“Fire!”

A hail of blasts, illuminating the emptied fort in a hellish blaze. New recruits scream as they unleash their weapons upon the hated enemy soldiers, their minds only filled with one thought: kill. Tens of thousands of soldiers, facing their first and likely last battle, protecting the subterranean city that lies beyond. Their guns, their knives, so loud and fierce a choir of death meeting the onslaught of the Confederation.

“Soldiers, unleash your rage on the barbaric Confederation!” A commander shouts. “Take revenge for the comrades you lost, the brothers and sisters that died at the Pass!” Crackled sounds of gunfire and artillery bombardments rumble through the comms and into the soldiers’ ears, fueling the adrenaline forward like oil and coal to a raging fire. There is no time for even the most basic of thinking and organization as survival instincts take over. Emotions are shut off, logic is tossed away in the chaos of war.

Boom! Boom! Boom! The commander’s comms suddenly turn to static as the enemy unleashes a cruel rain of artillery shells upon the forts, blasting the weak concrete into mere rubble, the intense heat and energy of the explosions tearing through the soldiers’ armor. Yet like relentless insects they step over the dead, their adrenaline still driving them forward, flailing around with guns, firing at both friend and foe.

The Confederation armies, marching forth in frightening organization, raise their shields, protecting their formations from the blasts and fury of the New Rule as they approach step by step, replacing each other as soon as one falls so as not to cause the collapse of the entire formation. By ignoring the needs of one, they protect the interests of the collective and head towards their goal.

A soldier pokes his head out from a wall, acting as the scout for his squad. He isn’t particularly tiny, but his stature and agility has earned him somewhat of a nickname, being called “Kikka”, bearing the same name of a petit, two-legged flightless bird. He enjoys such an adorable name, hiding his ruthlessness within. Small Kikka was imprisoned for manslaughter before he volunteered for the Confederation military, after all.

An enemy spotted. Without even the slightest hesitation, he breaks out of his squad’s formation, firing his rifle in rapid succession before the frenzied response of the enemy drives him back into relative safety. The summer heat is soothing to him, warming up his joints from standing alone. He likes to have looser joints. Makes reactions faster and killing more efficient.

“Kikka, one day you’re going to kill yourself with those reckless lone attacks,” his squad leader warns. It’s not the first time and certainly not the first squad leader to have warned him so.

“I have done this multiple times,” he responds. “I know what’s safe and what’s not.” If the structure of the Confederation can be called a sphere, then he is the tiny spike that ruins the uniformity. In a military emphasizing order and discipline, he is one of the few exceptions. He isn’t a leader, of course, but nor is he a follower. He only likes thrills. And killing satiates his thirst for it.

“Advance and capture the fort,” his company leader commands. “Squads, you have permission to break formation–”

Exactly what he desires to hear. Amidst the shouts of soldiers, the whirring of vehicles and aircraft, the shaking of the ground from the artillery fire, he throws down his shield, unsheathing his knife and tying it to his rifle like the traditional bayonet. Those weapons may have fallen out of favor in recent decades, but to Kikka, they are still as essential and comfortable as a bed.

“Kikka!” his squad leader shouts, but it’s too late. Kikka cannot be controlled for long. He rushes deep into the fort, ignoring the scenes of carnage caused by the previous artillery barrage. An enemy groaning in pain beneath a pile of rubble. He stabs them, hearing their last whimper of life. Another poking out of a wall. Instinctively, he fires, the blast piercing the enemy soldier’s forehead. There’s something in his mind that just clicks whenever he sees death. Does it give him joy like a warm supper? Does it give him ecstasy like a child receiving a toy he had begged for days? Neither. He just… likes the scene when life departs from the shell of a body. Nothing more, nothing less.

Bang! A blast barely misses his head, a shallow, blackened mark streaking across his helmet. He dives, taking cover behind a wall. His heart is beating faster with anticipation, excited at the odds he is about to face. He is sweating, thankful that his gloves are still allowing him to grip his rifle tightly. Just this last rugged batch, this last obstacle, and the fort shall be his to conquer.

