Going insane was always an option for Dal.
As he was walking in the colourfull streets of Beirut, as he was going through the small, crowded marketplace, as he was sitting in the promenade, looking at the Mediterranean sea, all blue and full of waves at this northern point, he knew it was more than option.
It wasn’t a new thing for him, either. He was there when Ramsey lost it. In a way, he already knew what it’s like. Already knew how it looked like. For the outsider, that was. Because, however he tried, he could not go insane. His grip of the world was still too strong. Something was always pulling him back.

It was a surprise, at first, going back to Beirut. His transfer slip, the full sized sheet of paper that was given to him in Battle School, said Command School. The big place. For the big kids. But he was not brought straight away to ISL by the International Fleet officer that escorted him out of the Shuttle Bay. Instead, he was led to the airport. And there boarded a plane, whose destiny was only stated simply, “Beirut, Lebanon.” Such simple words, such a meaning behind them. Beirut. Home. It was only a day after that morning, when he sat, crying, in the showers, all alone, wishing to be home. And now, as if by magic, they were letting him have his wish. He was going back home, God knows for how long. And he was intending to make the best of it.

Jabal didn’t say goodbye to him as they left the Shuttle Bay. On the other hand, he did not say goodbye to Jab as well. Only his gaze, escorting his friend. His best friend. But not anymore. Dal could not believe that was the way his long friendship with this kid would end. It always meant so much, for the both of them. But it felt there was no coming back. Not now. A wall stood between the two, blocking the once so powerful friendship of the two children, friendship that lasted in a world where everything was destroyed, and was destroyed too soon. He did not look back, leaving the Shuttle Bay, did not see Jab’s own gaze on him, the sorrowful look on the face of the second child, as the two knew at heart that was not how they wished to be parted. But it was all too late now. Dal was rushed into a car, that would bring him to the air port, which in turn would lead him home, or to the place that was closest in his heart for that word. Jab’s future lay clean before him.

The first thing Dal noticed about Beirut, though, was the fact that after all, it wasn’t home. It was all wrong. The streets were too small – Were they always that small, and only seemed bigger to a smaller child? They were too crowded, too noisy. The smell was unbearable. It was not an extraordinary smell, but Dal could not know that. He lived for years in a sanitary place, where he knew everyone and everything. The smell of the crowd was not a familiar thing, and Dal could not get used to it. He could not get used to any of the things that were so typical for a big, crowded city, and so strange for him.
His family accepted him in open arms. Their small child, who trotted the streets so happily next to his father, was finally back. They did not mention in a word the fact that there were indeed extremely worried inside, for other boys have gone to Battle School as well, and after a short period with their families continued to ISL and to another big, far away school in the sky, and their family could breathe deeply again and go on with their lives without that strange, foreign boy. While, as the days went by, and became weeks, months, their own boy was still home, still shadowing the family with his presence. They were shadowing him as well, for after the first excitement, Dal finally realised. They were strangers. Beirut was not home for him.

The only place he could relate to was the sea. He used to walk for hours on the long promenade, looking at the sea, at the people near it. He used to walk on the beach, his bare foot in the edge of the water, letting the soothing waves calm him down. When he first tried to take his own life, it was near the sea. At first he was sorry for the thought, that his blood should spoil the beautiful beach, but then he was comforted by the thought that after all, the water wash everything. And he wanted to be by the sea. It was too beautiful a sight to be missed. Especially if he was not going to see it again.
But he did – for the beach was not his own, and a passer by saw the weird looking child that always seemed to be haunting the beach, his wrists slashed and the blood pouring out of them. And as he woke up in the hospital, his family’s worried looks on him, he knew he failed, and it filled him with much greater despair.

