Work Text:
(Click.)
(The door swings open with a creak as DJ and Russo walk inside.)
[RUSSO]
…I’ve got the papers - with the summary attached - and the tape recorder on my desk. Follow-up is on there too, so just say what I wrote down on my notes.
[DEEJAY]
This better be a short one, Russo, I don’t want to stick around here for too long. Why do you want me to do it?
[RUSSO]
I’ve…I’ve gotta do something and Sabrina’s doing follow up on a different statement right now. I know it’s been a while since you’ve done one of these, but I figured I’d ask.
Why do you need to leave so hastily anyway?
[DEEJAY]
(Pause.)
…Meeting with a possible client. I want to make a good impression and not be rushing.
[RUSSO]
(Russo is clearly doubtful, but decides not to press.) ...Sure. It should only take 30 minutes max, don’t worry.
[DEEJAY]
(Defeated.) Fine, whatever, I’ll do it.
[RUSSO]
Thank you! Send me a text if you need anything.
(Footsteps and the sound of the door shutting as Russo leaves. DJ sighs and sits down on Russo’s chair, spinning around on it a bit. He takes a second to get comfortable.)
[DEEJAY]
Right. C’mon, Russo, did you have to make me do this? Especially with…whatever, it’s fine. How do you do this again? Step one, turn on the tape recorder-
Oh. It’s already on. Okay, uh, step two.
Case ID: TR-2018-01-02.
Statement of- (DJ pauses for a second in disbelief, then reads out the next part suspiciously and with obvious disdain.) one-three-three-seven, apparently, regarding a war he did not fight in. (Back to his normal, somewhat disinterested tone.) Date taken- 2nd January, 2018. Deejay Monopoli recording, I guess, uh, 13th July, 2023. So…here’s the marker.
(DJ claps twice.)
Ugh, here we go.
[DEEJAY, READING 1337’S STATEMENT]
Sorry for the lack of personal information that I was able to give you. Unfortunately, for reasons I’m about to describe, I'm having trouble recalling any of my personal details. (DJ pauses for a second before continuing.) I'm sure if you get into contact with my wife, she’ll be able to fill you in. But I do remember what happened, so I guess I'll just continue with that.
It was around 6 pm at night and I was driving my daughter home from a school trip. My wife was in the car with me, I’d also decided to pick her up from work, planning to maybe go eat dinner out or something. We were at an intersection, the light turned green, so I started to pass through.
I still don't know what possessed that man to run the red lights that day. He should have seen that they were cars in front of him. I found out later he wasn’t even drunk. Maybe he had his eyes off the road, maybe he did it intentionally. Either way, he should have seen that he was about to run into a car with a family inside. Yet he hit the gas pedal and sped forward, T-boning our car directly.
I distinctly remember his headlights filling our car, glancing over to see him coming towards us, honking on instinct as if that would stop him, my wife screaming as I tried to swerve, the crunch ringing through my ears as I lost sensation in my body and my head hit the steering wheel. I am…eternally thankful that he came on from the left and that my daughter decided to sit behind my wife that night. Despite everything that happened next, I am glad that it was just me that came out with severe injuries.
When I woke up, I found myself lying on cold hard dirt. My memories of the accident were hazy, I wasn’t sure if it had even happened for a second. I didn’t feel injured except from a slight pulsing pain on the side of my head. There was hot sun beating down on my face and dust trying to get into my eyes. I was able to force myself to sit up, head spinning slightly now, to try and get my bearings. I could just make out the faint sound of drums, or maybe it was just my heartbeat. For a second, I wondered if it was heaven.
Then I noticed the other people around me. All wearing camo and military vests. I looked down and so was I.
My father was part of the US military. I had always loved talking to him about his job, about what he’d do. He taught me how to shoot a gun, how to defend myself from bullies. He died when I was 10. Once my family had recovered somewhat, My mother made me promise that I would never, not under any circumstances, join the military. I agreed with her terms. My mother died, I grew up, hopped around jobs for a bit as I wasn’t sure what to do with my life, met my wife, had my daughter. Not once did I ever even consider joining the military.