He leaps up, his gun poised to kill anything that moves. Once it is over, they shall recognize his power, his individual strength overriding the collective mind that the Confederation so prides itself on.

“Hold the line!”

“Incoming!”

“We’re coming for–” Boom! Boom! Boom! The walls collapse from the intense bombardment of artillery, the sounds from the comms crudely covered by the rumbling of the concrete crashing onto the ground. The soldiers scatter like frightened insects, any semblance of organization replaced with only fear. Most of them depart the forts, running into their certain deaths, unable to even make a cry for help.

A certain soldier, however, still cowers inside the fort, leaning against an exposed wall. The ceiling has already been blown apart, the grey skies above filled with fighters, metal birds chasing each other, their wings clipped and pierced by the focused energy blasts. As an infantry soldier, however, she can only focus on the ground.

“T-This is Valai from the Fourth Company. Support i-is needed.” This is the seventh time she has reported into her comms. Static is her reply. She sneaks a look over the wall at the sole entrance to what remains of the fort. There is only a pile of rubble, her comrades crushed beneath the rock and concrete. She can’t see anyone else, friend or foe. Have they already fled? Is she already alone? The battle, the war, their freedom… Is it over?

Valai was conscripted. She wasn’t supposed to fight on the front lines. She was just an ordinary civilian, an immigrant in Thille ever since she had the means to flee her desolated homeland. It was the only place that welcomed her, or so she thought. She was just supposed to be here, surviving until the war is over. There was nothing special about her, and nothing special did she desire.

She just wants a sense of peace, promised by the previous President, and promised now by their savior.

The clear ring of a blast, the crumpling of a soldier, the hurried footsteps rushing to her position. Someone is here. Someone ready to take her life.

Without hesitation, Valai fires in the general direction of the footsteps. Bang! The footsteps only hurry faster, the pebbles grinding against the ground before it comes to a sudden halt.

She missed.

She can’t hear the whirring of the fighters above her head anymore. She can’t hear the screams and blasts all around her, the soldiers shouting and urging each other onward. She can’t even hear the deafening noises of the artillery barrages destroying the forts bit by bit. She can only hear her own breathing, ragged and shallow, her hands and feet trembling, her eyes blurry and darting around in fear and confusion.

She is alone. The wall is constricting her, the sky seems to be falling upon her, meeting the ground like teeth grinding on food. Her mind is blank. She only looks at her rifle, smoke still arising from the previous shot, unsure of what to do. What to do, what to do, what to do, what, what, what… Her mind repeats in a chaotic cacophony of mental sounds. She’s dizzy. She isn’t ready. She can’t be ready. Death. It’s here.

Someone save me.

Kikka lands on the ruined ground, his gun stays silent. Valai continues to hide behind the wall, frozen in the shadows. One searches the area like a hunter trying to find prey, the other not daring to even move, wishing for a burrow to conceal herself in. Amidst the ongoing music of the battle, there is a dissonance in the fort, one dancing fervently to the rhythm, the other refusing to even utter a note. Movement and silence. Recklessness and caution. It is only one of the many acts on the battlefield, a temporary bubble of isolation before it once again rejoins the main spotlight.

Bang, bang, bang! A burst of blasts, sweeping the walls. Kikka quickens his pace, no longer paying attention to his exposed position. They must be hiding somewhere, trembling in fear. A good two or three enemies, frightened by his presence. He scans the ruins once more. Still no movement. He’ll have to approach and risk probing behind the walls, searching every room in the fort.

Valai steadies her hands. Help will come soon, but she must stay alive until then. Stay alive. Just alive. Help will come.

The footsteps approach closer. Crisp, steady, clear. One person. Good. At least she has only one target to worry about.

She looks at her gun again, then at the pile of rubble. What will she do when she sees the blood of her victim?

