The soft evening breeze made his whole body itch, his limbs…
Soon, volunteers brought over a retro high-power outdoor power source and a projector, setting up a tall screen. Yun Shui couldn't help but exclaim excitedly, "I'll go back and grab a stool."
Bai Mingyi also cheered, "Getting here early is better than getting here just in time. Yun Shui, let's go together."
The two of them scampered off joyfully to fetch stools, as excited as cicadas that had just crawled out of the ground, sprinting away with the wild frenzy of those who had finally seen the light of day again.
Leaving the Fleet Commander in his wheelchair sitting alone under the tree, utterly abandoned.
Jiang Xie frowned expressionlessly.
They returned quickly, like two swift whirlwinds. Yun Shui chirped happily, "Quick, quick, let's grab a spot near the front."
Then the two of them pushed the Fleet Commander forward. Unfortunately, when they moved him to the front, the wheelchair was too tall, completely out of place among the various stools and cushions, and would inevitably block the audience behind them. So in the end, they still had to sit in the back.
The Fleet Commander said coolly, "Don't worry about me. I'll watch from the back row myself. You two can sit up front."
The sky was pitch black, and they could barely make out each other's expressions. Yun Shui hesitated for a moment, but her excitement over this ancient, large-scale entertainment screening outweighed her conscience, and she whispered, "Alright."
Jiang Xie: "?"
You actually dared to agree.
Fine. Very well.
From her tone, Yun Shui was thrilled, so happy she seemed to float with every step she took on the ground.
Jiang Xie closed his eyes and stewed in his own silent frustration, though he said nothing more.
He let Yun Shui place him in the back row, behind all the scattered little stools, like a foolish wooden dummy, or a brainless statue.
The wind here was annoying. It blew a grassy, pungent smell through the air, like the scent left behind after a lawnmower had been whirring away.
Jiang Xie sat amidst the noisy crowd, his wheelchair becoming a lofty, absurdly ridiculous throne, as if he might declare himself sovereign at any moment. He rarely experienced such a feeling of being abandoned.
Yun Shui, the culprit.
The movie was about to start, and the crowd was bustling. People were packed in tightly, and Jiang Xie felt someone kick his wheelchair. Little stools kept squeezing in closer, and someone even reached out, trying to move him aside. His suppressed irritation resurfaced.
"What are you doing?" It was Yun Shui's voice. When she was angry, she mustered a great deal of force, her tone trembling slightly at the end. "Why are you messing with someone else's wheelchair?"
The person arguing with her was a middle-aged man with a thick skin. He made some flimsy excuse and slunk away awkwardly.
With a click, a small folding stool was placed neatly beside Jiang Xie.
Jiang Xie thought she was infuriating—slap first, then offer candy.
Yun Shui simply scratched her head and said awkwardly, "You're alone here. I'm not at ease. I'll just sit here and watch."
The Fleet Commander let out a hum, offering no grand opinion, though his eyelashes fluttered almost imperceptibly.
The crowd gradually quieted down.
The glow of flashlights and communicators slowly faded. Apart from the big screen, there was almost no other source of light.
The movie was a very old foreign romance film. No one knew where they'd found the source, and the resolution wasn't very high. Because the male and female leads appeared as children at the start, some of the kids who had been playing nearby also ran over to watch.
The heroine was passionate and lively, like a wild horse that had broken free of its reins, while the hero was delicate and handsome.
The old-fashioned, bright colors slowly unfolded—trucks, gardens, trees, churches, schools.
Yun Shui felt as if she had seen this movie before. She couldn't remember whether it was a college or high school teacher who had shown a related documentary in class—perhaps it was some very old classic. The plot felt familiar, though the details were hazy.
She didn't fully immerse herself in it. The excitement of watching an outdoor film had subsided, settling into a faint, gentle pleasure.
She sat beside the Fleet Commander, stealing glances from the corner of her eye, watching the faint light drape like a veil over his brows and the corners of his eyes.
