Au revoir, my love

An ugly concrete cylinder rises above the smoggy clouds to hold up a pleasant restaurant called Le Towarette.

One of the last standing bastions of the French Revolutionary Army in the year 2172, Le Towarette was a lookout point for enemy drones, aka “the dragon-birds”, named after an extinct feathered animal capable of flying. The design allowed a 360 degree view of the horizon. The laser cannons could hit dragon-birds 100 miles away. It displayed no double glazed windows back then, and it was operated by killer robots, hence its original name - The Tower of Death. 

But the days where humanity fought for natural resources have had their sunsets. The nuclear winters turned into summers, and although the air is still dangerous to breathe at sea level, with the right oxygen mask, one can live a pleasurable life. 

And part of having a pleasurable life is having pleasurable meals, and that’s what’s on offer at Le Towarette. 

Le Menu at Le Towarette comprises the finest gourmet grass dishes. But Le Gazon at Le Towarette is something else. It’s not the processed and tasteless grass paste, sustaining the hard-working comrades. This is the top organic grass, the best you can purchase if you so choose. Total satisfaction or you’ll get your People’s Token back

Rosatella puts down the brochure and looks at Jonatholias.

“You know how to sell this place.”

“Well, I’m the manager after all. Besides, I know you will write a wonderful article about us.”

She smiles and lifts her glass filled with red grass wine. 

Jonathanolias studies her as she drinks. Publicity is the last thing on his mind. She is attractive and that’s why he agreed to do the interview. He would never admit to that. After all, she is much younger than he is, probably only in her 120’s. But he likes to give the staff something to talk about.

“I love a good semantic drift”, she says, putting down her glass on the table.

“I’m sorry?”

“The Tower of Death turning into Le Towarette. It’s a delicious case of reversed etymology. The old phrase becomes obsolete and is replaced by a newer version. And it even sounds French. The irony is delightful.”

The waiter puts a plate containing sliced pieces of roasted grass in front of Rosatella. She smiles, approvingly. 

“Please tell me more about your article,” he says, shaking the serviette. Something he saw The Great Leader do. “As I understand, you are writing about the importance of grass in our great society.” 

She picks up the cutlery and starts cutting up the grass in front of her.

“Most people take grass for granted without understanding that the World Central Party saved humanity from annihilation when it made grass the official food. Food shortages were solved. We now live in a perfect balance with the environment. Biodiversity is at an all-time high. Soon we’ll see our first rainforest in 200 years. Apart from a few terrorist cells, crime is non-existent. We owe it all to grass. And people like you, Jonatholias, are taking the use of grass to a whole new level.“

Suddenly, a high-pitched shriek fills the room. Alone at a table, a woman covers her face and cries uncontrollably.

A heart-shaped locket dangles from the neck of a waiter leaning over her. The waiter holds a bottle of red grass wine. He looks at the woman with dismay.

The woman’s voice emerges muffled through her clenched fingers. The chief of staff approaches the waiter and grabs him by the collar. 

“Please excuse me.” 

Jonathanolias stands up and walks to the corner of the room where the waiter stands with his head bowed down, surrounded by other waiters. Meanwhile, an older woman has approached the crying woman and is talking to her, calming her down. When the older woman is walking back to her table, Rosatella leans towards her. 

“What happened?”

“Her deceased mother owned an identical heart-shaped locket.”

The older woman points at Rosatella’s plate.

“Your grass is getting cold, dear.”

Rosatella grabs the cutlery and looks at the thin pieces of roasted grass on her plate. She hesitates for a moment, but then digs in with gusto.

Jonatholias returns to the table.

“Older objects sometimes are found behind walls. Sometimes, I think this is not a good idea. Being so creative with the grass. But we have the full support of the party.”

“You are an example to follow, Jonatholias.” 

“I can call a limo drone for you. I understand how disturbing this must have been.”

“No way. I want to stay. I want to enjoy the rest of this terrific grass.”

Jonatholias nods in approval. 

“In that case you need to try our famous desert!”

“Yes!"

A cargo drone hovers by the window of the restaurant and lands on the platform where Rosatella was dropped off earlier. A few guests, waiting to be picked up, move aside to let a couple of security guards escort the waiter, who is still wearing the heart-shaped locket, towards the cargo drone.

When the cargo drone finally lifts up and disappears into the misty fog below, Jonatholias and Rosatella are finishing their desert: caramelised grass, sprinkled with chocolate covered grass-skin balls.

Rosatella cleans her lips with a serviette and leans forward.

“This is the best grass I’ve ever had. You need to tell me what the secret is.”

He feels her perfume and the smell of warm grass on her breath.

“We get it straight from the regional WGP processing station. That’s why it’s so fresh!”

“I would love to see the process. How it’s done… But I understand that for security reasons not everyone has access to the stations. But you do, right? You are the manager of Le Towarette, after all.”

Jonatholias glances down at his foot. Rosatella’s shoe is touching his own. He looks at her with a grin. 

