May 2037 – Antwerp, European Federation

  Miguel Castillo, moved to Antwerp four years ago with his wife, kids and parents and in laws at the very start of the civil war. Although he confided to me that the situation in his home country burns in his heart like a gaping wound he's more than happy with the accommodation, the job him and his wife have at the port, the school and summer camps his kids have.

  Although, despite being just 33 years old this month, this isn't exactly his first time in Belgium of all places. We’re sitting in the park across from his children’s school, a tall can of beer in hand, an hour before the end-of-day bell rings. But if you ask Miguel, an hour isn’t nearly enough time to tell the whole story.

  "My entire company got decimated in the Ardennes. A few nukes dropped just past the German border calmed the crabs down, and that front stabilized—or something like that. But that was around the time Bukele saw the writing on the wall. No more troops were sent to Europe after that.

  And there I was, waiting for an email with my plane ticket home. Fool that I was.

  They sent me to Brussels to recover from the burn wounds. But once I healed up, that was it. I was just… left there."

  “Left there?” I ask.

  "Yeah—left. I was in a gymnasium. Full battle kit, sports bag, kit bag, the whole loadout. It was like everyone had just forgotten about me. I got internet access at one point, managed to contact the Ministry of Defense. They said they'd get back to me. Never did.

  The gym was full of guys like that—mostly from smaller countries that had sent token forces. Units got wiped out, and their governments never bothered to bring the survivors home. They called the place Babel. A primary school gym, lined with bunk beds and filled with lost, silent men. No one could talk to each other at first—or maybe they just didn’t want to.

  That school was in the blue zone. Just a collection of buildings turned into makeshift barracks and administrative garrisons. All of it inside what used to be Brussels’ Ixelles neighborhood. Kinda fucked up when I think about it now. The streets were way too tight for army trucks, but, well, that was the situation.

  The green zone? That’s where the brass was. Diplomatic and military delegations, the command center—basically all the important shit. All the checkpoints, bunkers, and patrols—getting in was impossible, even if they’d wanted you there. It was in and around the old palace and the Belgian Army officer school before the war. The most secure spot, heavily fortified. More than one drunken fool got his ass handed to him by Military Police after stumbling in, thinking it was where they were supposed to be garrisoned.

  In walked one of the tallest men I’d ever seen—at least two meters tall, bald, clean-shaven, having to duck and enter sideways just to fit through the door. My jaw dropped, but then I started sweating profusely the instant I saw the Military Police armband on his left shoulder. Belgian, I thought, but I learned later he was half Spanish.

  Had he dropped his handcuffs on the floor, I swear the entire gym would’ve rushed to fight each other just to get their hands inside them before he went ahead and forced ours in.

  He didn’t need the MP uniform or equipment, the para airwings on his chest, or the muscles that made him as wide as a fridge to get our attention. He looked around the room like that gringo drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket—didn’t say a word, just sized everyone up. I was only three rows of bunk beds away from him, but he still had to look down to meet my eyes.

  “Oh Dios mío, Miguel, what did you do this time?” I thought, scrambling to figure out what I might’ve done wrong. My gaze fell to my sports bag, and to my horror, my carton of cigarettes—illegal ones—was peeking out. He followed my eyes, caught the glimpse of them, then stared back at me.

  “?Hablas espa?ol?” he asked, his Spanish flawless.

  “Sí,” I managed to stammer.

  "Full ops, outside," he said in English before walking out.

  I looked around, confused as hell, trying to figure out what the fuck he meant by that. Everyone else was just as clueless, but they didn’t have that human centaur waiting for them outside.

  I just winged it, guessing right when I realized he meant "Full Operational Kit." Threw on my plate carrier over my uniform, grabbed my gloves, helmet, and rifle from my locked trunk—replacing the rifle with my box of cigarettes before locking it back up and rushing outside.

  He was talking to some Belgian soldiers when I got out there. Heatwave or not, they immediately dropped their sleeves the proper way without being told twice. He was reminding them that, regulations aside, even if it was 20 degrees, only their unit commander had the authority to let them roll up their sleeves. Didn’t need to yell, though. The two conscripts were visibly shaking.

  He turned around, and I snapped to attention.

  “None of that,” he said in Spanish, and I relaxed… just half.

  "Do you drink allot?" He asked.

