A continuation of Cyrus's story.
|In blue uniform, the sleeper strides into this seaside chapel with a mantle of cool. His stance is paseillo, a Spaniard fighting bulls.
He kneels at the altar, before an image of his mother he places there, setting alight candles of commemoration for a time.
Later some fellow strides down this chapel's aisle toward his kneeling form.
The sleeper is gazing at a six foot tall crucifix presently. He reflects on Tercio de muerte, heroic bloodshed in Spanish bullrings.
Despairing, he feels his own laziness, born of grief perhaps, prevents him from ever being such a fellow.
"Your work ethic is not the issue here. As you live a life of relaxation, then you get energized to fight, some transcendent artistry is revealed in your life, or something." These paradoxical words, spoken to him by Hargreaves, a friend of his in the Air Force, surface in his reflections.
His adversary knows something about it and begins to mock him, ridiculing the seeming futility in the sleeper's attempts to establish himself in the U.S. Army.
This fellow is dressed in jet-black General's regalia. He mimes a crucifix.
Cyrus Magnus, nicknamed 'sleeper' by his friends, sees gold enamel poignantly shedding from that giant crucifix. He's awakens it would seem from some emotional slumber as he does so, focusing on the imminent threat.
After all, Mike Hargreaves said a beautiful identity, confidence in one's self, is like a fine sculpture lasting forever, a flawed identity and the sculpture cannot maintain it's consistency."
The Lieutenant says this to himself as he watches the crucifix disintegrate.
As that golden Idol symbolically falls apart, he indeed feels energized.
"You will never be promoted, never. Sleeper, you'll always be rebellious and utterly useless!" The dark fellow shouts, as if to drive a final nail home.
"Cyrus turns and points at him: "I have nothing to prove to anyone."
The players gather Tercio de Varas style; a Mexican standoff.
Magnus's adversary's silver tongued mutterings continue as they level their weapons at each other.
The General wields twin Glocks. Their grip panels are etched with golden twisted crosses. His eyes shift warily.
Carmine sunlight gushes through stained glass windows, a breeze blows across the lectern.
Cyrus exults. He holds 'the lance', a shotgun.
As tension builds you find yourself drawn to their eyes. Once again the thief's eyes; aflame with pride, maybe something else altogether.
Cyrus says: "Suerte de capote. I have been given authority to court-martial you for theft of Government property."
Light radiates from his shotgun's muzzle. Cyrus gets the strangest feeling, a deja-vu he's reliving something that played out long ago, settled epochs past.
"Fool!" the General shouts.
Thundering, Cyrus's gun fires, his adversary opening up as well. Energy explodes from the shotgun in shafts of white light, forming complex grids, shattering walls.
His adversary's fiery bullets streak forward as the conflagration progressively tears the building apart.
Dust settles and smoke clears, Cyrus yet stands amid the chapel's ruins.
The Soldier stood his ground, was awarded a trofeo (medal).