Join the new world

Imagine for a moment a crumbling apartment in downtown Budapest. The temperature outside is 17 degrees, overcast and it is raining slightly. The rain is cold to the touch, carried by a light and crisp wind. However, this pitiful building does not stand out from the others because the entire city seems to be in a state of severe disrepair. The streets are deserted and if one were to walk them, it would seem as if all joy has gone from the once proud capital.

Inside the apartment is a small damp room in the cellar. The colour of the walls is a faded tone of olive green mixed in with a bit of grey and there are numerous stains. A small window where one of the walls meets the low ceiling is the only source of light. On one side of the room sits an old wooden, rickety kitchen table around which a few rotting chairs sit. Two dishevelled men are sitting at the table, with bags under their eyes and their head in their hands. Their uniforms are unbuttoned, dirty, marked with a few holes and are now ill-fitting because the two men have lost so much weight during this war. They are clearly stressed to the breaking point.

At the centre of this small room is a third man, equally in bad shape but this one has mustered the strength to stand despite obviously being malnourished. Next to him sits a large metallic drum, marked with numerous dents and it is sitting horizontally on some sort of apparatus. From the side of this contraption is a large S-shaped handle affixed. The third man raises his grotesquely thin arm and begins to turn the handle; the large drum also slowly begins to spin, squeaking all the while. After a moment or two, the third man stops, opens a small trap door located on the drum itself and he reaches in.

A soft rustling can be heard and soon after, the third man withdraws his arm from the drum; in his hands is a small piece of paper. He opens it slowly and nods almost imperceptibly at it. After a moment’s contemplation, he turns to the two sitting men and says something.

Barely louder than a whisper, the sitting men have to strain to hear it: “France”.

The two men, without a single word spoken, stand up slowly and put on their dark olive green windbreakers which a moment ago, were strewn on the back of their chairs. They cast a worried glance at one another knowing it is likely one of them will perish on the 1485 kilometre-long journey to Paris. As if death itself is waiting to embracing them, the cellar door at the top of the steps suddenly swings open on a violent gust of wind. Dead brown leaves blow in. The two make their slow ascent up the stairs and they step outside, ready to face whatever awaits them. As they depart, one of them shuts the door behind them, leaving the third man standing alone in the cellar, with the sole duty of spinning the drum one more time, to see which country will be tasked to throw itself at the forces of EDEN and Fortis.