So when I woke up, wearing the uniform I swore I never would, you can guess I was very confused.
I forced myself off the ground and got a better grasp of my bearings. The ground and sky was dull and filled with sand and dust particles, there were other soldiers lined up around me, trenches dug out in the floor and a wide patch of plateau ahead.
But when I glanced at the other soldiers, that’s when I found myself going from confused to unnerved. Because they all looked exactly like me.
Some had longer hair, some had shorter hair, some were women, most were men. One had hair that resembled a close friend of mine. But they all shared my height, all shared my eyes, all shared my face. All of them had a number on their vests where the US flag would normally be. I looked down at my vest. My number was one-three-three-seven. There definitely weren't 1000 of us, that’s for sure - closer to a few hundred. Not enough for a full army.
In the distance, I saw them. The other side, the side we were fighting against. They all had short brown hair, black uniforms, the likes. All looked the same, just like us. And there had to be thousands of- maybe millions of them. We were thoroughly dwarfed in size.
I didn’t have time to really take it into account. The drumbeat stopped, leaving an eerie silence behind. Then the other soldiers started firing and the war began.
I fumbled for a second, trying to find my gun and ducking under fire, but soon enough I got into the swing of it. My father’s teachings came back to me and I used them in full force. The rhythmic firing, the recoil. I could get used to it.
That’s what I told myself anyway. We’d been split into groups and pushed around by- a sergeant, I believe? They kept repeating their reasoning - that this would be worth it, that this was right. That they were here to eradicate us, to destroy us and our families, that we had to keep fighting to save them, or something like that. I don’t know whether I believed them. I tried to ask the others, but they wouldn’t talk to me. Just stared, unblinking, until I shut up.
We were told where to go, who to attack. I sort of just followed what I was told - it wasn’t like I knew any better anyways. Soon enough, a group of those black-clad soldiers found us and opened fire. One soldier right by me wasn’t able to duck in time and died on the spot, splattering his blood all over my chest. I wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but I couldn’t, otherwise I’d be shot next. So I covered my mouth and ducked as they dragged his corpse away.
That was the moment when it really settled in for me. That it wasn’t a dream. I tried to force myself to wake up, to open my eyes, to do something to escape, but my head just started hurting again and I had to accept it. It was real. I could die. And no matter what, that couldn’t happen.
I knew in my heart, I had to live- for my wife and for my daughter. There was a phrase my parents always used to tell me and that I always told my daughter. ‘Be strong, always be strong’ . It came back to me at that moment. So I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t run for my life - I had to fight. I had to fight, else I’d be the next to die horribly.
And it was horrible. The guns were little more than a formality. In reality, they would use whatever means they wanted to kill us - and I’m certain they wanted to make it hurt. We could do whatever we wanted in turn. The other side would capture two soldiers and force them to beat each other to death. One soldier ran up to one of the others and ripped his face clean off. Another got blown up directly in front of me, decapitated head rolling past my foot. I simply shot the soldier who’d done it in the head.
I hate to admit it, but I got used to killing incredibly quickly. If I thought about it as just a means to an end, if I ignored the fact these other soldiers had lives and families they were probably just trying to get to, if I treated it like one of my daughter’s video games - I could handle it. It became normal.
Once I noticed that fact, I was terrified. But something - a little voice in the back of my head - stopped that thought. It told me that this, this senseless carnage, this murder - this was what being ‘strong’ was. That in order to be strong, I couldn’t let guilt take hold of me. I had to protect myself. It appealed to my emotions - and told me to bury them. So I pushed down my reservations and tried to listen to it. I thought it was my brain trying to make me see reason. Perhaps it was the exact opposite.
We were outnumbered and on the back foot throughout every fight. Every time those soldiers opened fire, every time they attacked us, we would end up with more casualties than they would. Women and men with heads falling apart and guts spilling out, bodies laying in and out of trenches - it was horrible, and yet, that little voice in my head was telling me not to care. The other soldiers on my side all remained stoic, stone faced, never a reaction. It was almost like they didn’t have faces at all. The soldiers on the other side, meanwhile, seemed to relish in killing us, so they didn’t react either. Just blood-stained grins and snarls.