  "No sir." I answered.

  "Drugs?" He asked again, this time scrutinizing my face.

  "No sir." I answered back.

  "Can you do exactly as you're told?" he asked, this time more serious as if this question wasn't just making conversation.

  "Yes sir." I said without stuttering.

  “Need an extra Spanish speaker on my shift. File says you’re gonna be here a long time, so might as well do something useful,” he said.

  "Go to the building across the square," he continued. "Ask for the MP platoon room. Tell them Sergent Chef López sent you. Get yourself a cold drink and introduce yourself to the guys. Any questions?"

  There were plenty of questions I wanted to ask.

  How do you all have a file on me?

  When am I going home?

  Did El Salvador even greenlight this?

  Am I getting paid?

  All valid. All left unsaid.

  "No, sir," was all that came out of my mouth.

  "Oh—and bring that box of Marlboros from your trunk," he added before forcing a smile and walking off. For a guy his size, he moved fast.

  Five minutes later, I was wiping sweat from my forehead as I stepped into the building across the square, the one that had apparently been a dentist's office before the war. The first floor still smelled faintly of antiseptic and dust.

  A girl in a Belgian uniform sat behind a reception desk. She smiled politely and asked where I needed to be.

  “Military Police,” I said, looking like a man heading for his own execution.

  Her face shifted instantly—concern to a cringe.

  “Ah. Right. Second floor. First left,” she said quickly, then buried herself in whatever was in front of her.

  I started up the stairs, turning paler with every step.

  Stood in front of the door marked with a sheet of white paper that read: "MP, PLATOON ROOM." I stared at it for what felt like an eternity.

  Then I squared up. Lifted my chest. Adjusted the sling around my rifle.

  I was a soldier from El Salvador. Not some school kid about to walk into the principal’s office. I’d killed two criminals in the line of duty before the aliens even landed. It wasn’t going to be some Europeans who scared me.

  I knocked on the door—too hard, too loud—but bit my tongue and waited.

  "Ouais!" someone shouted from inside.

  I grabbed my rifle by the corner of the handguard and the magwell with one hand, opened the door with the other. The smell of cigarettes hit me instantly as I stepped inside. I shut the door behind me, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the light.

  Two long sofas lined one wall. A table in the middle where a poker game was in full swing. In one corner: desks stacked with papers. In another: a heap of riot shields and helmets. To my left, two fridges humming quietly.

  Seven men in total. Six Belgians, one—who I’d later learn was Filipino. Five at the table, deep in cards. One on a sofa, nose in a book.

  Everyone but the reader turned and stared. Like some twisted version of a mob hangout scene.

  I swallowed, then remembered what López told me to do.

  “Sergent-Chef López sent me,” I said in my best English. Turned 45 degrees to my left, opened the fridge, and grabbed the first can of Coke I could find.

  “Dragoneante Miguel Castillo, reporting for duty,” I added, unsure if I was even allowed to open the can or if that would be some kind of international offense.

  I half expected them to throw me out using my head to open the door.

  Instead, four of them chuckled in unison. Two followed up with a string of insults in French and Dutch I didn’t understand—though I had a strong feeling I wouldn’t have liked them if I did.

  “Pay up, Dries!” one of them said. The little French I knew was enough to catch that I’d just cost someone a bet.

  “You made me lose money today. I won’t forget that!” the Dries guy muttered, tossing a stack of bills into the center of the table with exaggerated annoyance.

  “Shit hand anyway, I’m out,” said Navarro—the Filipino—before pushing back from the table and heading toward me.

  “Follow me. I’ll get you organized,” he said, while the others kept laughing behind us.

  He walked me through the gear: pepper spray I wasn’t allowed to use, a telescopic baton, an MP armband I’d apparently have to pay back for—whatever that meant—a yellow reflective jacket with MP tags, and a stack of fresh paperwork.

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  “Leave your rifle in that weapons case,” he added bluntly. “You won’t need it tonight. And we don’t trust you with it yet.”

  Not like I had ammo for it anyway.

  We were outside by 7 p.m. The sun was still wrestling the moon for the sky.

  Lined up, the whole platoon—or at least what counted as it. Me, the seven others I’d met that afternoon, and Chef López, head of the Military Police squad. The biker gang from earlier in the platoon room? Gone. In their place stood soldiers—sharp, silent, squared away.