It was not the only suicide attempt he made. But they always seemed to fail. Allah did not want him dead, so it seemed. And so, finally, he gave up. He was already guarded heavily by his own family, their worries. He did not have the freedom he had had before. He still ran off, every once in a while, to the beach, to the streets, to the marketplace where they showed the biggest parrots he has ever seen, the funniest monkeys, even sheep. But mainly he stayed home, sitting on a bench in the garden, looking dully at the passerbys. His parents argued about him at night. We can’t keep him here, can we? They whispered when they thought no one could hear them. But Dal, lying so many long nights awake no his bed, could hear everything in the silent house of thin walls. Every screech of a mouse. Every ticking sound of the big grandfather clock in the living room. Every whisper made between the thin walls by worried parents who did not know what to do with their strange, sick son. But he had not the will power to go. Some nights he did sleep, though, and then his dreams were not pleasant ones, and were haunted by faces of people he wished to forget, so that he will not be eaten so by sorrow and longing. Jab’s face, Whiskers’, Mik’s… So many people he wished to forget, so that he won’t be worried about them as well. But as he could not, he kept on sitting there, doing nothing, understanding nothing. Simply wishing it’d be over, one way or another. And one day it was all over, indeed.

When the IF officer came, like that almost forgotten time, so many years ago, his parents didn’t feel fear. This time, they felt…relieved. Their son would continue his training, and they could go back to being proud of him, instead of suffering the whispers of the neighbours, pretending to ignore the curious looks he was getting from their friends. They were right. The IF officer said a couple of polite words to the parents, and almost right away asked to speak to Dal. It’s been a year since Dal was brought there, and the first time they saw an officer in all of that time. But still they could only feel relief when they led him to the garden, the back one this time, and showed him Dal, sitting there, watching the street, doing nothing. They could not hear the conversation between the two, the long, silent, argument the officer and the child-soldier had had. But they stayed and watched. For although angry at their astray son, fearing him even, they still worried about him, still loved him. But they did not know how to cure him, and so hoped the officer would know that better.

At long last, the officer stood up from where he was sitting near Dal. Dal still wasn’t looking at any of them, neither at his parents nor the officer, in whom he had not thrown a single glance their entire conversation. But the officer looked at the parents. “I will come to pick up your son tomorrow,” were his only words. Dal’s mother asked him to come in, but he did not seem to hear her. He stayed sitting there all day long, all night long, looking at the street, as if hoping to see something that would tell him not everything was so sad, so bad, or as if trying one last time to catch a deadly germ and die right away, before he had to go there again. For he didn’t want to. But he was too indifferent to care anymore. He already reached the conclusion that no matter what, his life were not his own. And one place was no better from the other. Instead of letting his parents down, he thought bitterly as he glanced at the dark, starry skies of the nighttime in Beirut, he might as well keep the illusion that he’s helping in that big, unknown war that seemed not to exist at all after all, and disappoint only the officers of the IF. Soon before dawn he went up, and left the garden. Walking again to the length of the beach, he looked at the last stars of night, slowly disappearing, vanishing, as if falling into the wild waves of the sea. His feet were bare again, and he let the water relax the tense mussels, the sand prick his legs.

The trip to London was meaningless to Dal. He did not look out of the window of the IF car at the views of the city one last time as the car rushed in the streets, until reaching the International Airport of Beirut. The aeroplane that was taking him away was almost identical to the one taking him the first time. The destination was different. And the child within was different as well. No longer was he the excited, grateful 13-year-old, yearning for a home to which he thought he was approaching. The Dal that was boarding the aeroplane in Beirut was a sceptical, depressed and indifferent 14 year old youth, who was disappointed with a world that was disappointed with him.

London is an exciting place. It’s been one for centuries, and was still one when Dal reached it. But it was not an exciting place for Dal, who could barely have a glance of the city. No, he was taken to the IF headquarters in London, a small, old building near the river Thames, in which a room was already prepared for him. The IF officers that once again controlled his destiny were not too enthusiastic about letting him out of their sights. And so, there he remained.

The first time Dal met Rick Davis, though, was outside. The officers could not lock him up forever, could not keep him inside of the building. And so, one day, after repeatedly asking the officers to take a walk in the city, Rick came in. He was a young man, could not be over 30, and as Dal was talking, Rick’s big brown eyes were fixed on him, as if drinking thirstily every word. He made Dal uncomfortable. Who was this man? He was not wearing IF uniforms, and Dal thought he must have better things to do with his time than guarding a 14-year-old soldier to be.
But Rick was not to keen on answering any of these questions. He just shrugged, walking Dal outside of the building, towards the great river. “You would find our river full of surprises,” he said in his thick Cockney accent, his eyes full of jest.
Dal bore with him. He had no choice. Rick was the only man who would take him out, who could spare the time to release Dal from his “prison”. For that was the way Dal felt towards the old building, and soon after his arriving there, his indifference towards the building became a strong sensation of loathing. He knew the building inside out, was bored at its library, dreaded the old, mindless psychiatrist that was assigned to him and filled his days with his mindless jabber. And so, walking with Rick was his only way out of the world that soon became boring and unbearable.