His hair had long since dried—perhaps washed too many times, it was slightly fluffy, making him seem less like the decisive, unapproachable man he usually was.
His sharp, cold expression had relaxed, unusually languid.
Yun Shui watched the little boy in the movie, whose sharp tongue rivaled the Fleet Commander's, and couldn't help but laugh.
In this quiet, slightly noisy setting, the emotions Yun Shui had locked away betrayed her will and quietly crept back.
Her heart beat strongly—comfortable, full of vigor.
The Fleet Commander said in a very low voice, "Watch the movie, don't watch me."
Yun Shui was stubborn: "I'm checking if you're uncomfortable. Does your wound hurt?"
The Fleet Commander let out a snort, as if venting his earlier displeasure, and haughtily declined her concern: "No need for your concern. Miss."
Yun Shui couldn't quite read his mood, but at that moment, the Fleet Commander's sharp brows and eyes drooped slightly, making his tough exterior seem oddly pitiable.
In that instant, a spark of insight struck her. Her heart felt restless, and quite uncharacteristically, she locked away the chattering, fluttering parrot inside her and, almost as if sporting a crest of gaudy feathers, spoke glibly: "General, of course I must care. You are the fleet's morning sun, the fleet's lighthouse, the fleet's hope." Her clumsy, grade-school-level sentence made her laugh at herself, and her little stool wobbled left and right, nearly bumping into the wheelchair.
The Fleet Commander: "…"
Yun Shui felt a bit embarrassed, her lighthearted mood plummeting. She grew shy and sat still to watch the movie, like a feathered creature tucking in its tail and keeping a low profile.
But something felt off.
When she unexpectedly caught the Fleet Commander glancing her way, she was about to shoot him a reproachful look and fire back a retort when he said calmly, "It's cold at night. Pull your jacket up."
Yun Shui looked down at her zipper—it was already pulled up properly, just had slipped down a tiny few centimeters. She wanted to let out a mocking laugh, but she didn't dare. For some reason, she didn't want to make any sound at all. The gentle evening breeze made her whole body tingle with restlessness, her limbs feeling useless, and she only wanted to roll around quietly on the grass.
Later into the night, the sounds of insects and frogs grew more pronounced. Tireless children screamed and ran about, while several proud, strutting katydids played their wild symphony.
The movie ended, with the hero and heroine taking their bows amid beautiful love and ideals. As the screening dispersed, people picked up their stools and drifted away in sparse clusters. Their voices were soft, the music fading into an overly beautiful night.
Yun Shui was curious about his thoughts: "General, what did you think?"
The Fleet Commander wanted to say, "No logic, nonsensical, forced sentimentality, no beginning or end," but he saw the rolling subtitles casting small patches of pale light onto the grass below—pointed, supple blades, just like Yun Shui's hair.
His picky words lingered on the tip of his tongue, and in the end he forced out a nonchalant, barely passable reply: "It was fine."
Rarely did such a passable ivory come out of that dog's mouth, so Yun Shui pressed her advantage: "Come again next time?"
The Fleet Commander gave no definitive answer, but his brow gave a slight lift.
The next day, Yun Shui was woken up by the noise.
The bed she slept on was narrow, and the mattress was hard, but she was almost used to it, and under normal circumstances she slept fairly soundly. But today was exceptionally noisy, like a classroom after final exams in her student days, buzzing with chatter as everyone hurriedly compared answers and gossiped—a strange, restless excitement spreading through the air.
Yun Shui pulled the blanket over her head and shifted positions.
It didn't work. Too loud.
She fumbled for her communicator and checked the time—just past seven. At this hour, the shelter was usually quiet.
"This is unusual," Yun Shui thought groggily. "Did we just have an aftershock and no one woke me up?" Immediately, her fear of death kicked in, and she shot up with a hiss, eyes wide open.