  We were at attention, waiting for the company commander to take account of the two MP platoons about to set out for the night.

  Except for me and Navarro, the rest were all former Belgian grunts—tall, serious, built like old brick houses. I’m about 1.70 meters, which is considered tall back home. Here? I looked like someone’s kid brother in hand-me-down gear.

  One stood out—Frederik. About as tall as López, just as heavy. Bald. The kind of guy you’d expect to see rolling up on a Harley with a Hells Angels patch on his back and mirrored sunglasses. He was my patrol leader for the night.

  One out of every two carried a SCAR assault rifle—not that it mattered much. As I would come to learn, the real weapons they had were their biceps.

  "Brussels by then? You couldn’t recognize it—not compared to now, not to before the war. Once the front lines stopped moving so much, it turned into a carnival. Every damn night. But not the kind with music and floats. This was something else.

  Not warehouse packers or bored accountants using tradition as an excuse to get wasted—nah. This was full of soldiers. Belgians, Brits, Indonesians, Americans, you name it. Packed shoulder to shoulder. Uniforms instead of costumes. Drunk, wired, angry, homesick. All of it at once.

  "I’m from San Salvador—I grew up with gunshots outside my window, with people getting killed over nothing, with gangs turning kids into killers. Using their gang affiliations and tattoos as excuses to steal, murder, and rape. So no, it didn’t scare me. But this? This was a different flavor of chaos. This was madness, wrapped in a flag and dipped in alcohol. Partying like some conscripts on a 72-hour leave pass before they went back to hell. I didn’t have a slick red beret like they did. Back when I walked the beat in San Salvador with the local police, all I had was that black helmet and a balaclava covering my face. I stood my ground on that—Lopez didn't fight me on this. The irrational fear here in Belgium was all too rational back home. The fear of the guys I arrested coming after my fiancée and sisters once they were out."

  "I'll never forget the first time we walked down Boulevard Anspach, that main avenue. Didn’t need to yell to get the locals to move. After two or three outings, every rifleman from Osaka to Baltimore learned what the MPs were capable of. It was the guys just fresh off leave, new to the city, who were the real trouble."

  “Haha, you must’ve gotten to know Brussels pretty well,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he smirks, “by the end, I knew the center better than a postman.”

  "What functions did they let you do? You weren't certified or anything?" I ask.

  "Officially, my paperwork said 'interpreter.' After the Lyon Accords, a fresh wave of Spanish and Latin American soldiers had been garrisoned in the city, and Lopez couldn’t be everywhere at once. So that was my official task. But in reality? I ended up doing everything they did—minus the paperwork and official duties.

  We split up in front of the stock exchange when we got our orders, pairing off in groups of two. I was with Frederik that night. He had the SCAR and a tear gas canister launcher. But honestly, his presence was felt more by his stature than his gear.

  It felt like a leisurely walk through the city center—except instead of couples holding hands, it was soldiers vomiting on their boots, wondering how they’d clean them before morning assembly. Guys counting coins, pooling everything they had for a bag of fries.

  The city had a strange vibe during those days. It was as if the war was always just a step away, but for the soldiers on leave, they were stuck between two worlds. The streets of Brussels were flooded with them—guys in uniform. Normally, they would’ve stood out like sore thumbs, but here, they were 90% of the crowd. Some of them laughed too loudly, trying to drown out the memories of the front lines with beer and cheap whiskey. Others wandered in silence, their eyes distant, hands shoved in their pockets, like they were looking for something to hold onto, but didn’t know what. Those were always a sore sight.

  Some bars and cafés were packed with partying soldiers, Red Cross workers, and everyone in the logistical chain—dancing and yelling as if there was no tomorrow. But then there were those quiet bars. It was as if a spell was cast at the door. Inside, you just had guys and girls sitting in silence, their eyes glued to their drinks. No conversation, just the faint hum of the radio filling the space. Not news—never news. The last thing you wanted in those places was to remind anyone that a war was still raging.

  Me and the MPs called those spots "Officer Messes" when radioing in the type of bar it was.

