An imaginary line across the surface of the Earth which must be followed in order to arrive at the destination.

* * *

I can say that I am used with the view of the blood, of broken and lost limbs, and of burned skins and muscles. However, encountering such a great number of said injuries, with the additional smell of flesh, seems to nauseate me. One may say that it is quite strange to find a military nurse, who've undergone definite extensive training, will find such situation unpleasant—I will not be describing it to be gross, but it is quite too hard for my stomach to deal with.

I am not the only one, most of us nurses have to opt in wearing masks to suppress the smell and consider it a hygienic practice, but many of us will still gag and just gulp it all down not to provoke the patients that we can't perform our work just because the sight of them in pain and agony is unsettling. However, the most depressing moment had been dealing with their cries for help and wishing to be saved.

After all, it is quite strange, to be honest. Those who've been so vocal that they don't want to die are those whose wounds aren't mortal at all as long as we manage to apply first aids and for them to be dealt later on by much more trained doctors. However, those who've been too quiet are actually those beyond saving, just waiting for the moment that Death will come, as if they've already made peace of it.

For a short moment that the Japanese seems to stop with its pursuit of bombing Nichols, I manage to escape for the bathroom to throw the rest of food that I have from the pit of my stomach. My head is pounding much more and I feel my limbs too heavy, knowing fully that I didn't have any good sleep at all for the past few days ever since the war begins. And every day, I just feel like I am getting worse, and if César will be meeting me again, he'll definitely be scolding me for not taking care of myself... not after I've told him before that I can very much handle things on my own.

Afterwards, draining the contents from the sink with water, I stare at my reflection on the mirror. Marks of bloodstains can be found on the edges, the walls, the sinks and the floor. One will even think that this room had witnessed a bloody fight, and it might do, with too many people coming in and out for a quick wash of all the dirt. And, somehow, it is the one that brings color to my now pale and almost ashen face.

I know that I am not well. I am ill; as a nurse, I know it to be true. However, I can't just idle myself when I know too well that I can do something to help. I can't stop knowing that César is also doing the same. Not now that both of us had chosen to be selfless ourselves to offer our service to our country in the brink of being overrun by the Japanese wanting to have a steal of our own territory.

Can anyone actually blame us? Or should we be blaming those people who involve all of us to this? But if that's the case, will it even bring peace to my conscience? Will it even save me some part of myself that it hadn't been any of ours' fault at all? In the end, as I try to piece all the things that happened for this involvement, everything leads to no one. All of it just leads on to this because of countless decisions made by people trying to be greater than others and make themselves appear to be the superior breed.

Church bells toll another time, causing me to freeze for a second in anticipation of the first sound of planes flying and of bombs dropping. It had been too much of a daily occurrence already, and I know that I'll really not get used to such situation. Perhaps, if I had the same thinking as César concerning church bells earlier on before such sound definitely gaining its reputation in war by now, maybe I'm already expectant of its worst.

The planes finally arrive, audible by their sounds roaring overhead. And the bombs finally drop as I feel the ground shaking slightly, a varying magnitude in quite a succession that suggests that the Japanese continues targeting the main runway and hangars.

Despite our current location—the outer barracks closest to the perimeter walls that are made as first aid quarters and makeshift small hospital for those unable to be brought to the overflowing facilities outside the airfield—I know that I must remain alert of any possibilities. Just because the bombs aren't shyly touching any of our facilities by now doesn't mean that one will not stray here and kill all of us at once.

I sigh heavily and finally remove the mask, fully aware right now that even if I gag at the sight and smell, there is nothing for me to vomit at all with an empty stomach. To add, I think I can finally handle the strain of it; and with that in mind, I dare return back to where I'll definitely be needed.

* * *

Instead of giving my comforts and help to those who are screaming for their pains to be relieved, finding too many others addressing to them first than to those who remain quiet at the other end of the barracks, I then head on to the latter. It is not because I take comfort with the stillness, but it is strange that many disregard their ills just because their cases are beyond saving. I think, they are the most ones in need; because, isn't it lonely to perish from this world alone?

To be fair, I'll not be here in the first place if it isn't for one of them—a young mechanic, lying on a pool of his own blood on the bed despite being tended earlier by a doctor to remove the shrapnel that had been found on his stomach and still show no signs of improvement, called for my attention and weakly asked for a favor. His request had been simple: for me to send a message to his parents, in any case that he didn't make it. Hence, I asked him to wait as I gathered some papers and pencil, and by the time I made it back, I then asked him what he wanted me to write down.

"Na mahal ko sila," he choked with his words, sobbing. "Na mahal na mahal ko sila."

I wrote the words, rephrasing it to clearly convey his meaning. Afterwards, I added his name when he said that he had nothing else to say. I tear the small part of the paper with his message, folded it and handed it to his shaky ones, saying, "Magiging maayos lang ang lahat, at ikaw ang magbibigay nito sa kanila. They'll much want to receive this from you than from me."

