The month dragged on slowly and heavily. Every day, Arnold woke up and went to bed with the thought of the days he still had to live through before getting his raise. His overall condition was deteriorating; he started noticing changes in his body. His face had grown paler, and his once-thick black hair had become thinner and duller. His shirt now hung on him more loosely, and Arnold figured he must’ve lost a kilo or two.

  Work no longer brought him any satisfaction. It infuriated him that he was working himself to the bone and still getting paid so little. And with prices constantly rising, it was downright horrifying. He was down to meager work meals and boiled potatoes in the evening, with maybe a slice or two of bread. All just to pay for the ever-increasing rent and tram tickets. He hadn’t dared move, though the thought never left his mind.

  If he moved, most of his furniture would be left behind. It would be too expensive to transport, so if he did decide to move, he’d need to sell everything to the neighbors first. Option two: put an ad in the newspaper—“Furniture sale at such-and-such address.” Option three, the most unpleasant one: drag stuff to the pawnshop piece by piece in his free time.

  Arnold’s mood barely changed. Most of the time, he was irritable. He had no desire to socialize with colleagues. A couple of times, they invited him to the bar or a restaurant, but he declined, saying he was saving money. After that, every new invitation felt like an insult—a way to mock his financial state. Everyone knew he had little money, yet they kept inviting him out. At least, that’s how Arnold saw it, and it made him angry.

  There were other things that angered him too. Every time he passed through the city center on a tram, he stared out the window at the shopfronts—clothes, furniture, perfume. It all seemed to taunt him, laughing at his empty wallet.

  One part of Arnold was always bitter and worn down, but another kept clinging to hope: the month would soon end, and the generous government would finally give him the money it promised—just like it gave to his coworkers. They had to be getting something, at least enough to eat. Otherwise, Bill wouldn’t be so muscular, and Margaret wouldn’t have such thick, healthy hair. As for Peter, Arnold couldn’t tell—maybe the guy was just sick, which would explain why he was so skinny and twitchy.

  The long-awaited thirty-day mark kept creeping closer, and in the final two days, Arnold was on edge. He remembered how, as a child, he used to wait for his favorite holiday—New Year’s. That fluttering sense of joy and anticipation would build gradually, in phases. First came the tinsel and decorations, then the tree. A few days later, stores and schools would begin to sparkle with festive lights. On December 31st, the pleasant chaos would begin—cooking, guests arriving. And finally, the celebration.

  Now, Arnold was feeling something similar—except this time, it was mixed with overwhelming fatigue and irritation.

  Finally, the big day arrived. Arnold was practically running home from the tram stop. It was Friday—his paycheck envelope should have arrived by now.

  Opening the mailbox, he indeed saw the familiar emblem of the airship and gears. He grabbed the envelope—and miracle! It felt noticeably thicker than the previous ones. How many bills were in there? Afraid to jinx his luck, Arnold rushed up the stairs to his apartment.

  Sitting at the table, he tore open the yellow envelope with trembling fingers, and out fell a pile of money. A note slipped out as well.

  Holding his breath, Arnold began counting the bills. Three-sixty, three-seventy, three-eighty… Already more than before! He chuckled skeptically and kept counting. Four-twenty, four-thirty, four-forty, four-fifty. And that was it.

  “What the…” Arnold muttered. “Weren’t they supposed to pay me five hundred fifty skrebls?”

  He checked inside the envelope again, thinking maybe some bills were stuck. But no—it was empty.

  Must be a mistake, Arnold thought. Four hundred fifty is way too low! That was the same as his old salary before the cuts. And now, with prices up, things wouldn’t even go back to how they used to be.

  Unless… it’s temporary? Arnold’s mind raced. He needed to read the note.

  Holding back a storm of emotions, he unfolded the paper. It started comically: “Congratulations on your increased salary!” Arnold’s face twisted into a bitter smirk. The note continued with the usual reasons about the factory’s financial state. At the end, it said his salary would remain at four hundred fifty for an indefinite period.

  Quickly doing the math, Arnold realized he could slightly improve his meals with that pay.

  Not bad? No—it was awful. Two months of misery, just to eat like a normal person. On Monday, he’d go see the Boss and sort this shit out.

  And that’s exactly what Arnold did. Arriving at work, he headed straight for the boss’s office instead of his station. Standing outside the door, he knocked.

  “Come in!”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Good morning,” Arnold said as he stepped inside.

  The boss, George, had apparently just arrived, though he was already smoking a cigar—about a quarter of it gone.

  “Morning,” George nodded. “Long time no see. How’ve you been?”

  “Not bad,” Arnold lied. “I’d like to talk about something.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Yesterday I received my first ‘increased’ salary. Everything seemed fine, but as far as I remember, it was supposed to be five hundred fifty skrebls. Thing is, I only got four hundred fifty. A whole hundred less,” he blurted out, then went silent, waiting for a response.

  “I know,” the boss replied calmly, as if he had no clue how badly Arnold needed the money. “It was explained in the letter. Didn’t you read it?”

  “I did, but… it must be some mistake.” Arnold barely held back from cursing, remembering who he was speaking to.

