Chapter 7: Wheelchair Drugs

As the distant marching and singing grew louder, the tension in the air became palpable. Goh's confusion was evident. "What are they doing this far away from the city?" he asked, bewildered by the intrusion of war into their secluded haven.

Franklin recognized the tune immediately, a cold dread settling over him. "I know that song. It's the SS battalion. Likely my fleet chasing deserters. My commander is notorious for hunting them down," he explained, his voice tight with fear. Realizing the danger they were all in, especially himself, he began to pack things up frantically.

"We need to move. If they find me here, I'm dead. There should be a church somewhere deeper into the mountains where we could find refuge. It's just over the hill there—" Franklin's instructions were cut short as his voice trailed off. His vision blurred, his movements becoming sluggish and uncoordinated. He shook his head, trying to dispel the sudden onset of fatigue that gripped him, bewildered by its source.

Glancing around in confusion, he noticed Goh's tea cup, still full, untouched. Sumi hadn't received a cup either. Realization dawned on him too late as his strength continued to wane, and he slumped to the ground, the world around him growing dimmer.

Goh's voice carried a heavy sorrow as he looked down at Franklin. "My wife and I didn't pay any mind to the war... until the war came to us. It took everything away from us. My legs. My wife. My daughter's laughter." His words were a lament for all that had been lost, a reflection of the pain that had hardened into revenge.

Struggling against the effects of the drugged tea, Franklin grunted as he tried to crawl away, his body heavy and unresponsive. He threw a hateful glance at Sumi, who looked away, her own face a mask of sorrow and betrayal.

In a surprising show of strength and mobility, Goh stood up from his wheelchair, revealing his ability to walk—a façade he had maintained for reasons only now becoming apparent. He lifted Franklin effortlessly over his shoulder, his actions belying his earlier portrayal of a disabled man.

"Don't worry, we're not going to leave you. We'll find that church, and talk when you wake up," Goh assured him, his voice calm and resolute despite the deception and complexities of their situation.

As Franklin's consciousness waned, his body heavy and uncooperative, the world around him seemed to tilt into darkness. The sounds of nearby marching and singing were distant echoes, their clarity lost to the creeping fog in his mind. His vision faded rapidly, the edges blurring into shadows as the voices around him slurred, becoming indistinct and distant.

In his final moments of awareness, he caught sight of Sumi taking decisive action. She shoved the wheelchair into the fire, the flames eagerly licking at the unexpected fuel, the chair's silhouette distorting as it was consumed by the growing inferno. The fire crackled and popped, the sound piercing through the haze enveloping his senses.

Beside the fire, Goh moved with a purpose that belied his earlier pretense of disability. He grabbed the bag — the same bag that had carried their meager supplies and the potent tea — securing it with a grip that spoke of desperation and determination. His actions were swift, those of a man spurred by urgency and perhaps a plan long considered.

***

In the surreal expanse of Franklin's dream, he found himself in the cockpit of a fighter jet, soaring high above a war-torn city. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and red, starkly contrasting the dark smoke rising from the ruins below—a city scarred by the very bombs he had just released. Beside him, two other jets glided through the air, their presence both reassuring and haunting.

The camera panned out to capture all three jets in formation, the visual powerful and chilling as they flew over the devastated landscape. From below, the agonized cries and screams of the injured filled the air, a stark reminder of the war's human cost. Yet, from above, the roar of the jet engines drowned out the suffering, encapsulating the disconnect between the pilots and the chaos they wrought.

The crackling of the communications system interrupted his thoughts. "Another one down boys, what'd I tell ya? We're crushing it!" Armin's voice echoed through the headset, his tone jubilant and triumphant.

Finn chimed in with a carefree laugh, "I'm so glad they didn't put us in the infantry. The view from up here of us winning the war is just priceless." His voice carried a lightness, his eyes likely fixed on the clouds and the mesmerizing sunset, oblivious to the destruction below.

Franklin's gaze, however, was drawn inexorably downward to the city smoldering beneath them. The weight of his actions pressed heavily on him. He hung his head in guilt, his heart aching with each rise of smoke that marked another life disrupted, another home destroyed.

His eyes then shifted to a photo of his wife, taped to the dashboard of his pilot controls—a beacon of normalcy and love in the midst of chaos. He reached out, touching the photo briefly, seeking comfort in her imagined presence. Shaking his head as if to dispel the guilt, he forced himself to look forward, focusing on the breathtaking view of the sunset ahead, trying to find beauty in a moment so starkly contrasted by the ugliness of war below.

Beat.

"I can't wait for the war to be over..." he murmured, his voice soft, filled with longing for peace and a return to a simpler life—a confession meant to be private.

"Finn, whispering over the comms, broke the brief tranquility, "Franklin! You said that over the main line! The commander heard it!"

The Commander's voice broke through, stern yet with an undercurrent of understanding. "You got someone special back home waiting for you?" he inquired, his tone a mix of curiosity and a subtle reminder of protocol.

"Yes... A wife," Franklin replied, his voice a mixture of pride and longing, the image of his wife grounding him even in the midst of war.

"Good. That's why you're here. That's why we're all here. Good work out there. Now get back safe and stop spewing your feelings over the main comms," the Commander responded, his words firm, redirecting the focus from personal emotions back to the mission. Laughter echoed through the comms, a moment of camaraderie among the crew, though Franklin still appeared uneasy.

He glanced down at the ravaged city below, then back up at his wife's photo taped to his controls, the juxtaposition of war and personal life stark in his mind.

Finn, ever the lighthearted one, chimed in, "I got more than a wife waiting for me. I hope my bar is okay, I heard we got bombed there a week ago."

"Wait, what! Who told you that?" Franklin asked, startled by the news, his focus shifting sharply.

"We all got a letter. My wife wouldn't stop nagging about having to take care of the kids on her own, like damn woman, I got a war to fight and you're really talking—" Armin's voice cut through, his frustration apparent, giving a personal glimpse into his life back home.

"Hold up, you guys got a letter?" Franklin interjected, his tone laced with surprise and a hint of concern. He hadn't received any news from home, which added to his unease.

There was laughter over the comms again, the irony not lost on them. "Wow, the irony of the mailman between us not receiving his letter," Finn joked, referring to Franklin's role back home.

"Ha ha. Is everyone okay?" Franklin pressed, needing reassurance amidst the humor.

"Yeah, it sounds like everyone got underground before it happened," Armin confirmed, providing a small comfort that despite the dangers, their families were safe for now.

Franklin looked at his wife's photo again and back at the city below. The contrast between the life he once knew and the reality he now faced was overwhelming. His dream blurred the lines between duty and desire, love and war, capturing the deep internal conflict that shaped his waking life. Each glance at his wife's photo reminded him of what he fought for and what he hoped to return to, fueling his resolve to survive the war and return home.