Armistice was shrouded in a nigh-permanent smokescreen of tobacco and hashish, and had been christened in the naive hope it would be a place of unity through alcohol. Those who spoke its name did so with irony, or no inflection at all; so when Cyprian was called upon to arrest a pernicious drunkard, he knew the motions quite well. He wasn't expecting said drunkard to be his best friend, gunned down as a soldier in Transvaal four years ago.
"How are you still alive?" Cyprian muttered as he locked Sorensen up. Curled up in a shivery repose, Sorensen gave away nothing.
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"How are you still alive?" Cyprian muttered as he locked Sorensen up. Curled up in a shivery repose, Sorensen gave away nothing.