| rdfs:comment
| - Years before the Locust ever revealed themselves to the surface world of Sera, there was still war. Still blood, still battles, still men clutching rifles and their thoughts not of death but of the life they might never have. For one man, those thoughts had already become reality. “Does anyone have any words to say?” Wayne asked the squad. He was greeted by the awkward silence he’d expected. From there, they had only the order to go on: to the next hill, to the next battleground, to the next war.
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| abstract
| - Years before the Locust ever revealed themselves to the surface world of Sera, there was still war. Still blood, still battles, still men clutching rifles and their thoughts not of death but of the life they might never have. For one man, those thoughts had already become reality. Lieutenant Wayne Ogle had just placed a Coalition flag over the mound of earth that buried their comrade. It was a meager burial, but far more than what the hundreds of dead UIR troops would receive, their forces falling back from the beating they’d received. Win for his side or not, it hadn’t helped the new officer from losing one of his men. He looked to his sides at the seven or so men standing in AP armor, a design which wouldn’t change in the years ahead, even as the enemy and the battlefield changed radically. The eyes of most were masked by softly glowing eyepieces, the blue light proclaiming their faction. Only one, an enlistee private named Minh Young Kim, had lost his in battle. He stared at the ground where one of the men he’d only just met days ago lay dead. His brown eyes have remained wide ever since seeing the bullets puncture steel, ever since he first saw death up close. The only other with face exposed, Wayne met his eyes and tried his best to reassure him somehow. Kim still didn’t look like he understood what had happened. “Does anyone have any words to say?” Wayne asked the squad. He was greeted by the awkward silence he’d expected. The asking of final words had become a formality among Gears. What they experienced daily told them there was either no higher power, or that he had died, or that he was to be feared and hated for creating war. Or perhaps it was men who created war? In any case, the dead man’s comrades’ reverent silence was worth far more than any soliloquy they could have given. The Lancer rifle at his side, its sickly curved bayonet a testament to what the human had reduced itself to, was lifted into both hands. On his signal, the squad fired a single round apiece; they had no more to spare. The Lieutenant then pulled the flag from the mound, folded it and handed it to Kim, who would put it in his pack for safekeeping . . . perhaps until the next one of them died. From there, they had only the order to go on: to the next hill, to the next battleground, to the next war.
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![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)