  The smell of cigarettes and fried food filled the air. Outside, the streets were packed with more soldiers than civilians, walking in groups or alone, trying to look casual, but always just a little too tense, like they weren't used to be on their own free time around without orders. Some guys hung around the fountains, the older ones telling war stories that had been worn down by repetition, while the younger ones stared at their boots or checked the time for what felt like the hundredth time. A lot of them didn’t have money. That was common. But still, they packed every corner of the city center. Many had already spent their paycheck elsewhere. There were other pleasures and sins, I suppose.

  The red light district had grown four times its original size since the war. It was full of girls from Africa and South America who had come on "essential worker" visas. There was plenty of underground gambling too—things like the cockfighting ring Frederik told me about, run by some Indonesians. It was a real blast clearing that one out, apparently.

  It felt like Sodom and Gomorrah. A lot of shady characters. And if you were a girl in a platoon, there was no sense in walking alone without at least two guys you trusted with your life at the frontlines.

  It wasn’t just the bars and alleys you had to watch. Even in the open, on the main streets, there was always something simmering just beneath the surface. Fights would break out over the dumbest things—someone bumping into the wrong guy, a comment in the wrong language, someone looking too long at the wrong person. Most of the time it was handled quick. A few punches, some yelling, and a patrol would show up to split them apart. But every now and then, you'd have entire platoon of countries fighting against other, or god forbid someone drawing a knife, or worse. That’s when the MPs really earned their keep.

  You’d get used to seeing soldiers passed out on benches, boots still on, rifles clutched to their chests like teddy bears. Others would be sitting on curbs with thousand-yard stares, nursing beers or bruises. And then there were those who vanished into doorways behind some sex worker three times their size, not to be seen again until half an hour. That was always a funny sight.

  The first real call I got that night was at one of those "officer mess" bars. Two Spaniards were making a scene—too drunk to stay in, but not drunk enough to leave quietly. Instead, they were trying their luck with the bartender, some Argentinian girl who clearly wasn’t having it.

  Lot of Argentinians around, actually. Never figured out why. Not the same "essential worker" visa deal that brought so many South Americans to Brussels during the war. Nurses, cooks, logistics. Situation in the country back then, even before the war got allot of their young kids to move abroad.

  What was strange was that Lopez himself radioed the incident in. That was his sector, and normally he’d handle something like this without blinking. But he passed it to us. Thought he was too busy until I realized later that night why we were called in.

  Frederik and I rolled up. He had to duck to get through the door—guy was built like an armored car. I just walked in behind him, quiet. Casual.

  The moment we stepped in, everything stopped. Drinks were halfway to mouths. Cigarettes hung still in the air. Every eye in that quiet, smoky room turned toward us. You could hear the hum of the fridge in the silence.

  The Spaniards clocked us right away. One leaned back with a grin, already halfway to some dumb joke. The other just looked annoyed, like we were the ones interrupting his evening.

  Frederik didn’t say a word. He just stared them down. That alone shaved ten degrees off the temperature in the room.

  "You handle them, kid. I gotta radio something in," Frederik said with that crooked smile of his, already pulling out a cigarette from the same pack I’d reluctantly passed around in the platoon room.

  I shot him a look—half disbelief, half betrayal. Then I turned to the two Spaniards, who seemed to regain a bit of their swagger now that the fridge-shaped enforcer was stepping out.

  I glanced back toward Frederik, but he was already halfway through the door, lighting the cigarette like he had all the time in the world. Just left me standing there with two drunk soldiers and a bar full of eyes waiting to see what I'd do.

  "Papers," was all I managed to say, trying to keep my voice steady as I watched them. One of them looked at his buddy, smirked, and muttered something under his breath about my height.

  "I speak Spanish, pendejo," I snapped, pretending to inspect the ID in my hand, not really sure what I was even supposed to be looking for.

  His leave papers were crumpled, stained, and—thankfully—expired.

  "Your leave ended yesterday. You’re supposed to be back in your barracks." I kept my tone firm, like I actually had the authority I was faking.

  It was common—leave always ended a day early so they could wrangle everyone back before a unit moved out. Not that it stopped half the guys from sneaking over the wall at night just to hit the bars again. This guy probably did the same.

  “Bastard slapped my ass!” the barmaid shouted, voice sharp with that unmistakable Argentinian accent. “I'm pressing charges!”

  “Fuck. Shit.” Those were the only thoughts running through my head. My heart pounded. Things just escalated.