It was a night walk, when Dal finally knew why Rick was so interested in him. Standing on the bridge, looking at the old parliament house and the big wrecks of the tower that once symbolised London, the Big Ben that was ruined in the Second Bugger War, Rick told him, “You know, Dal, I stood in this exact spot with Ramsey when he was here.” That made Dal jump. Rick knew Ramsey. “When was that?” he asked, his voice showing interest for the first time since Rick met him, for the first time since he was brought back from the Battle School home. “It was a year and a half ago, or so. Lt. McLaughlin brought Ramsey here for psychiatric evaluation, and soon he was bored as well from our small building.” Dal was disappointed. It was before Dal himself came back to Earth.

Ramsey’s destiny meant a lot to Dal. The kid, whose real name was James, was Dal’s friend a long, long time before he even thought such a scenario as he was experiencing now was possible. He was his first commander, and out of them all, his most favourite one. Dal, 9 year old, had no chance of ever becoming something important in Battle School. Most commanders never took a second look at a kid his age. But not Ramsey. And when A Toon Leader was transferred into a different army, Ramsey called him. I want you to be a Toon Leader, he told Dal. Dal could only ask Why? It was impossible. But Ramsey just smiled. I don’t care about age. I care about ability. And you, my friend, have got a lot of it. It was probably the best year of his life, being a toon leader under Ramsey. Jab, who was just out of Launch, was transferred into Dal’s toon out of necessity – the kid who was full of potential could not speak Common well, and needed help. Dal, speaking Arabic from home, was the best option.
The two soon became unseparetable friends. They did everything together: joked, ate, studied. Under Dal’s help, Jab was soon one of the best soldiers of Rat Army. Ramsey was more than pleased. “He’s second to you, you know,” he said once, in a long night when he felt lonely and asked Dal to come and help him through the tough night. “You two are the best soldiers Rat Army has. I’m proud of you.”
But it did not last long. Ramsey was always psychotic. Something in his genes, a teacher explained later. It was bound to happen. But in the day when Ramsey didn’t come to his army’s barracks in the morning, didn’t come to the morning practice, long ago scheduled, the rumours were a-flying. Ramsey finally lost it, was the one thing whispered over and over again. And when Lt. McLaughlin entered the Rat Army Barracks and called their attention, Dal knew it must be true. This was one tough night Ramsey thought he could handle on his own – but didn’t, and now it was all too late. Rat army’s core was spread through different armies, and so were Jab and Dal, their friendship unbroken, but Ramsey’s shadow upon them, all the time.

And mainly upon Dal. For he saw him later. Ramsey, a shadow of a teenaged boy, walking through the corridors of the school, performing some task given to him by the teachers who kept the homeless boy in the School even long after his training period was over. And always had the fear that here, what was happening to Ramsey was also happening to Dal, who was actually blooming as a toon leader under different commanders, until receiving command of his own. Destiny’s joke, he thought as he stood there, staring at the wrecks of the old Big Ben, that he really lost it not in Battle School, but when finally the School was over for him.

