The Defector (Part Two)

Alan felt a pain in his chest.

He drew a breath, feeling his heart fill with anger, hot and sour.

So he raised a hand and seized Walus by the throat, slamming the once tattoo-covered man against the wall, squeezing, squeezing.

"You damned—damned—"

Then his hand was empty, and he himself spun, fell, unable to breathe, collapsing onto the floor as the last bit of air in his lungs was forced from his mouth.

Alan rolled over, gasping, while Walus stood above him with his head lowered and his hands hanging at his sides.

"You should have used a sword."

Walus said, raising a hand to show Alan the sword he held in his left hand.

Subtle ripples gleamed across the polished blade, while the dark wooden hilt shone with its silver inlays.

It was Alan's sword, given to him by his father, and one he had carried even onto the battlefield.

Walus raised the sword, his gaze traveling down the blade until it met Alan's eyes.

"If you mean to kill someone, you should kill them in one blow. Is that not what they say here?"

Alan endured the pain in his chest. The anger had not faded, merely been bound by pain until the two became one.

He rolled onto his knees and drew in a great breath.

"You killed my home."

He said between gasps, trying to rise.

"No."

Walus shook his head and sat on a wooden crate.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together.

"No, we didn't. We're the same as you."

Alan felt his heart hammering against his chest.

He wanted to rush outside and scream that there was an enemy infiltrator in the bunker.

But then he thought of the man in the black officer's uniform,