Chapter Text
Every twenty-first of May the scene near the old ruin becomes lively.
The city of Zurich had build a monument on a little field of grass, bronze plates on the ground with the names of those lost. One name always jumped out and was still whispered amongst those who visit the sight, even after all these years. Even after years and years of dust and rumors and gossip Jack Morrison was still seen as the perfect poster boy, an ideal less than a person. When people visit his grave stone, they tell the stories of a man who was a born soldier, a hardened man of honor, competence taken human form.
Markus knew better.
He knew him as a man who needed to sit in several chairs, a commander of thousands, assistant to hundreds, a teacher to dozens. Too many jobs for one person that was only taught to act and not to pretend. He still remembered that one time he showered in one of the open showers just because they were easier to access and no one would catch him after a 48-hour-shift. Jack…the commander was a hard-working man, for sure, but he was also lacking self-respect. No one ever saw the rings under his eyes when he met with UN representatives or the stiffness in his motions in interviews.
And yet he was kind. No matter when, he would always see kindness in his worn eyes and compassion in simple gestures. His graying blond hair and his dark eyes would haunt him, in the best way possible. They had their share of strange and awkward moments, but he was always considered. Always respectful. Always trying his best to satisfy others. The world wanted him to become the ideal leader, Markus already saw his better qualities - he was a good man. And a handsome one at that.
Every year he came to the plates.
They had lost so many people that day. Kwame. Hannes. Miyu. Webber. Morrison…
He would always bring flowers to his plate. The closest thing to a grave. The closest place where one could grieve a death without a body. White carnations. Red roses would be tacky in his mind. Tears rarely fall nowadays. But he would stay longer than before, bathing in memories and the melancholy of missed opportunities. It was balm for a broken heart.
And once the evening fell over his head and he would move back to the hotel, a red glow broke through the gravel of the withered ruins.