He scoffed, smiling softly as he closed his eyes, and held on to the small piece of paper. "Thank you."

And even before I could pull my hands from that of his, he breathed his last.

He isn't the first one whom I've watched died right in front of my eyes. Though I didn't encounter anyone dying in my presence during my time as a nurse before this war, the past few days of watching people who've only been a constant throughout my life for being always there in the background, even if I don't know them personally... their deaths hardened me enough. Almost to the point that I take comfort of them than at the prospect of the living, whom I know needs me as much as everyone else for me to ease their pain and be for them in comfort.

After ensuring that there is nothing left out of the mechanic, checking the absence of a pulse and all, I take the paper from him and keep it in my pockets. I make a mental promise that I'll deliver it to its recipient as I move away from his bedside, call for a few others to take his body away where the other corpses are gathered to give vacancy in this ward of the dying.

Now, as the bombs continue to fall just meters away from where we are, and the room starts to slowly gather some noise of soft sobs from soldiers definitely wishing to be able to do something than be lying helplessly here, I continue on with the rounds of asking each one of them about what I can do to help them. I find some requests rather strange due to its simplicity—a message to be delivered, a glass of water to drink, an extra blanket because he feels quite too cold despite the room being so warm, for the dirt he has on his face to be brushed away, for a hand to hold on for a moment, and too many others that one will even consider to be too mundane of a request. It only proves one thing: that at the end of the line, men didn't have any bold or grand requests.

I am not the only one who did take a moment to offer services as this. There are a few nurses who do so, too. And even those who seems to be assigned with the taking out of the dead from this ward and off, learning from our examples, also follow.

By now, my pocket is filled with too many messages in need to be delivered, getting heavier not because of its content, but because they are in need to be received by its rightful recipients.

Suddenly, the doors of the ward open in a rush, just a few minutes since the last of the bombs fell, and as if the newly arrived soldier is searching for something or someone, he then addresses each and every able person in the room, drawing closer and asking with the exact words: "Kilala mo ba si Osias ng Sixth?"

When he reaches me, finding him quite shaken as he is stained with dirt and blood himself. Based on the clothes he is wearing, he seems to be a mechanic rather than a pilot himself, and his question definitely irks me about what can be the reason. It is enough for him to suddenly be helpful and ask me to come with him at once.

My blood runs cold about what could be the reason, and I ask him to wait as I take a bag of first aid with me in any case that it will be needed. And yes, of course, I know Lieutenant Victor Osias. Not just because he is a member of the Sixth Pursuit Squadron, but because he is also one of those César is closest to; as a colleague and as a basketball buddy.

I am quick in my steps as I try to catch up with him. Both of us disregard the presence of the others who might be in need of help, now being addressed by others who are able to give first aids and bring them to the barracks where they'll be safer. And it had been a long walk between the outer barracks and to where I am being ushered to by the soldier, definitely to where Victor may be. After all, I also ask him on the way about what could be the reason that my help will be needed.

"Hindi lang ikaw ang pinapatawag. Kahit sinong kilala siya o mula sa Sixth Pursuit Squadron," he says, almost sharp-tongued himself as if he didn't expect me to ask.

I frown slightly and say, "Kilala ko siya at medic ako ng Sixth."

Upon hearing that, he seems to be taken by surprise that he had spoken to me in such a manner. He stammers back, "A-Ah, kung ganoon... paniguradong kakailanganin niya ng pangpakalma."

I turn to my bag, opening it slightly as we walk and I search on through my things for some sedative that I have. Whatever the case may be, I wonder what happened still.

"Pinatawag na rin ng iba 'yong mga kasamahan niya sa Sixth, at hindi ko alam kung nandoon na sila. Pero... paniguradong kailangan nila 'yan para magawa nilang mailayo siya," he adds.

I blink and bite my lower lip. My question is only escalating much more to the many holes in his story. But I try to keep myself be at ease, praying that it isn't that much of a troubling manner to deal with or else, I'll really need every other's strength to deal with it. After all, what else will a sedative be need of? What other traumatic thing that will lead to using such?

The soldier leads me to the farthest hangar. It is my first time to actually see the extent of damage to the Nichols Airfield. After all, having been deployed here since yesterday, I and the medical personnel are only allowed to remain in the outer barracks. All able soldiers are then assigned to bring the wounded and the dead to that part of the base to form some consistency and synchronization of movements.

Hence, it takes me by surprise how the hangars are barely visible to be called hangars. They now appear like broken down metals reduced to nothing. Small fires that are yet to be snuffed off exist to burning metals and woods that are definitely parts of aircraft that anyone else didn't think of will lead to further uncontrollable fire. Smoke escalates to the sky, and burned aircraft are abandoned on the ramp area, where there are too many potholes from where the bombs hit ground zero. The most damaged one had been the runway, which received the greatest number of bombs and artillery fire, as if to ensure that it will be unusable.

