The Common Soldier grumbled slightly as he joined the huddled mass. The tangy scent of sweat was detectable from afar, with the sun just amplifying the effect; the crowded area was unbearably warm, and in response to the unpleasant environment, he wrinkled his nose.

The repulsed action did absolutely nothing.

But he could stand it for a while, as much as he needed to, because rations were to be doled out that day—full bags of sweet grain. He hoped to take at least two packs, three if he was lucky; his overly-extravagant dining table was gathering dust. It would be nice if he could put it to some sort of usefulness, finally—the corn-flakes they serve daily are too bland, unworthy of its polished, walnut surface, so he usually ate on the floor, instead.

Assignments—letter-delivery, or something—might also be given, but he knew that hoping to be charged to complete anything would be too much to ask. All the important messages would be allocated to his higher-ups in rank, leaving all people ranked similarly to him to waste away with basic, menial tasks—that was likely for the better, though: things given to him usually didn’t end up in the right place.

His Superior Officer approached him, an envelope in hand—it was sealed with a vibrant sticker, deep red. It surely seemed important, and the soldier wondered if he would receive a meaningful role. And then a promotion, perhaps… the allure was difficult for him to resist. Forget the grain! The least he could do was prevent a wild look of anticipation from escaping him.

It excited him—usefulness! Being confined to dealing with commoners’ disputes frustrated many, and this task—if it was for him—would provide a much-needed breath of air. No more hearing pointless banter on whose shoe was found in the damp wells; no more arresting rambling citizens and listening to drawn-out complaints!

From the huddled mass emerged the Common Soldier. He clutched a sealed envelope in his left hand, a pistol in his other, and wore an elated expression on his features—even daring to whistle, though this warranted a few displeased glares of annoyance from around him. He was able to forget their existence, though—this was a highly crucial job, designated for him to complete! Even the noon sun, which seemed set in its desire to beat him into the ground, left him unfazed.

As he rounded a corner of a small, boxy-seeming street, he turned over the envelope, reading the home to which it was addressed—yes, it would be one block forward.

He briefly entertained the idea of opening it, stealing a glance at its contents—but no. He was told it was completely confidential, to be seen only by the recipient; after toying with the possibility one last time, he removed it from his mind.

And then he turned into the cobblestone street, clutching his gun more tightly and preparing to intrude into a common peasant’s home.

He soon encountered a predicament: the doorway. Where was it? Had he spent too much time in the Soldiery Department’s provided homes, and now did not even know how to enter peasant residencies? Was it the scrap of metal that trembled by a small pane of glass, trying to serve as a window-frame of sorts? Or the little blockage of shrubs that had been foraged together to seal a splintered board?

On the other hand, could one even call the sad shack of old, worn wood a ‘house,’ really? He should be grateful that he had proper living quarters. He made a silent note to thank his Superior Officer later—and the entire Soldiery Department’s existence, for that matter. Maybe a note of appreciation would do…

He reminded himself to focus—’be innovative.’ If he couldn’t find a door, he would… create one? No. That would violate some unnecessary ages-ago law about not destroying others’ property, and he did not want to be charged with any ‘crime’—after all, to spoil this moment would be to spoil everything that awaited him.

Wasn’t there some etiquette to follow when entering a residence? He sniffed. Did he have to follow it? Soldiers were above peasants, after all.

Frowning, he half-heartedly attempted to gather his wits together. Perhaps loudly announcing his presence at the entrance would do? That might be the best course of action. His pistol would then deliver a few shots to the door, if nobody answered. Was that allowed? Probably. One of the basic principles of Soldiery: ‘You may destroy peasant property as desired, given compliance is refused.’

Though, on second thought, the realization came that he should announce his presence—isn’t that how all the prominent Soldiers go around? But what would he say, then? Something menacing, like “OPEN UP OR YOU SHALL DIE!” Although maybe a mellower introduction would suffice… like “Soldiery Department’s orders, there’s a very important letter of notice coming your way!”

He sighed. Perhaps a quick decision would be beneficial.

In precisely twenty-eight strides, he made his way to the front ‘porch,’ if you could call the small patch of shrubbery situated in front of every peasant’s residence that—and hesitantly tapped on the glass pane serving as a window.

No. POUND on the window, he reminded himself. After all, nobody will hear that meek sound. And soldiers are supposed to be confident, aren’t they?

He did not need to press further on the trembling pane, which already seemed to cower before his very presence. From somewhere within the home seemed to materialize a young girl—only six years old, perhaps—clutching a blanket, just woken up from a nap, maybe.

Not wanting to delay matters, he hastily shoved the letter into the child’s hands, though hazily wondered if she could even read. Didn’t matter, anyway; his task was done and promotion—a promotion!—awaited.

As he jubilantly pranced his way to report to the rest of the Department, he heard an anguished wail erupt from behind him—the child’s? He didn’t turn around. Probably unrelated.

But the promotion! Yes, his dining table need not wait any longer…