Rick’s words disturbed his line of thoughts. “Ramsey talked a lot about you.” Rick’s eyes were once again fixed on Dal’s face, making him uncomfortable. And so, he starred at the buildings, listening to the rest of his words. “He held much appreciation towards you. You were very important to him. So important, in fact, that it made me go and look at your file,” this was said in a joking tone, but Dal knew Rick wasn’t just laughing. He really did check Dal out. “What happened to you was, so to speak, not really asked for. You were one of the best soldiers in Battle School, you know.”
Dal turned to him. For the first time he noticed Rick was no longer watching his face, but his wrists, visible with the short sleeved shirt he was wearing. "Yes," he said bitterly at last, "Who can imagine this is the way Battle School’s glorified soldiers end up after all."
Rick sighed. "I understand your frustration," he said at last. This was too much for Dal to bare.
“Do you?" he burst out. "How can you? What do you know about Battle School?! Full of sick minded teachers playing with the lives of sick minded children and..and…” he lost his voice to that. He had no idea how to put into words what he felt, the anger he had kept for over a year now for everything that happened in the great circle in the sky.
Rick only smiled. "I'm a Battle School graduate too, Dal, I know perfectly well what you feel. I've been through it all." Peeping again at Dal's wrists, he corrected himself. "Most of it, anyhow.”
Dal started walking again, not towards the IF building, but towards the second direction. Rick followed him, quietly, but Dal didn’t wait up. As Rick was finally catching up with Dal’s fast walk, he spoke again.
“No,” Dal said. “You don’t know what I went through. You can’t know. How can you? You’ve never seen Ramsey, before he crashed. You’ve never parted your best friend knowing you will never, never see him again, not speaking to each other over some stupid girl. You were never in a situation where the teachers could do nothing but find one way after the other of screwing up with your life, with everything you know.” He wasn’t shouting. He spoke quietly, but the sense of bitter resentment could be well heard in his voice. He didn’t care whether Rick was still following as he walked, starring at the street lights, kicking a random stone on the sidewalk.

Finally, Rick spoke as well, and only then did Dal realise they were walking side by side for a long time now. “Command School is different than Battle School,” he said softly. “You don’t have to command anyone there. You get your education, the needed one, you hang out with your friends, the ones you meet there, and that’s it. As a matter of fact, it really is a homelike place.”
Rick could not have made a greater mistake. “I have no home,” said Dal bitterly.
“Nonsense,” Rick tried cheering him up, not knowing what to do.
“No,” Dal insisted. “I thought Battle School was my home, but I was wrong. It was just a place, a meaningless place full of meaningless people.”
“Not so meaningless,” Rick cut in, ready to force Dal to remember about Jab, about Whiskers, about Ramsey, about Mik. But Dal was not listening.
“I thought Beirut was my home,” he continued, “But that’s an empty place as well, full of empty people who have no clue what I feel, why I feel it.” To this, Rick had no answer. And so, he was completely surprised as Dal turned to him and said, “But I will go to Command School.”
“Why?” he asked. The psychiatrist said it would take a long while til Dal would agree to co-operate with the International Fleet again, til he’d be useful again for the programme. Might as well stop the training at this point, he said. You will find no help from this one. But the thing about Dal was, that he never did what was expected of him, wasn’t it? Through his entire record, that much was obvious, that Dal was faithful to his mind only, not to some pattern of behaviour the others expected off him.
“I will go, because this isn’t home either. Because I have nothing else to do. Because there might be a small chance it’d help. Because I don’t want the Buggers to blow up Westminster Abbey as well,” a smile broke into his lips.
Rick smiled too. That was what his own superiors wanted to hear, wasn’t it? That Dal cared enough about the war to keep on being trained. It was obvious now he will not get a key position in any Battle that may happen in the future – you don’t give key position to people who tried suicide as a resort. But Dal was still a genius, still showed enough potential to be included in the programme. Who knows what he will be good for in the future? Better to continue the training, if they reached so far.

They walked together towards the IF building. Rick was chatting cheerfully, but Dal didn’t laugh at his jokes, didn’t smile, didn’t even show recognition that he was really listening at all. Rick could not know what was going on in this strange, distant boy’s heart. So he just talked on and on, until reaching the old building and letting Dal in.
As he walked in, Rick took one last glance at him, and realised what was the power of the kid so many teachers in Battle School talked about. He did not see him til many years after.

Dal, in turn, entered the building without a second thought. He was not thinking at all. Just walking passively down the hall, reaching his room, and going to sleep without another word.
At morning, he was woken early, taken by an IF car once again to an airport, boarding a third aeroplane, one that would take him to the American Shuttle Area, the only place from which Shuttles to ISL were taken. During the flight he was sleeping; he cared none at all for the view. A strange officer once again took him, no words said between them,not to the Shuttle,but to a different place. Ground School. He was almost 17 when he was finally brought back to space. In the meantime, he had learned a couple of new things about Earth. But there was no turning away now. And soon, they were above the ground. Dal didn’t feel anything at all. Not sadness for leaving Earth, his home again for the past year and a half. Not excitement towards the unknown place where ISL and Command School were located. His expression empty, Dal was empty inside. Neither caring nor looking.

