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The images of soldiers scattered around a now-abandoned Reed flickers on the old wall-mounted television. There are too many green and gold flags in places there shouldn't be. I almost wanted to hear the broadcast, to see what kind of ridiculous propaganda they fed the people of Brass. But as usual, the out-of tune records playing in the background, combined with the voices of the diner's patrons, create a discordant harmony that made it hard to hear... anything.

I close my eyes for a brief moment, forcing myself to exhale slowly. Relax, Chris. This is your life now. Serving the Brass army as a bartender in the middle of a small town called Cornett.

And then I return to work, wiping down the counter. I try my best to focus on the low, jazzy tune in the background, reducing the chatter to mere incoherent noise. The younger soldiers never had anything nice to say anyway - often it was just gloating competitions on who did the best at shooting practice today. And they tended to throw a punch if they caught you listening and questioning their greatness.