An 80s female translator was spoiled rotten by a rough and jealous man.

Chapter 308 No need for romantic idealism to settle the bill

The following spring, in April of 198x, Geneva was still bathed in the coolness brought by the melting snow of the Alps.

The buildings along the street are mostly old, light beige buildings with red geraniums on the windowsills. Downstairs, the cafes have canvas umbrellas, and people in trench coats walk by carrying hot coffee. Occasionally, you can hear conversations in French and English.

The international conference center on the outskirts of the city lacks this tranquility. The light gray buildings are square and solemn, and flags of various countries hang on the flagpoles at the entrance. When the wind blows, the sound of the colorful flags unfurling is particularly clear in the quiet square.

Inside the conference room stood a huge oval solid wood table with a cool sheen. Around the table were dozens of dark brown leather chairs, each with a white label on its back indicating the name of the participating country.

Meng Zhengping attended the meeting as our representative and was seated in the front row.

Meng Youyou sat in the auxiliary seating area behind him, where three small temporary tables were set up. She and two other colleagues were responsible for recording, organizing data, and translating in real time, respectively.

During the meeting, the two sides engaged in a heated exchange of words.

As a person from a later generation, Meng Youyou was aware of the conclusions of this meeting—none of the evidence submitted by our side was classified as Category A evidence by the council.

In the library, Meng Youyou sat in the air-conditioned study room, standing at the end of the story, seeing the results of the meeting in the historical records, but her heart was not greatly stirred.

This time, she sat in a huge conference room, surrounded by people of all skin colors and appearances. Meng Youyou watched as our representative passionately presented evidence and stated his views.

Meng Youyou sat below the table, observing coldly as "it" once again headed towards an inevitable end where it could not be brought to justice.

In the long river of history, she was like a drop in the ocean, extremely insignificant. Of course, Meng Youyou was not so naive as to think that she could change the course of history with her limited efforts.

However, as she, as a participant and witness, gradually saw the evidence she had painstakingly compiled day and night, bearing witness to bloodshed and loss of life, being refuted one by one, the meeting's outcome was slowly heading astray.

She suddenly felt short of breath. Meng Youyou slowly lowered her head, and the handwriting on the paper began to slant, the once straight strokes becoming distorted.

Didn't he consider that the missile's serial number might have been destroyed before he went there?
He must have known, Meng Youyou was absolutely certain. But he still went, without hesitation.

Meng Youyou understood him; this seemed to be the first time she had understood something so well—called faith.

It was like being on a cliff, determined to risk pushing forward another thirty meters. She knew better than anyone that even if she got closer, the recorded conversations would most likely be coded, with extremely limited evidentiary value. Yet, she went anyway.

After a long and intense meeting, Meng Youyou was swept out of the building by a stream of people in suits and ties. She looked up at the blue sky, where white clouds drifted by, and a faint smile played on her lips as she softly said, "I tried my best too."

The evidence they risked their lives to obtain ultimately only earned them a cold line in the meeting minutes: "Further verification required."

The serial number on the missile was eroded and blurred, just as this history was destined never to be clearly recorded. Her lover's blood seeped into the threads of the missile, but the marble floor of the United Nations Hall, gleaming like a mirror, reflected no trace of blood.

Y's diplomat stated righteously, "There is insufficient evidence."

They weren't lying—it was indeed insufficient.

It was not enough to fill even one whole page of the list of fallen soldiers they had compiled;
It was so inadequate that it only allowed for a single line of chemical formula to be left on the Swiss laboratory's report—with the note: "Batch number unknown."
Since then, a projectile with no national affiliation has been displayed in a glass case at the Geneva Institute for International Security—its label contains only a brief line: "Collected between 198x and 8y in a conflict zone on the xx Peninsula."

However, when Country Y destroyed the communication records of a certain unit overnight;
When a cargo ship carrying "fertilizer" in the Pacific Ocean was detained for an unusually long time at a transshipment port;

When the legislature of country M suddenly passed a bill severing the chemical supply chain to country Y...

Those shell casings, recordings, and pathological slides, categorized as "unconfirmed," are quietly setting the gears of war in places no one knows about.

Many years later, declassified satellite photos showed that the Y Army did indeed withdraw from a special warehouse near the border.