PROPERTY OF THE INTERNATIONAL FLEET
DO NOT MUTILATE OR DESTROY
**** CONFIDENTIAL ****
COMMAND SCHOOL PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION

Name: Abdallah Mahmud al-Azzazi
Diagonsed by: Dr. Allan Gerrard; Proff. Nadia Dahamsha; Proff. Julian Griffin; Richard Davis

Subject has been tested for a period of over 3 years by the medical and mental health staff employed by the International Fleet in Beirut, London and on Eros. All during this period, the subject has showed no sign of wishing to undergo a treatment and did not co-operate with the medical staff.

After being for 6 years in IF programme Battle School (DTG54365), the subject has suffered from a severe case of lack of orientation, disnosed in many a child in the Battle School programme. Subject has commented he "Doesn't feel at home anywhere, cannot fit anywhere". [see: 120945 sec 3.5]. Noted was lack of fitting, lack of communication, which led to several suicide attempts.

A psychiatrist checking the subject at the hospital at teh time noted a complete klack of motivation to live or to any osrt of activity.

Suicidle tendencies did not leave after subject was removed from his initial surroundings into a secured IF facility in London.

...

the subject has undergone several tests of any sort in the London facility of the IF.

This is not a case of chemical inbalance. Several tests that the subject has undergone did not suggest any sort of genetical or chemical cause for depression or lack of activity. We are to presume this is not a person who may be declared as insane or dangerous to his enviornment and be put on restraining drugs. Nor did any justification for a change of the original conclusions as to the subject's fitness into the IF programme were found. - the subject has undergone again the exams for the IF Officer Training Programme (HYB32644532) and was found fit, again. This either suggest the psychological part in these very tests is not in the spirit of the needs of the IF, or that the subject's problem is different - while the subject is still very clrealy in a position he cannot continue the trainings, the question we were yet to figure out is why.

The madical staff could not find any kind of answer to this question.

The subject was unwilling to co-operate. The IF has put geat many restrictions on the staff's actions.

Our recommendation is to terminate the training programme completely for the subjec until further notice, or until any breakthrough in the matter is accomplished.

"You should have listened to us. Your decision was not... the wisest one."

"I know. Most decisions aren't, in the longer run. That's the problem with people - they are blind to the future."

"Do not try your cheap philosophy on me, please. I know better than the impresionable kids you are working with."

"Very bright kids, if I may add so myself."

"I know. I was one of them, remember? Extremely bright... but at the same time very, very impressionable. It shouldn't be too hard to get the.. let us say right ideas into their minds."

"Do I sense resentment in your voice?"

"How extremely bright of you."

"You should not have been assigned to the case. I objected in the first place, and I still object now."

"Why? You got him into your programme, didn't you? For the second time now. What is it in this kid you want so badly, you woudln't let him live quiet, peaceful life?"

"Talent. Need I say more?"

"I'd think 3 years and 5 suicide attempts would take every little bit of talent he had and warp it up so badly you won't be able to recognise it ever again."

"Let us judge that, Mr. Davis. To remind you, you are no longer an IF offcier.... you are nothing in the IF."

"Just someone you asked advice from."

"I didn't."

"I know you didn't. But we can quit the little fights. I want to know, what did you do to that kid, and why did you bring him back?"

"Jabal."

"Oh, the other unexplained mystery. Wasn't he the kid who was iced and brought back by..."

"- I see you listen to a lot of the kids' gossip and rumours by now. Charmajnagar's interference is just a mere speculation."

"You should know whether it is or not."

"Okay... let me re-phrase. For you, Charmajnagar's supposed interfenrece is mere speculations."

"Ever so diplomatic. But what does one have to do with the other?"

"While Dal improved, the IF is still unsure on his fitness to the programme. Jabal's development, how ever, would only benefit from al-Azzazi's presence. End of story."

"You're playin with his life again."