves were secure, Jimmy reached for his watch, an old analogue thing that had never worked due to a missing crown and stem mechanism. He often wondered whether it had ever worked. The original brass casing was covered in scratches, and the tan-coloured band was worn. The internal face behind the clear glass piece was the only part of the watch that seemed to be unaffected from wear and tear. He did not know where or how he had received the gloves or watch; it was almost as if they had just appeared one day.
There was nothing about his past that he knew for certain; parents, friends, and family remained a mystery to him. Very little changed as time passed with no milestones or celebrations. Anger had given way to acceptance, and as far as Jimmy was concerned, he was an orphan that had to fend for himself like the rest of them. His only obligation was to Wren and no one else. It was a lonely life, but one he had grown used to.
Jimmy looked at the broken watch and often wondered why he wore it. He had no need for a timepiece as his daily routine had instilled him with a regimented internal clock. He could think of no good reasons other than the fact that he liked the look and feel of it and for some unknown reason it felt important that he wear it at all times.
He glanced at the empty single bed on the opposite side of the room where no one had ever slept—he kept it there as a reminder that friends were nonexistent in this bleak, grey world; people either became a casualty of the war or transferred to other Factories. It was a cruel and seemingly unending cycle.
Jimmy continued with his morning routine by walking back toward the window. He pushed open the casement sash and was instantly hit by the same acrid smell of death and decay he breathed in every day. Some days were better than others, although this was not one of the good days, despite his lack of a migraine.
After the initial assault on his nostrils had dissipated, Jimmy stuck his head out the window and craned his neck in all directions to find every other window sash on the east facade of Building D open with every occupant staring toward the distance. It was common practice for all Analysts and Warriors to survey their surroundings before commencing their respective shifts, but Jimmy figured there were more than enough people watching for threats and therefore spent this time looking for changes in routine, hoping for something different.