“I love the way you say Le Towarette. You have such a great French accent, Rosatella.”

Rosatella blushes.

“Merci. So?”

Jonatholias takes a moment to think.

“Of course, I don’t want to put you in any trouble. I know the party is very secretive about the location of processing stations.”

He stands up and grabs her purse. He offers Rosatella his hand.

She smiles. They walk towards the exit, passing the crying woman, who is looking at her plate of grass with misery.

The couple laugh as they run towards the Tesla drone parked in the VIP parking space. He helps her get in. It’s the sport model, so not the most comfortable entry for a woman wearing a short dress. 

“Close your eyes now.”

She does as told. Jonatholias closes the canopy and lifts off.

The drone hovers between a narrow gap in a mountain. Rosatella keeps her eyes closed. 

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“Not yet!”

She laughs as the drone descends through a crevasse. 

Jonatholias feels great. He feels powerful having a woman like Rosatella completely under his spell. It has been a while since he felt so much in control. He knows what he’s doing is highly illegal. She is a civilian. But maybe he can convince Rosatella to become his wife. Why not? He knows high ups in the party who could facilitate the paperwork. They come to the restaurant all the time and they are always telling him… “if you ever need anything.”  

“Almost there!”

He turns around a corner, maybe a little too fast. She grabs his hand. He can feel her soft skin on his. He slows down. Presses a button and the canopy of the drone slides back, exposing them to the air outside.

“The air is safe to breathe here! You can open your eyes now!”

The drone hovers over a vast feedyard on the WCP regional ranch. Thousands of naked bodies move about, collecting mushrooms from the ground and eating them. The bodies are all children. She looks at them in awe.

“We feed mushrooms to our grass! This batch is still growing though. But look over there! That grass is fully grown. Ready for processing at the station!”

Rosatella turns to see a long line of bodies marching into the entrance of the processing station, silhouetted by the bright light from inside. A solemn death march.

“This is incredible!”

He takes a deep breath. Savouring the smell in the air. 

“Don’t you just love the smell of fresh cut grass!” 

Jonatholias sees Rosatella opening her purse and grabbing her lipstick.  She is making herself pretty for him, he thinks. This is going better than what he ever imagined. “If you ever need anything”.

He focuses on getting the drone aligned with the landing pod at the entrance of the station. He can see Rosatella’s legs in the corner of his eye.

"Hey Rosatella?” 

“Yes?” 

“How come your French accent is so good?”

Rosatella answers in perfect French.

“Parce que je suis français, trou du cul.”

It was not really the words, but the way she said it. Was she angry? When he looked to the side and realised the lipstick was in fact a pistol, now pointing straight at his face, all he could think was…

Rosatella presses the trigger and Jonatholias face explodes like a ripe tomato. She sits on his lap and takes control of the drone, landing on the pod. 

A guard approaches the drone and sees the mess. He starts running away. Rosatella aims and shoots at him but misses her target. The guard runs inside a building.

Rosatella climbs out of the drone as she hears the alarm bells go off in the station.

The structure is like a labyrinth, and she has no idea where to go. She’s consumed by adrenaline but not fear. The revolting smell, the roaring noise, the slick, blood-covered floor. A not so traumatic sight for a French girl who grew up in the deep valleys of the cold mountains, hiding from WCP soldiers, seeing the dead bodies of her family and friends piling up in common graves. She can almost hear her father’s words now as he died from his wounds after being shot by a drone: “I’m free now”. 

All the years she spent studying infiltrating the enemy, learning their ways, eating their disgusting “grass” and vomiting it afterwards, enduring hours of meaningless chit chat with creeps like Jonatholias, have prepared her for this moment. 

Various bodies hanging from metal hooks move steadily along an aerial conveyor system. Instinctively, Rosatella moves in the opposite direction of the movement. Workers wearing large noise-blocking earmuffs stand along the conveyor system and go about their jobs. They glance at Rosatella with some curiosity, but return to their work. They’re unable to leave the ever-moving production line of “grass”.

Rosatella opens her purse and grabs a GPS tracker. She turns it on and speaks to the box.

“Send location coordinates to mother.”

Her screen shows a moving red circle around the phrase: “Transmitting Location Coordinates…” 

She hides the tracker behind some pipes. Soon the location of the processing station will be known. The attacks will begin. She reloads her pistol as she hears the rhythmic sound of soldier footsteps becoming louder. 

Before she turns to face her destiny, something shiny catches her eye. The body of the waiter from the restaurant is being propelled along the conveyor belt, with the heart-shaped locket still hanging from his neck. She unclasps the locket and puts it on herself. She points the gun forward and creeps alongside the conveyor belt.

The circle on Rosatella’s GPS tracker turns green. 

A voice comes through the tracker’s speaker: 

“You did it! We have the location!”

The sound of bullets being fired drowns out the sound of machinery. When the machines stop and the factory goes silent, the only sound is the fading voice coming from the receiver:

“Au revoir, my love…”