[b][i]Golondrina[/i], Port Fuad, Egypt[/b]

Luis found himself staring up at a network of aluminum ducts and piping. The soothing rumbling of the idling engines vibrated under his back. He was somewhere in the interior of the warship, somewhere removed from the bullets and the rockets and the dying. A fleeting respite from the war raging beyond the bulkheads, Luis welcomed it all the same.

He laid upon a plastic dining table; the Cruiser's mess room, Luis recognized. It had apparently been converted into a triage during the course of the battle, evidenced by the green card hanging on the wall above his head meaning that he was of the lowest priority. Medics went back and forth past his feet to check with the actual casualties, glancing briefly at the green card before ignoring him. The medics' lack of concern was in fact reassuring to Luis, who worried that he had been somehow injured in the exchange between the cruiser and the Ethiopians. He didn't remember how he had come to be placed in triage, only the fact that he had thrown up. That and his first sight of real blood, the Ethiopian burning to death before his eyes. He would remember those things for the rest of his life.

A gurney rattled past his feet, its occupant shrouded by a blanket splattered in dark, drying blood, the very sight of which wrung Luis' stomach. How could he be expected to fight, to kill, when the very sight of blood could make him faint? He didn't belong here. He knew that much.

"I understand he was the first." A gruff voice unfamiliar to Luis declared, punctuating the silence and the gurney rolled out of the mess hall.

"So I hear. The first to give their life for this war." This voice was familiar, and commanded terror from Luis. It was General Ponferrada. Luis shut his eyes and pretended he was still unconscious.

"And he has been joined, with the landing of the International Brigade there will be more to come."

"Reconnaissance flights report that the irregulars have actually taken substantial amounts of ground. Color me surprised, I am that much more hopeful now for the campaign in Ethiopia, when the Africans engage our real soldiers." The General's words elicited naught but silence. A tense, unnerving silence that even Luis was disturbed by.

"They [i]are[/i] real soldiers, General. They fight for you, they are [i]dying[/i] for you. Don't discredit them again." Luis couldn't believe his ears. Who would dare talk to any general in this tone? Let alone Victor Ponferrada.

"You are fortunate, Admiral, that I honor your leadership and direction. Your service in Boston and Helsinki is a credit to the Republic. Very seldom do I tolerate anyone to speak with me in such a tone."

"I honor [i]them[/i]." Admiral Santin shot back. "I respect the foreigners for their bravery and dedication to the fight against the socialists. They aren't just some pawns to absorb bullets for the regular infantry. Give them the respect they deserve."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the mess hall. Beads of anxious sweat formed on Luis' forehead. Several moments passed before the muffled, concussive rumbling of artillery cut the silence and, curiously enough, the tension.

"The destroyers are still firing?" General Ponferrada asked, welcoming a chance to change the subject. "I thought that all targets of value had been hit already."

"All but one." Corrected Admiral Santin. "That salvo came from the [i]Aksum[/i]." 

"Don't fret, Admiral. The [i]Ejercito[/i] is preparing to neutralize the Ethiopian vessel as I speak." Ponferrada dismissed, his bootfalls drawing closer to Luis' makeshift cot. "By morning tomorrow, the fleet will reach the Red Sea." The General's footsteps ceased when he reached the table upon which Luis lay. Even and he kept perfectly still, feigning unconsciousness, Luis could feel the General's piercing gaze as he inspected him.

"What's wrong with him?" Admiral Santin asked of the triaged private.

Luis couldn't help but wince as the general scrutinized him. He hoped the general hadn't notice the twitch of his face. This was not how he wanted to be seen by such a formidable superior - hiding from the battle in triage. He felt his face grow warm completely against his will. He was blushing profusely from embarrassment. He could feel it in his cheeks, sweat matting under his hair. He tried his best to squelch the reddening glow, but it was of no avail. There was no way that the general would miss such a display.

"Cowardice." Ponferrada concluded.

[b]Bilbao, Spain[/b]

It was only when he was on the plane when they took his bag off. With the whizzing of black nylon sliding past his face, Julio Zuraban's pupils stung upon exposure to light for the first time in hours. Through squinted eyes, he found himself handcuffed to the armrest of his bench seat. in the cavernous belly of a massive aircraft - military construction, that much was clear. Most probably a [i]Gargola[/i] bomber, the workhorse of the Spanish air forces, simply due to its size. Pintles on the far end of the fuselage where racks of bombs could be mounted suggested that this was indeed a requisitioned bomber. Though he was hardly an expert on military aircraft, Julio knew well enough that these planes were built for the express purpose of moving a great masses for incredible distances. It was clear this would not be a short flight, but the destination was not as apparent.