  Then I saw it—subtle, but clear as day. The guy reached for a lighter someone had left on the table and closed it tight in his fist, pretending to glance around the bar.

  I knew that move. If you grew up where I did, you recognize the signs. That wasn’t just nerves. He was getting ready to sucker punch me.

  His buddy was smarter, a few steps behind, scanning for another exit.

  I didn’t even know exactly what I was doing at first—just acted. Grabbed his waist, head tucked low behind my helmet as he tried to land a hit. One leg sweep and a lift, and I threw him down hard on the old tile floor. Crashed down with him, but he still had some fight left. Not for long. One sharp elbow to the mouth took it right out of him.

  I got up fast. The first Spaniard was out cold.

  His buddy started toward me—but walking isn’t the right word. He moved like he had a stick jammed up his ass, arms twitching like he was shadowboxing in a bad action flick. Looked like he’d lost about fifty IQ points somewhere between his beer and the bar stool.

  Then he grabbed a wooden chair and lobbed it at me.

  I blocked it with both hands on the baton—felt the hit in my fingers, sharp and dirty. Better than taking it in the face, though. That would’ve ruined my week.

  I stepped forward, grabbed his arm with one hand, and cracked the baton against his knee.

  He crumpled like a house of cards.

  Wasn’t by the book, sure. You’re not supposed to hit those areas. But he’d thrown a damn chair at me—so screw the book.

  He was crying on the floor, clutching his knees like a kid who’d fallen off a bike, and his buddy was still out cold—making that rattling noise fools make when their lights get knocked out too hard. My handcuffs were clipped to the strap on my plate carrier, shoulder height. I just pulled them off and tossed them at the guy whining on the ground.

  “Better be on your hands before I come back,” I said, already turning around, more annoyed than anything, trying to figure out where the hell Frederik had wandered off to.

  There was a small crowd outside now. A few of them peeled off when they saw me walk out, like just my face was enough reason to mind their own business. That’s when I spotted Lopez and Frederik. They’d been watching the whole time.

  Frederik muttered something under his breath, too fast for me to catch, then handed Lopez a folded bill.

  “Second time you make me lose money today,” he grumbled, then stepped past me with some plastic hand straps in hand.

  Lopez just gave me a wink and a smile before grabbing his radio and telling command two Spaniards had cowardly attacked a waitress and a member of the Military Police before being taken into custody.

  An hour and three beers later, we’re still in the same park, the sun slowly sinking behind the trees. His kid’s running around with a few others, laughing, chasing each other like they have all the time in the world. Meanwhile, some other Salvadorans Miguel knows are gathering around a public barbecue, the smell of sizzling meat mixing with the late afternoon air.

  "Those bar brawls were a dime a dozen, but they usually ended fast or were already over by the time we showed up. Honestly, what really got to me were the overdoses and the times when broken men hit their tipping point. Nothing breaks someone more than a call from home or realizing, during a night out, that their best friend is still dead, buried in a mass grave somewhere. We didn’t handle those calls the same way we did the others. Everyone in our platoon had seen combat. We’d all lost people. They didn’t say it, but we could see ourselves in those crazed conscripts—ripping their shirts open, screaming, shouting words in languages we didn’t even understand, just trying to make sense of it all. Often we just let them do, until they finally ran out of juice and crumbled into a ball crying. We always pursued violent offences by the books. But those we pulled some strings to make sure they got the help they could, the help people could afford."

  "You'd also be walking sometimes, see some guy or gal on the grass, on the floor, or on a bench, walk toward them to wake them up until you realize what they’ve got in their mouth is the vomit they choked on. That's why we showed absolutely no mercy to drug dealers. Lots of young, dumb kids, doing their bzst to push the war away from their minds, even if just for one night. Throwing caution to the wind like everyone did with everything else in the war.

  When we got back to the platoon room, there weren't the same jokes we'd throw around after a riot in a nightclub or when some drunk Brits pushed a van into the canal. You'd see it on the faces of my colleagues. Hard men, stone-cold and unspoken. No one said anything. But at the edges of their faces, in the way they stared at their paperwork, it was all there. It sold them out like when we overheard the conversations they had on the phone with their wives or heard them call their kids just to make sure they were safe in Spain or France or wherever they were. It wasn’t the same anymore. That part of them was starting to show. Like the front line slowly but surely advancing every day you just saw it creep up on them.