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He does not want peace. He’d rather see Valverde razed to the ground and its people — those disgusting vermin — exterminated without exception. And he does not hesitate to mention that in his speeches in these exact words.
Over the last forty years, since the war started and he was born, the official rhetoric of the Great State has been the same.
“Gen. Airel Johnson’s lecture at the Central Stadium was a huge success!”, the daily newspaper announces again. They like to put his photos on the front pages. He looks good in photos. Tall, intimidating, and younger than most high-ranking military officers, he’s aware he is the right man in the right place; those kids simply wouldn't listen to a dried-up grandpa screeching at them from the stands. Seeing a sea of young faces staring at him with reverence, Johnson can’t help but smile.
The first rows, though, are occupied by war veterans, Ministry officials and whatnot. Young people must know that they have to earn their spurs first, it should set a goal for them. They can hope one day they’ll be allowed to take the best seats… or maybe even replace Johnson on the platform he’s standing on.
As long as they listen, the future belongs to them. The future is them.
Operation Toucan is a success, too. The subversives and terrorists can keep barking as always, but they cannot deny that the news from the front line makes them fear the Great State and its loyal citizens. It showed everyone that the youth are ready to die for their country selflessly, without looking back, without fear. The people of Valverde should expect the worst. Especially once the Great State trains enough genuine soldiers.
General Airel Johnson gets a medal… and an allocation to a Class D apartment, for whatever reason. He would prefer a nice mansion in the suburbs instead. People start calling him “The Butcher”, and while that does not sound exactly impressive, he’s more than fine with being the butcher of enemies of the Great State.
When he’s not giving speeches and lectures, he’s partying, drinking, enjoying his fame — living his best life, all for state money. The times may be dire, and human envy may know no bounds, but nobody dares to object. He earned it.
And it’s not his fault that some state officials are ungrateful, stingy bastards.
“Terrible news, Airel! They want to kill you!”
Carl Stein looks more frightened than Johnson himself as he delivers this message. For a war hero, there’s nothing new under the sun. Besides, Johnson already heard that anti-state revolutionaries had been quite active in this borough lately. Good to know that the landlord of Krushvice 6 is an alert man of patriotic attitude. Turns out the Ministry didn’t send a merited military officer to a low-class apartment by accident. They knew what they were doing.
Carrying a gun on himself is not a new habit for Johnson. He’s just a bit more cautious now, looking for potential threats around him as he leaves his apartment. He knows the day, he knows the exact time. At this point, it feels more like a prearranged duel, not an assassination attempt, doesn’t it?
There is a strange man walking down the street towards building No. 6. As his eyes meet Johnson’s, he smiles politely and gives the general a slightly awkward military salute. A long time ago, Johnson would have thought it’s just another sympathizer of his. Now he’s more prudent than that.
The stranger reaches for something hidden beneath his jacket. Johnson is quicker.
A deafening bang echoes through Krushvice Street. The sight of the man facing his death with such dauntlessness is almost beautiful. Almost, because a traitor shouldn’t die like this. He teeters a few steps backwards, then trips over his own feet and falls to the ground like a tree cut down. An expression of utter regret stays on his face; regret of someone who brought a knife to a gun duel.
Johnson’s disturbed neighbors peek out of the windows, but they disappear behind the curtains faster than they appeared there. The would-be assassin’s body quivers for one last time before becoming still. His blood slowly fills the gaps between paving stones. His hand keeps clutching the knife.
The guy was shot like a rabid dog, someone would say.
This is the kind of daring I’d like to see on a battlefield, Johnson thinks to himself.
What a pity some men clearly cannot be fixed with the power of words anymore.