That’s what that voice, singing like a siren - or maybe it was just me trying to delude myself - kept pointing out. No one else cared, so why should I? My sergeant died. He was quickly replaced with a new one. As long as we won, that’s what mattered.
That’s why we were just numbers, I think. So we wouldn’t get too attached. It took a while to get used to - reminding the others of my name, my identity - something that was still me. They never cared. To everyone there, I was just 1337. We weren’t people. We were just numbers, just another body to be picked off for some greater good. Just another death to add to the tally, no matter how gory it was.
But I got used to being 1337 incredibly quickly, just as quickly as I got used to the carnage - to the point where I’d forget I was ever anyone else. I forgot my name, I forgot why I was doing this, I forgot about my wife and my daughter, I forgot why I was fighting. I don’t know if I even tried to cling onto my name, my face, my memories - or maybe I didn’t even notice they were disappearing until they were gone. I just knew 1337 had to fight, that 1337 was going to fight.
Once that happened, I could lose what little sensitivity I had left. As soon as I forgot I had a name entirely, I was the one tearing off people’s heads. I got shot in the arm, in the leg - I kept moving despite it all, kept moving despite the fact I couldn’t tell if it was my blood or if it was someone else’s soaking into my clothes.
That was what strength was. And 1337 had to be strong. Always.
It was a long while into this war before anything changed. It felt like days, weeks, maybe even months of constant fighting, no sleep, no food. We didn’t need it. Starvation wasn’t a bloody enough way to go out - and both sides wanted bloodstains on the floor. As time passed, I didn’t notice that the sounds of gunfire were becoming quieter and quieter beside me. That there were less and less soldiers beside me. Less and less people telling me what to do. I knew, by that point, what my job was. I didn’t need instruction.
But once I realised far more soldiers were attacking me- I realised I was the only one left on my side. The last man standing.
Maybe I should have just surrendered and let them kill me. I really don’t know what motivated me to keep fighting, whether it was a moment of clarity making me remember I had a home to get to, or the bloodlust fully ingraining in me and making me need to see them all fall. I don’t know. But I do remember seeing - a man who looked like the rest of those brown-haired black-clothed soldiers but had a lot more medals on his shirt- and I knew in my heart he was their leader. And I knew, even if I couldn’t kill all of them, I could kill him. And I wanted to, so, so badly.
If I was going to be strong, I’d kill the man who put me through all of this.
So I did. I grabbed a nearby grenade - no clue where it came from, but it didn’t matter. It was like the world knew what I was planning to do and let me cause as much destruction as I wanted. Then I pulled the pin and ran straight towards him.
I remember him staring at me in shock as I threw the grenade down. I remember hearing the bang ringing in my ear, cutting off all the noise and leaving me with silence. I remember seeing the soldiers around me spill their guts as the explosion tore through them as it tore through me, starting from my arm and moving up.
I remember waking up in the hospital, doctors surrounding me. I remember the doctors sitting me up because I couldn’t move properly, telling me my family was alive, letting me see them. I remember the terror in my wife’s face when I asked who she was.
Head trauma, the doctors said. Head trauma leading to a coma. They suggested to my wife that something reminded me of my parents before I went under so I dreamed about what I associated with them. Just a dream, nothing more.
They got me a psychiatrist alongside all the other treatments I needed to recover, all the physiotherapy and so on. Slowly, my real memories came back to me. Being reminded of them was a relief every time - I felt whole again. But it was fleeting - they’re here for some hours, gone the next. All chalked up to head trauma and panic. Not from a war, never from a war, just from a car accident. I gradually was able to make a recovery. At least, physically.
But nothing physical can affect me as much as what’s happening in my head. That’s how I know it wasn’t just a dream - because it affected me so, so deeply. Dreams don’t do that, everyone has bad dreams, they disappear from your head after a while, they don’t affect your reality. This wouldn’t disappear.