The mechanic then stops just by the supposed-to-be entrance of the respective hangar, turns to me and then points at the direction to where a gathered crowd seems to be at. He says, "Mukhang nahagilap din ng iba ang mga miyembro ng Sixth na nandito ngayon."

Looking on, from the side profile of those gathered or even by their backs, I can hint a few of them. Definitely, I can recognize Lieutenants Pedro Aragon, Urbano Caldoza and Horacio Farolan. Others had been the few mechanics that I am also familiar to be that of from the Sixth, but aside from them, it seems like all others who are deployed here are still elsewhere. However, a question at the back of my mind exists about what causes them to look so forlorn, and only do that instead of addressing what the issue may currently be?

As I draw closer, I start to hear that they didn't only look sad, but they are definitely trying to suppress themselves from crying. Horacio himself instantly turns to where Urbano is, pressing a hand against his eyes as if to hide away from other prying eyes.

Hoy... Talaga bang si Victor ang may kailangan ng pangpakalma, o kayo? I almost ask them at once, slowly watching my steps not to trip on to something or what.

But... some inkling feeling seems so wrong with this scenario. Some goosebumps prick my skin as my heart seems to beats faster in both fear and anticipation of what I will actually see or know of for a presence of a Sixth Pursuit Squadron's medic to also be here. And I hate this feeling of uneasiness, one that draws me to think that everything is truly heading down the path that things are supposed to be.

"Vic," I hear another voice, familiar and almost urging. Even without finding for myself who it is, I have an assumption of the owner of that voice.

I slowly creep through the crowd, already taking the sedative from inside my bag in any event that it will definitely be needed at once. Such suppressants are actually to be intake, given then to soldiers suffering from trauma to ease their nerves; despite that, it is almost not advisable as it may become a little addicting.

"Vic," Lt. Bartolome Cabangbang calls again. This time, I am sure that it is him when I recognize him when I make a quick tiptoe to be assured f his presence. However, doing so didn't allow me to have a good view of where Victor is as he remains being obscured by the view. "Vic, let go. Kailangan na nila siyang kuhanin. At... At naiintindihan namin." Even Bartolome's voice somehow becomes thick with unshed tears which he instantly gulps in hard. "Wala na tayong magagawa. Paniguradong hindi niya rin ito gugustuhin, at kailangan din natin ito ipagpaalam sa ibang miyembro pa ng Sixth. Lalong-lalo na kay (Y/N)."

I freeze at once, stopping for a second in excusing myself through the throngs of the gathered soldiers.

Tama ba ang pagkakarinig ko? Ako ba ang tinutukoy niya? I ponder.

I don't think that my name is that too common for anyone, and it may be too rash of me to assume that I am the only one they know who has such a name. But then, it seems to be so clear to me all at once. That there has to be some reason behind this edgy and jittery feeling all alone.

At that, I push myself away from the crowd in a rush, excusing myself loud enough for the others to break apart at once and offer me a good view. And upon finding myself right in front of it all, I stop; just as I drop the bottle of sedative, each and every tablet falling to the burned and churned ground.

Bartolome looks at me, and I know that he isn't the only one surprised to see me right here, addressing me the next, "(Y/N)."

I don't know what to do at that very moment. I don't even know what my mind is eager to process or what. But I can swear that if leaving is like a knife stab, leaving this life didn't stop there at all; for the knife to be twisted as it remains buried deep.

Isn't it strange to see the face of death?

For almost like a broken doll, slumped against Victor, who remains seated right next to where Bartolome is kneeling on one knee, had been the one constant I allow to be more than just a fleeting figure. After all, I know that face, that hair, that build, that body... even if it is drenched in blood from head to toe by now. And to completely draw the last nail to its finality, that bracelet he has around his right wrist bears only one name.

(Y/N).

My name.

* * *

Teaser for the next chapter:

[...] That I've fallen in love with, and who will call for me with so much audible glee and happiness. But then, I dread it all along... that time will soon fade, and I'll slowly struggle to remember it all. That despite knowing that my heart will not forget, I hate the fact that my memory will not be as sharp and I'll no longer remember the twinkle of his eyes, the familiarity of his scent, the comfort of his touch, the taste of his lips, and the sound of his voice.

* * *

A/N: Vote, comment and share! Whatever you do means a lot to me, and I am really wishing for some feedback! I really, really wanted to draw that last scene. The last full paragraph before the two liner. To be honest, having to write such a scene reminds me of a certain panel of drawing from CLAMP's X/1999 (my ultimate favorite), and a scene in Sherlock Season 2 Episode 3: The Reichenbach Fall (also my favorite episode!). Anyway, I draw but not anywhere good! 🫣✌🏻👀

A few list of notes/flight trivia to share!

Chapter title: Course. We can all say that things are heading on to this direction since the beginning of story, because these things had happened in the past. However, we could also say that such things happen by a series of decisions that lead to such. Just as the chapter title itself, it was that respective path that had been chosen among countless others available to take.

Follow me on twitter @23meraki for more updates and trivia. ;)
#CFBArtificialHorizon