  “What’s not clear?” George asked with feigned innocence, puffing his cigar. “The factory needs funds. Try to get by for a month or two,” he chuckled. “Or not at all?”

  “First of all, yes. Things are really rough for me. Second, we had a deal—it was supposed to be five hundred fifty skrebls.”

  “Alright, let’s look for a solution to your problem,” the director said. “Option one: you can just wait, like the letter says.”

  “That won’t work,” Arnold said immediately.

  George nodded and continued.

  “Option two: I can transfer you to a new, higher-paying position.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. But there’s a catch. The job isn’t here at the factory,” George explained while rummaging through a drawer. “It’s partially under the factory and partially under the government.” He finally found the document and handed it over. “Have a look. It has all the details.”

  Arnold glanced at the title: “Personnel Request Form. Military Mechanic.”

  “Wait, work at the front? Become a soldier volunteer?” he asked.

  “Almost,” George replied. “You’ll go as a skilled mechanic from our factory to help out—but not to fight. On paper, and generally speaking, you’re not considered military. Just read through it. The pay’s better, and the contract terms aren’t bad.” He tapped his cigar. “It’s all I can offer for now. Think about it.”

  Realizing the meeting was over, Arnold left the office and walked to his workspace. Without wasting time greeting coworkers, he started reading the document.

  Position: Military Mechanic. Responsibilities included repairing flying vehicles of various sizes in a prepared zone outside of combat areas. Arnold imagined a military base with a hangar full of airships, where he’d repair the most damaged machines.

  Next duty: preparing aircraft. That probably meant fueling them, arming the weapons, and performing inspections. Nothing too hard—Arnold had done all that for years.

  Those tasks didn’t scare him. What he definitely didn’t want, though, was contact with war—being directly in battle. Sure, he considered himself a patriot, but not one willing to kill or be killed.

  Final responsibility: follow the commander’s orders. Likely just a formality, Arnold thought. Of course there’d be someone in charge, but surely they wouldn’t send a regular mechanic into combat?

  Toward the end of the document, the contract’s key conditions were laid out. Service term: fifty-two weeks. The army provides housing and food. Registration closes in ten days. After the service, monthly payments of 800 skrebls are promised—for a full five years.

  Seeing that massive number, Arnold stayed calm. He’d recently learned that things can go wrong. Promised five hundred, got four fifty. What if they say eight hundred, but it turns into seven?

  Still… that’s a lot of money, he thought, smirking.

  After finishing the document, Arnold began to summarize for himself: the job likely wasn’t too difficult. The high pay was probably due to the need to live far away and in a relatively dangerous area. The main question: how dangerous?

  That was the only thing making him hesitate to sign the papers right away.

  Given his nature, he decided he had to figure everything out as thoroughly as possible. This was a serious decision—one that shouldn’t be made with unanswered questions lingering.

  But where could he get answers? None of his acquaintances had served, and the newspapers didn’t write about things like this. The director, apparently, wasn’t particularly informed about the position either.

  Arnold leaned back in his chair, thinking over what he had read. It was terrifying to sign up for something without knowing exactly what he was getting into. Still, contracts could surely be terminated. — he realized, skimming through the document again.

  One line read: “The contract may be terminated if valid reasons are provided and both parties agree.”

  Perfect. Valid reasons were probably just a formality anyway, Arnold figured. I’m not even military personnel—they won’t keep me there by force. I have to take the risk.

  Deciding he would sign the contract at home, with a clear head, Arnold returned to work.

  The shift passed quickly, though not easily. At home, Arnold sat down to dinner, rereading the document at the same time.

  Position—mechanic. Duration—one year. Salary—high. Possibility to leave—exists. What am I really risking? Arnold tried to calm himself. But one nagging thought wouldn’t leave him alone. The thought that this contract might not only begin a new chapter in his life, lead to a better future and financial stability—but also take a great deal away.

  What if the “safe base” came under fire on the very first day? What if they lied and sent him straight to the front? The chance might be small—but it still existed.

  Memories floated up—fragments from newspaper articles. This territory captured, that position secured, the Empire and Erratia moving toward victory. Naturally, only successful operations made it into the press. Or tales of heroism—where some unit was wiped out but took down three times as many in return. The newspapers never spoke about the military’s day-to-day routine.

  That won’t do, Arnold thought, resting his chin thoughtfully on his fist.

  He read through the contract again, as if trying to spot some new clause guaranteeing his safety—but he found nothing new.

  Is it worth the risk? His colleagues knew nothing about it; their opinions were useless. His boss knew no more than he did. What about his mother? What would she say?

  She would one hundred percent support him—knowing it would help them stop going hungry. She had it hard enough herself, and with eight hundred skrebli, there’d be enough money for both of them. Prices were rising fast. Soon, her pension wouldn’t be enough.

  They used to live together, and for most of her life, she had worked to support herself and her son. Always exhausted, but never disheartened. She had only retired a couple of years ago, and now—now the economy was suffering, and she might have to start working again. But Arnold could change that.

  Sighing, he signed the contract.