No, she shouldn’t worry about that. It’s not her own blood. It’s not the New Rule’s blood. She only wants peace, just her peace. They’re in the way. It’s alright if she gets rid of an individual barring the way to her goal. It’s alright.

Kikka hears it. The shuffling of metal. He’s nearly there. He raises his rifle, his muscles tense. A step. Then another. And another. The clear crunching of the rocks expose his location, but he doesn’t care. He should be close enough by now. One more step, and he will find his prey.

Valai suddenly jumps out, the adrenaline finally kicking in. Bang! The blast barely misses Kikka again, his small body quickly darting to find some cover.

Bang! Another. Kikka feels a searing pain in his left calf, numbing the entire leg. He trips, barely avoiding another shot, but he can still move.

The enemy. They’re crazy. He’s injured. Blood. He’s losing lots of it.

How thrilling.

He turns around, pressing the trigger as the rifle’s muzzle faces the enemy’s stomach.

Valai finally sees blood, a glorious explosion before her eyes. Is this what it means to kill? Her heart races faster, urging her to follow through with her sudden advantage. She has never seen so much. The enemy, limp, crippled, his back to her. Just one more shot, and she can have a brief respite of peace again. Just one more shot.

Bang! Blood, more blood. Her mind blanks, the acute pain freezing her nerves. Instinctively, she fires again, seeing the enemy twitch, their small body narrowly avoiding her rage. The pain. It’s growing. Fast. Her vision blurs. Her breaths are irregular.

She looks down at the ground. Blood. The enemy’s and hers. The crimson blood. The reddened, wet concrete. Her blood is dripping onto the ground.

Death. It’s near. It’s very near.

All she can do is fire.

Kikka looks at his briefly stunned opponent. Their weak frames cannot survive such a blast. The blast pierced the enemy’s stomach entirely, a gaping hole front of his face. He must press on, he must–

Bang! His waist. Shot. His eyes blank out for a moment. He grits his teeth. He clutches his new wound. No. He can’t die now.

Bang! His chest. A direct hit. The flesh around the wound is burning from the heat. They can’t have fired so rapidly in their weakened state. They can’t–

Bang! Bang! Bang! His left shoulder. His right thigh. His right arm. He drops his rifle.

It can’t be. There must be more. The weak enemy soldier can’t have fired repeatedly at him with such a fatal wound. They must’ve been a decoy. There are others. There must be others. He must have fallen into a trap.

Oh, the thrill. Where is it now?

He reaches for his rifle with his left hand. He must finish them now. He cannot be killed like this.

But he will.

Fear. He cannot die now. There are still so many to kill. He isn’t satisfied. This is just one soldier. He can still kill more.

Where are his comrades? Where are they?

Ah, yes. They are still sluggishly making their way up.

He is alone.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Valai doesn’t stop firing. But the enemy is dead.

The pain has numbed her joints. She feels peace. No, much more. Joy. Ecstasy. Invincibility. Killing. She has killed a person. Peace. She feels it now. She’s saved. She doesn’t need another savior. She has saved herself.

She pokes a finger through her wound, the squelching of the flesh being the only sound she hears. She loves it. Peace. Peace. Peace. She has found it. In the death of an enemy. In her frenzied, uncontrollable firing.

She is an ordinary civilian, only wishing for individual, inner peace. She is ordinary. She has achieved her goal.

She is ordinary.

Bang! A blast pierces her head. As she crumples and falls over her victim, a squad of Confederation soldiers look at the scene of carnage for a moment, attracted by the repeated sounds of gunfire.

“Enemies are cleared,” the squad leader reports. “We are departing from the enemy fort now.”

“Any casualties?” the comms crackle.

“Only one. He was supposed to be executed for his deeds anyway.”

“Good job. There are no friendly casualties in your squad.”

“Thank you, Company Leader.”

The squad leader faces his troops. “We march!” he commands. “Thille awaits!”

It is but another day as a soldier fighting on the front lines. The first day of the Battle of Thille.