Philnensia

A small brown and gold Labrador was jumping at an unreachable pristine white butterfly, so near yet so aloft, lazily drifting in the cool breeze.

Marten was standing by their bed, already in his soldier’s uniform, rucksack and tote bag housed neatly folded underwear and undershirts, and an array of firepower.

“It is my duty.”
“Your duty is to me.” Taylor spun, trying to persuade with words and things beyond words. Marten looked on, as if memorizing the patterns of hairs under the lace. Her brown eyes neither pleaded nor her platinum strands stirred. The silence was so empty compared to last night, a parting gift, or a souvenir.
“It is our mission.”
“Nobody comes back from that mission.”
“I know.”
“What of us?”
“If I don’t do it, they will hunt us both. I’m giving us a fighting chance.” Taylor glided toward her lover, placed a gentle hand on his closely cropped Josh Hartnet head in Blackhawk Down. Her full breasts kissed his chest and insignias, of companies not listed in any army.
“I will comeback. We will find each other again.” They hugged their last. They kissed long and deep. Marten bent to pick up his things, went out of the door, down the stairs, out of Taylor’s milieu. Taylor went back to the window, to watch his Range Rover disappear down the immaculately asphalted street. She could not cry, even if she wanted to. It’s not in her design.

The suburbs soak in the morning, knowing nothing of the disposable genetically altered mercenaries in doll houses, designed to do mortal combat with society’s ghouls, goblins, and gargoyles, to protect the semblance of normalcy ordinary humans took so much for granted.

“I will follow you to the end, love”, Taylor whispered, as her brain effortlessly calculated longitudes and latitudes, browsed through which fake passports to use. Don’t forget the silver bullet rounds and the foot long silver serrated knife in the armory, she told herself. She loved them up close and personal.