The warehouse's location was only 300 meters away from the circle Meng Youyou drew on the map with a red pencil after completing the interrogation. There are many unresolved issues in this world, and history never settles accounts with romantic idealism.

Some people have paid with their lives, only to be met with a question mark.

But it was precisely these question marks that eventually piled up into the exclamation marks of those who came after!
Meng Zhengping appeared behind her at some point and patted Meng Youyou on the shoulder. When she turned around, the man asked, "Disappointed?"

Meng Youyou looked at her father and asked earnestly, "Shouldn't you be disappointed?"

Meng Zhengping did not answer the question, but only said, "But this is not the end."

...

In June of the same year, Meng Youyou solemnly submitted her application to the organization to return to the front line.

Dr. Lü arranged a systematic stress response test for her according to procedure. The initial tests went very smoothly—the cacophony of gunfire, the pungent smell of blood, and the simulated high-interference tactical monitoring—Meng Youyou passed them all calmly and consistently. She was not only able to face various battlefield stimuli again, but her accuracy in the monitoring assessment was also near perfect. From a professional perspective, she fully possessed the psychological qualities and technical skills required to return to the front lines.

Until the very last level.

Dr. Lü stared at her, his tone calm but not evasive: "Please calmly recount the process of your comrade's sacrifice that you witnessed firsthand."

He added, "As detailed as possible."

Upon receiving the assignment, Meng Youyou immediately fell silent.

Time ticked by, and the only sound in the consultation room was the chirping of cicadas outside the window.

Seconds accumulated, one minute, two minutes... In the fifth minute, she finally spoke.

For the next ten minutes, she spoke calmly, elaborating on each detail in detail, demonstrating a composed, objective, and professional demeanor. This was the hard-won victory Meng Youyou had achieved after more than three hundred days and nights of relentless struggle and self-defense.

As the woman's last words faded, Dr. Lü snapped his notebook shut and stood up nimbly from his chair. He raised an eyebrow at her, a clear hint of approval flashing in his eyes. "To be honest, you're stronger than I imagined," he said crisply, his tone certain. "Just as you said yourself, congratulations, you did it!"

"However..." Dr. Lü seemed thoughtful, "I'm very curious, what exactly is the force that has supported you to get to this point?"

Upon hearing this, Meng Youyou slightly curled the corners of her lips, revealing a very faint smile: "To achieve our common goal."

As she spoke, her gaze passed over the window frame and fixed on the distant horizon.

Dr. Lü followed his gaze—in the small square in the center of the sanatorium, the summer sun shone brightly and openly, turning the concrete ground white. A five-star red flag hung slightly in the still air, its red color solemn and serene. Beneath the flagpole, several figures in old military uniforms were slowly performing rehabilitation exercises, their movements sluggish but earnest.

Further away, the dense shade of an old locust tree covered half the ground, from which the chirping of cicadas emerged, rising higher and higher until it seemed to never stop.

I must reiterate: while the war section of this article draws upon a historical event and I have indeed consulted a great deal of relevant material, many parts contain artistic embellishments to varying degrees. Therefore, I still characterize this article as a "fictional story," merely referencing many background structures and elements of that event during that era.

I first came across a blogger who focused on historical topics by chance. I was very interested in his videos about the "XX Self-Defense Counterattack War", which led me to have the initial idea of ​​writing some war stories.

In fact, there seems to be no authoritative source to conclude on the accusation of "illegal weapons" to date? (The reasons for this are too complex to draw any conclusions, which is why I must repeatedly emphasize that this article is fictional.) I have learned more from some minor details in veterans' memoirs and other materials.

While researching, I discovered the following: 1. Some soldiers sacrificed their lives during missions to collect relevant evidence. 2. The final charges were not recognized by international organizations. (This is what the information tells me; I cannot guarantee its absolute accuracy.)
So, having become accustomed to utilitarian thinking, I couldn't help but start to ponder a question: "What is the meaning of their sacrifice?"

This very question gave rise to the initial motivation for writing this article. As for the answer, it is precisely the sentence in the article: "History never settles accounts with romantic idealism." And the period on the ledger is just a midpoint, not the end; the future is handed over to the next generation that will pass the torch.