Ex-Linol squeaked under foot.
I cocked my sandhawk, peaked above the barricade.
I remembered when we were unified, a phalanx set before the azure horizon.
Words echo through my head.
“The Gerai Separatists’ don’t flinch. They aren’t human. How do you fight that?”
I had replied to General Borine, while everyone else discovered his boots.
“We use our humanity against them, don’t we. Our compassion. Our in-gene-uity.
Those tin cans don’t stand a chance.”
We are scattered now of course.
I was the only one who held formation.
I think better.
Under fire.
As if we hadn’t been trained our whole lives.
Imagine it, one soldier against the machine-nation.
My finger tips were raw from dragging back the trigger, tugging the spring, sending metal flying. They were slick; blood or sweat?
Something approached. Again it squeaked, almost silent.
I shifted my hands. A grim smile on my beaten blue face.
The scuffle was brief. My sight was torn ragged by muzzle.
A lethal shot rang out pointedly & with finality. I was the victor.
I stared down at my kill. Lungs in paroxysm, face flushed with exertion.
My eyes widened from slits; reddish ichor pooled on the Ex-Linol, and it wasn’t mine.
Behind its cracked visor I saw metal dusted grey skin. Open eyes untethered.
Breath escaped silver lips. It was a person. That realisation chilled me.
Had general Borine known?
“Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep!”
I sat up in bed, sweating half the ocean.
The war was behind me.
Years ago. But I never found my place in the new culture.
I was the only surviving soldier. Not that I did all the killing.
It was luck really, and a Caloric Detonator. I just happened to be hiding in a Separatist Cryo-Vat with the cold meat. Not to out of place really, I was barely alive at the time.
I blinked rustily. Even awake, I relived it.
Slid out of bed, emancipation lingered. Did the boring ritual of making myself presentable to the rest of humanity. Ate breakfast, because its healthy.
My husband and daughter have already left for work.
Out of the window, out of the silver tower, the atmosphere is rusty red, its glare befits the hour.
As I get in the Velo-Tube, I remember what the head doctor said. The doctor told me that working on the battlefield cleaning up Caloroids and dragging metal back to City would make rehabilitating all the more the harder.
It seemed like the only thing I could do, and it payed.
The Velo-Tube hissed to a stop. I got out, and surveyed what had been an arena.
Shiny black and yellow munitions were caked in the deadly soil.
Sky scrapers leaned on each other like colossal dominoes frosted together.
It’s not pretty. It’s not fun. It’s not even safe.
Something moaned ; off in the distance, two dominoes slid apart.
Chaotic to say the least.
As I walked forward, my foot connected with a dented capsule. It skittered away like… A coward.
Then it dawned on me; I had never moved on. I had followed the same pattern.
After months, years of going to the battlefield it finally struck home ; My mentality hadn’t changed, and it wasn’t the reforged utopia that was being difficult.
I still did the same things. My hair was still cut short enough for a regulation UCM cap. The sky was clearer than it had been in years, puritan blue.
Sunlight warmed my distantly scarred face.
Eam bene sit finem.
I cocked my sandhawk, peaked above the barricade.
I remembered when we were unified, a phalanx set before the azure horizon.
Words echo through my head.
“The Gerai Separatists’ don’t flinch. They aren’t human. How do you fight that?”
I had replied to General Borine, while everyone else discovered his boots.
“We use our humanity against them, don’t we. Our compassion. Our in-gene-uity.
Those tin cans don’t stand a chance.”
We are scattered now of course.
I was the only one who held formation.
I think better.
Under fire.
As if we hadn’t been trained our whole lives.
Imagine it, one soldier against the machine-nation.
My finger tips were raw from dragging back the trigger, tugging the spring, sending metal flying. They were slick; blood or sweat?
Something approached. Again it squeaked, almost silent.
I shifted my hands. A grim smile on my beaten blue face.
The scuffle was brief. My sight was torn ragged by muzzle.
A lethal shot rang out pointedly & with finality. I was the victor.
I stared down at my kill. Lungs in paroxysm, face flushed with exertion.
My eyes widened from slits; reddish ichor pooled on the Ex-Linol, and it wasn’t mine.
Behind its cracked visor I saw metal dusted grey skin. Open eyes untethered.
Breath escaped silver lips. It was a person. That realisation chilled me.
Had general Borine known?
“Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep!”
I sat up in bed, sweating half the ocean.
The war was behind me.
Years ago. But I never found my place in the new culture.
I was the only surviving soldier. Not that I did all the killing.
It was luck really, and a Caloric Detonator. I just happened to be hiding in a Separatist Cryo-Vat with the cold meat. Not to out of place really, I was barely alive at the time.
I blinked rustily. Even awake, I relived it.
Slid out of bed, emancipation lingered. Did the boring ritual of making myself presentable to the rest of humanity. Ate breakfast, because its healthy.
My husband and daughter have already left for work.
Out of the window, out of the silver tower, the atmosphere is rusty red, its glare befits the hour.
As I get in the Velo-Tube, I remember what the head doctor said. The doctor told me that working on the battlefield cleaning up Caloroids and dragging metal back to City would make rehabilitating all the more the harder.
It seemed like the only thing I could do, and it payed.
The Velo-Tube hissed to a stop. I got out, and surveyed what had been an arena.
Shiny black and yellow munitions were caked in the deadly soil.
Sky scrapers leaned on each other like colossal dominoes frosted together.
It’s not pretty. It’s not fun. It’s not even safe.
Something moaned ; off in the distance, two dominoes slid apart.
Chaotic to say the least.
As I walked forward, my foot connected with a dented capsule. It skittered away like… A coward.
Then it dawned on me; I had never moved on. I had followed the same pattern.
After months, years of going to the battlefield it finally struck home ; My mentality hadn’t changed, and it wasn’t the reforged utopia that was being difficult.
I still did the same things. My hair was still cut short enough for a regulation UCM cap. The sky was clearer than it had been in years, puritan blue.
Sunlight warmed my distantly scarred face.
Eam bene sit finem.