The convenience store was bathed in flickering electric lights. The brightness of the lights only served to darken the shadows surrounding it, and I couldn't stop myself from peering over my shoulder as I walked from my car to the store's entrance. A half-asleep cashier glanced at me suspiciously as I entered. Even in the 22nd century, the convenience store somehow managed to maintain the shady atmosphere I had come to expect from such places.
Walking around the interior for a minute, I picked out a traditional steel flip lighter, an iced coffee, a twelve-pack of beers, and a cheap hot dog that had probably been rotating on the heater for several hours. Those gas station hot dogs weren't good food, but they were a cornerstone of any functioning society.
I stepped up to the counter and put all my items down. The cashier began scanning automatically and muttered, "Did you find everything you need today, sir?"
"Actually, could I get two packs of Lucky Strikes?" I asked.
The cashier suddenly looked me in the eyes as if some unbelievable thought had suddenly occurred to him. "Yes, sir. I will ring them up for you."
The man seemed much more awake as he spoke his second line. Something seemed to have caught his attention.
"That'll be $14.50," he said.
"Thanks."
What a steal. I took my military debit card out of my pocket and slid it on the card reader. Before I could enter my pin, the cashier stared at the symbol of Zeon on my card and said, "I didn't think it was possible, but you're really Sebastian Dogwood! Can you autograph something for me?"
The other customers at the convenience store looked at us with differing levels of interest. One woman fished through her purse and produced a camera. I turned my head in an attempt to hide my identity from the shot. One other customer, a Hispanic man, glared at me and the cashier.
"Sure," I said as I quickly punched the card's pin into the card reader.
The cashier reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a folded up piece of paper. It was a military document ordering Eric Neumann to report to the armed forces on February 1st, 0079. It took me a second to figure out the wording, but I quickly realized what the order meant.
"You were drafted?" I asked.
"Yeah," Eric Neumann said, scratching his cheek in embarrassment. "They just released the numbers for the first round, and I got unlucky. I mean…" he suddenly jerked, realizing that he had misspoke, "I received the unexpected opportunity to fight for Zeon. I don't hate the idea of military service, but I didn't expect it."
"No, you're right," I said with a smile. "Life in the military sucks, especially if you're forced to do it."
"Ahem," the woman standing behind me cleared her throat. "I appreciate your service, Commander Dogwood. All of us in Zum City are thankful to you, but could I please get to the register?"
"Actually, it's…" I said before pausing. Correcting the woman on my rank really didn't matter. I remembered the old military saying that you should treat every civilian as if they outrank you. "Yeah, sorry ma'am."
I picked my items up and stepped to the side of the cash register. Eric Neumann gave me a pen that I used to sign his draft papers. The autograph was pretty bad, since I had never signed as "Sebastian Dogwood" before. Once I was done, the word SDogwod was written on the paper.
"What's it like, if you don't mind me asking?" the cashier asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what's the military like? Is it dangerous? How long until the war ends?"
"Yeah, it's dangerous," I said quietly. "The best piece of advice I can give is to just keep yourself alive. In terms of the war, I'm pretty sure we're going to see a few more rounds of the draft."
"That's too bad, Captain Dogwood," Eric said with a frown. "I hear they're drafting women and older teenagers next time."
That was not a good sign. No healthy military in human history ever had to draft women and children.
"Anyway, I gotta go," I said. "When you get to base, feel free to request a transfer to my unit. I'll keep you alive."
"Really!?" Eric Neumann asked with excitement in his eyes.
"Sure," I said as I began walking out of the convenience store. "Show them that signature. It should be enough to push your request up to me."
I left the convenience store and approached my car, which I had parked in the darkest corner of the parking lot. Just as I was about to reach my car, a figure appeared from the darkness of a nearby alleyway.
The bright light of the convenience store had killed my night vision, and the approaching figure was little more than a hazy shadow. Instinctually, I knew that the individual was a threat, and I could feel the figure's intentionality condensing in its right arm.
Everything in my hands dropped to the ground as I lunged forward to interrupt the coming attack. My hand clasped around the figure's wrist a moment before I realized it was holding a knife.
That was sufficient confirmation for me. I would have felt uncomfortable attacking someone based on instinct alone, but the butterfly knife held in the figure's hand provided me with the justification I needed. The first punch to the jaw knocked the man to one knee, the second knocked him on his back, and the third disabled him.
My attacker was lying on the ground, bleeding and concussed, when my eyes adjusted enough to see his identity. It was the Hispanic man from earlier. I had assumed he was just glaring at Eric because he was making a scene, but no. He was glaring at me. The attempted assassin probably had family in South America who I'd killed. Honestly, I didn't feel any ill will toward the man for trying to kill me. I'd probably feel the same way in his shoes.
I looked over at my dropped groceries. Beer was starting to spill on the ground from the bottles that had shattered on impact. With a sigh, I said, "I'm taking the knife as payment for the beer. Let's just call this encounter an even trade."
The groaning, half-conscious man did not respond of course. I put my groceries into the trunk of the car and drove away.