NOTE: This is adapted from a series of short stories I did for English class, and this is text from one of those.

I lied. But does that really come as a surprise to me anymore? I lie quite a bit, actually, it’s a bit abstruse just how much I lie--to myself, to others, but mostly myself--so it won’t come as a shock to find that when I told Sera I’m pretty apathetic to the whole war I was lying. I’m not apathetic towards it at all--I despise its very nature. It brings my pay and it gives me something to do before I, too, die; but I can’t help but feel it as it sickens my core. Every time I go by it part of my soul crumbles into oblivion before I pack cargo into my ship. The war stretches back farther than I can remember, probably before I was born--come to mention it, I remember little of the past anymore now I’m so old. And this whole thing with Pallas sending in some clueless child to take my job is purely subversive in my book. Out with the old, in with the new, I jokingly say my employer’s motto is. And I suppose I should take it with a more positive attitude; after all is said and done, maybe I’ll be able to retire, move to Ganymede if the weather’s nice and they’ve quieted their civil unrest. No more war for me after this, I tell myself, and it’s a nice picture.
You know, maybe it’s not too far away, that picture. I’ve been travelling with Sera for close to three months now and I have yet to jeopardize my agreement with my boss, that I shan’t reveal to her exactly what it is we transport. She still believes that we’re transporting flowers, but her suspicions are beginning to show through, I can tell. I don’t know how long I can hold up this façade before she finds out that we are the carriers of the dead, the travellers of the river Styx, like Charon in his tiny ferry.