The person on the neighboring bed saw she was awake and shouted impatiently: "Yun Shui, the signal, the network! The signal is back!!"
A thunderclap out of nowhere!
Yun Shui almost thought she was hallucinating. She checked her communicator—full signal bars!
She thought in disbelief, "Must be my imagination," and glanced at the notification bar. No messages popped up. Her heart felt like it was soaked in water, wrinkled and heavy.
Then suddenly, she remembered that on the night of the earthquake, she had turned on sleep mode and muted all messages! She frantically turned it off. The communicator was silent for a second, and the next moment, a flood of messages came pouring in with a cascade of dings and chimes, like a fine, dense spring rain.
Her eyes instantly misted over. Trembling, she dialed a number: "Mom!"
The moment it connected, hearing the incoherent concern on the other end, a sky-darkening wave of grievance and sorrow surged over her, and her overwhelming emotions couldn't be held back. She sobbed and sniffled through an hour-long call, and when she hung up, her heart was still pounding.
There were many missed calls in her messaging app. She replied to each one, reporting that she was safe. Finally, she called her direct superior, the Secretary-General of the Silverstone Defense Committee.
The Secretary-General was alive and well.
And in the rock-solid Central District, he was almost completely unharmed. Yun Shui reported the Fleet Commander's situation, and on the other end, the Secretary-General said with confidence: "I understand. We'll be able to handle this soon."
Then, while comforting her, he delivered the bad news: "Barring any surprises, the Committee will provide new unit housing for affected employees and arrange psychological counseling. Yun Shui, work resumes next week."
Work resumes!
Yun Shui agreed dryly. She opened her calendar in grief—she had lost all track of time, not even knowing what day it was. She picked up her communicator and checked: Wednesday.
A blessing in disguise—she still had a few days of vacation!
She logged into the internal network system.
Then she instinctively glanced at the neatly arranged chat list, at the avatar near the top. The Fleet Commander's gaze was indifferent, and the messages were still stuck at the overtime notice and a reply of "Received."
Yun Shui's mind suddenly felt a little blank. She got dressed and went to fetch water to wash her face and brush her teeth. Bare-faced, hair in disarray, she ran her fingers through it a few times. The washroom had no mirror, and she couldn't be bothered to care. She refreshed her terminal and saw that the logistics department had sent an email asking affected employees to fill out a status form, saying that on Friday, a shuttle bus would be arranged to take them to the staff dormitories.
Yun Shui let out a long breath, grateful for the system. She opened the form and began filling it out, her mind wandering to the three months of rent she'd already paid in advance to her landlord—what should she do, could she get it back? But the landlord's house had suffered quite a bit of damage too.
These mundane worries came flooding in all at once, and only now did she realize, belatedly, that the isolated island of information blackout was like a utopia on the sand—one that could have its roof torn off and be scattered to pieces at any moment.
But curled up inside that utopia, life had been both turbulent beneath the surface and carefree. Because it was temporary, extraordinary, special, there was no need to study, no need to strive, no need to dress up. Every day was spent guessing what was for lunch and dinner, helping the volunteers with some tasks, bickering with the Fleet Commander, and occasionally being surprised by an outdoor movie screening.
Too bad the surprises were short-lived—they could already connect to the internet and watch videos on their terminals, and from now on, there would be no more idle folks gathering on the open lawn to watch fireflies.
A little paradise couldn't truly escape the world, especially one built atop ruins and disaster.
Yun Shui browsed through various reports—the staggering death tolls, the countless displaced people.
Those heavy, earth-shattering, heroic tales of sacrifice. She heard the melody of "Gently Holding Your Face" and couldn't help but feel a sour ache starting from the tip of her heart, stabbing all the way through to her organs.
Maybe it really was almost time to part ways.
…
…Wait!
She suddenly remembered—the Fleet Commander was still suffering from amnesia!
Did he really not remember anything at all? At this rate, could he even continue as Fleet Commander? Would he be forcibly "retired"?