Every night I go to sleep and I dream of being back in that war, back in that awful place where blood splatters are just decoration. Sometimes I live. Sometimes I die in the worst way possible. I wake up screaming every time that happens, thinking I’m still covered in my own blood. I sort of wish that I didn’t feel anything towards the violence again, rather than terrifying me each time, but there’s worse consequences to that.
I stare at my scarring in the mirror and have to remind myself it was from a car accident, not a grenade. Every morning my wife has to remind me of my name and where I am. I can’t go back to work because I can’t guarantee a loud noise won’t make me punch someone. I’ve scared my daughter multiple times because I’ve been up late at night, pacing about and trying to forget, staring at her while I try to remember who she is. And if I’m not reminded again in the next hour or so, I forget again.
My wife - I feel terrible for her, she’s doing her best with me - told me to come here, that you would be able to help me. I don’t think you can help me. I think I might be too far gone. But thank you for letting me spill my guts and tell you my story.
I’d like to be strong again, like my parents always told me to be, but I don’t even remember what strength is anymore. What it’s supposed to be beyond carnage. I hope that someday soon I remember.
(DJ claps twice again.)
[DEEJAY]
Uh, that’s it. Now for the follow up information. Russo did say he-
Ah, here it is.
On the 8th December 2017, a man called Jeffery Bacon ran the red light at an intersection just outside of Lafayette, Illinois. No one knows why he did it, but his son, Jez Bacon, is recorded in interviews saying that his father had been acting erratic beforehand. He hit a family of three head-on, the ensuing drift hitting other cars nearby. Jeffery was killed in the accident. The father of the family, one John Guest, ended up in hospital with severe head trauma and was in a coma for a week.
Looks like Russo found our mystery 1337. How he figured it out is beyond me.
Uh, anyway. He was able to reach out to 1337- uh, Mr. Guest and asked for any additional information. Apparently he yelled at Russo for calling him 1337 before significantly calming down when Russo explained who he was, which- yeah, understandable, I wouldn't want to be reminded either. Said he’s still dealing with all the issues that he mentioned before - dissociation, depersonalisation, nightmares and physical health issues too - he’s just learned to deal with them.
To quote Russo’s personal notes- “A clear instance of Traumataphobia, perhaps Jeffery Bacon was its initial victim before it got passed onto John Guest? At least he’s alive, so it’s a somewhat ha-” (DJ becomes indignant) Seriously? Russo, the man’s still in the same state he was right after the accident 6 years later , that’s not a happy ending!
Ahem. Sorry.
To anyone listening- I hope you don’t mind if I add my own thoughts onto this. I- uh, I did judge him on the name thing too soon, should’ve probably read the statement first before I said anything, my bad. I hope he is doing okay with everything. But- listen, I know I’m supposed to believe everyone who gives a statement, especially since this has been filed under ‘Confirmed’, but come on, the guy literally said he had head trauma, isn’t it obvious it was some kind of coma dream? I, personally, don’t think this was supernatural in any way. But hey, I don’t work here, so what do I know? ( DJ laughs bitterly.)
Uh, signing off.
(DJ believes he has hit the ‘end recording’ button. He has not.)
(He audibly puts his head in his arms on his desk and angrily groans.)
[DEEJAY]
(Muffled) Who’s kind of sick joke is this? How come, out of all the statements I could’ve read, I just so happen to get the statement about the guy who’d forgotten his wife? I- I’m not going to end up like he did. I won’t let myself. It’s entirely different anyway.
I just- I don’t know how long I can keep this going on for. I just hope that she isn’t here, I don’t want her knowing that I’ve- whatever.
(The table creaks as DJ looks up. His speech is less muffled.)
‘Guess I can use this to get some info on what’s actually going on. I’m sure Russo won’t miss it. Knowing him, he won’t even notice.
(DJ gets up with a sigh, walking across the room and shutting the door behind him.)
(Click.)