His captors had blacked-out the half dozen windows on the plane just as they had with the bus that had taken him to Arratzu. Even so, there was nothing to see beyond the walls of the plane. Julio stole a glance behind him out the rear loading bay, and saw only the interior of a hangar and a line of prisoners being herded off the buses and up into the fuselage of the plane like so much cattle.

"How come they aren't fucked up like the other flights?" The handler who had removed Julio's bag from his face asked his companion. "The Doctor decide he doesn't want a plane full of vegetables anymore?"

"Couldn't tell you. Maybe he needs some controls for his projects?" His partner suggested nonchalantly, locking handcuffs to seats and yanking black bags off of captive passengers as he went.

Questions bit at the tongues of all the prisoners aboard, but each knew to stifle their questions. Julio and the rest of them learned that speaking out of turn earned nothing but a round of cattleprod beating; worse still came when one was demanded to talk. Anyone who had spent any amount of time at Arratzu knew that everything went most smoothly when silence was maintained.

Another twenty minutes passed as the last of the prisoners were chained to their seats, a length of time that passed like seconds to Julio. After what seemed to be an eternity of ennui and isolation at Arratzu, he could scarcely process all the activity around him. His senses were overloaded trying to process it all, particularly the sheer anxiety and discomfort of what appeared to be a hundred fellow prisoners. In a way it was a welcome break from the bleak hopeless that permeated Arratzu, to know that he would not die there after all. At the same time, the departure from Arratzu was terrifying. After hurting that interrogator so, Julio knew he would not be allowed to go unscathed, and he remembered how he wished for him to be fully aware when he met this Guijon. Whoever this man was, it could be counted upon that he would mete out a fate worse than any at Arratzu.

Anxiety bubbled up in his stomach as the engines spun to life outside the hull. The plane rumbled and shook as their handlers made their way out of the rear doors, which ground shut behind them. The lighting of the hangar left the cargo hold as the doors shut amidst the building pitch of the spinning propellers. The plane bounced gently beneath Julio, exacerbating the queasiness in his stomach. The plane was rolling; already taxing itself out the hangar and onto the runway, they could feel the landing gear's suspension bouncing against the tarmac. Whatever their destination, the pilots seemed intent on arriving as quickly as possible.

As the captives were jostled about within the dark belly of the airplane, Julio's anxious glance met that of his neighbor.

"I know you." The man sitting next to him uttered. He was older man, just shy of elderly. Or perhaps younger. A time in Arratzu had made appear older than his years, and he was bruised and cut much the same as Julio.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"Yeah. I know you. You're the Senator. Zuraban."

"What's left of him." Julio confirmed.

"I don't think you could've done worse than me." With his free hand he pointed to a scaly patch of scabby scar tissue just above his right ear, notably devoid of the thin, black hair set to graying by the tribulations he had faced. "One of those masked assholes got carried away with that box knife during the initial processing. [i]Gilipolla[/i]."

"Why would they do that?"

"I suppose I did antagonize him. A little." He admitted with a sheepish grin. "Maybe more than a little." Julio smiled in turn.

"Anyway, I recognized you. I saw you a few times in person, in Madrid. Before you just sort of disappeared after telling that committee how full of shit they were. Yes, I remember that. Quite a stir that made; took some balls to say what you did, I admire that. That had to be what, five years ago now. I guess you got what you deserved. Five years in that place... You paid dearly for it."

"I don't think I was in for that long." Julio admitted. "They took me in sometime in... April, I think?"

"This year? [i]Jesucristo[/i], I don't even think you spent six months back there. You must have made someone's shitlist."

"You could say that." The former senator admitted with his own mischievous smile. The whine of the propellers dramatically increased in pace, the bouncing accelerated as the plane lurched forward to take off, erasing the smile from his face. Julio's stomach sank against his back as the bomber rose up off the runway and climbed upward, bumps of turbulence rocked him and the others as the plane soared upward. As stability returned to the fuselage, Julio's new acquaintance resumed his conversation.

"Anyway, I never really introduced myself properly." Julio's neighbor extended his free hand around his lap over to Julio. "I'm Joaquin."

"Joaquin." Julio repeated, accepting his handshake with his own free arm. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise." Joaquin agreed, bouncing with the turbulence. "For the last friend I ever make, I could do a lot worse than Senator Zuraban."