The soldier stood alone, in a barren field of lost souls and grey corpses. Blood coated every inch of his uniform, staining the leathery black an unpleasant hint of red. The scent of new fabric and old sweat had gone, and was replaced, rather unpleasantly, with one of metal and rain. To his back lay what remained of the 8-16th Battalion United Imperium Infantry, and to his front, the 57th Special Operations Heimer Republic Force.

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Tomorrow, both would be nothing more than names upon history itself, soon forgotten in the times to come — for not a soul from each lived to tell tales of the battle.

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Not a soul that is, except for he himself — the soldier in black.

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He marched through the fields, watching every step with utmost care, respecting the dead as they once respected him. The vultures eyed from afar, the crows, the ghouls, the Reapers too — all those reeking of death and decay, and who sought to harvest the field of fallen souls. He could feel them over his shoulders, lurking, waiting, thirsting.

They were plenty.

​

The soldier bore a pistol in both hands, a single bullet chambered and at the ready.

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He looked to the distance — searching perhaps — for a stray survivor. He looked everywhere, past the mound of corpses, past the muddied trenches and the barbed wires, under bunkers and over hills and by the treeline.

The soldier looked everywhere.

Still, he found nothing.

And as always, he was not the least bit surprised.

Just, maybe. . .

Disappointed.

There was never anything.

There was always just him, and silence.

Just him, and the dead.

They called to him, sometimes in pleading whispers, other times in agonizing screams, but always in curses and swears.

There were so many too.

So many voices.

So many voices from anywhere, everywhere, all at once.

Crying.

Begging.

Wailing.

Shouting and screeching.

The soldier could do nothing but smother the guilt clawing from deep within. Perhaps if he led better, if he shot better, if he trained them better — perhaps then they would live. Perhaps then, for once, he wouldn’t have to be the one doing all the burying.

But here he was, still.

And as always.

Digging graves.

Planting headstones.

Wondering why it hadn’t been him instead.

Those that he could bury, he buried; those that he could pray for, he prayed. Many among his ranks were not quite as fortunate, however, having skin flayed from flesh, flesh torn from bones, and bones ripped clean from bodies. There were ones with entire limbs missing, and ones reduced to nothing but unrecognizable, charred remains. For them, there was no saving.

He left them as they were, and asked only for forgiveness.

​

Step, step, crack.

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Something in the distance came forth.

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A shadow.

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A figure.

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A man, perhaps, much like him — alone.

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But much unlike the soldier, this man was not of United Imperium or Heimer Republic descent. This man was not, from head to toe, coated in blood of those who once stood proudly by his side. This man was not in service of Escardia's crown empires.

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This man was not a murderer.

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A killer.

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A monster.

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This man was. . .

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"Don't dwell on it," he turned to face the soldier, a wry smile spread from ear to ear. "You'll drive yourself mad."

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"W-Wha—"

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"Oftentimes we contemplate our life choices in the moments closest to the end. I imagine a mercenary such as yourself dwells upon thought often; all the husbands you've taken, all the wives you've widowed, all the children you've orphaned — how can you not? You're no less a fiend than the fellow men and women you've sentenced to die, right here, on these very fields. . ."

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"H-How. . . What? Hey, who the hell are you?"

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"I am expected to treat you with decency and respect? After all you've done? After all you've wronged? After how you've lived life? I am expected to accommodate you?"

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"You better start talking some sense, old man. I've got a bullet with either of our names on it, and I'm not fucking aro—"

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"And yet, you are one of my own. Tsk. A disgrace, if I do say so myself. Fault product at best."

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The soldier fell silent, his finger twitching with every of the man's slight move. So many questions, and yet, so little time. Who was this man? What did he want? Why was he in all whites? How was there not so much as a single speck of blood on any part of him? And how did he know the soldier? How did he know him so well?

Too well, even.

It just didn’t add up.

It didn’t make sense.

None of this made sense.

"Come along now," he said. "We haven't time to waste."

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"I'm not going anywhere until you start talking some fucking sense old ma—"

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Pause.

Silence.

​

Then, the man spoke.

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"There. We. Go. Right on queue."

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And the soldier too, mere moments later.

The pistol left his grip.

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"Oh."

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"Late to the party, are you?"

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"Does this mean?"

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"Oh, yes. I'm afraid so."

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"I'm. . . Dead?"

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"Quite unfortunately."

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"Well that makes you. . ."

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"Mhmm. . ."

​

"Father Destiny."

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The man smirked. "Bingo, kiddo."

​

The field of corpses, the tumbling grey skies, the rain, the dirt, the crows and vultures — all faded into obscurity as the battlefield was torn asunder, each piece picked clean from reality's very grasps. Every inch of the plain shredded itself not unlike paper, then, mere moments later, disintegrated to but nothingness. In a matter of seconds, the mortal world had gone — had ceased to be — and in its place, stood one void of all earthly constructs.

Of all concepts and ideas.

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It was white, for as far as the eye could see.

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White, from the ground up to the horizon.

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White, everywhere.

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Father Destiny gestured at the emptiness, a child-like laugh erupting from his lips.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" He danced about. "A blank canvas, and on it, a world of my very own design. Every man, woman, and child; every insect to ever grace this insignificant earth; every grain of shifting sand; every leaf to ever fall; every drop of water — everything! Everything modeled after exactly how I see fit — right down to the impurities and imperfections."

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"It's. . ." the soldier maintained a bleak expression. "Empty."

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"Why, aren't you astute? Yes, of course, I've hardly the time to work on such monumental project. After all, I still have you humans to look after and believe me, that in itself is no easy task; your kind makes a habit of. . . Scrabbling with one another — and us.”

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"We do that sometimes."

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"And for what? The sake of politics? Power? Greed? Ridiculous, the very notion of it.”

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"Didn't you make us this way?"

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"Regrettably, might I add. That bit was. . . A mistake."

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Father Destiny snapped his fingers; two leather chairs — black on all sides and polished to a shine — came to from thin air, each strand of fabric stitching itself unto one another almost as if they had minds of their own. "Sit, we have plenty to discuss."

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The soldier hesitated.

He sat.

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"For someone recently departed, you're coming to terms with your death unbelievably well. May I ask how that is?"

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"It's. . . Bound to happen at some point, I guess. Now, later, what does it matter?"

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"Such the cynic, you are."

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"Thank you."

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"That wasn't a compliment."

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"Thank. You."

***

Father Destiny adopted a lax pose: one leg crossed over the other, and both hands lying complacently atop the two arm rests. The soldier mirrored him.

​

"I understand you humans are inclined to seek some form of closure when the time comes to," the Divine said, steepling his fingers together. "Is there anyone in particular you would perhaps like to part ways with. . . For the last ever time? Maybe a goodbye, a hug, a kiss even? I could arrange that."

​

"No."

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"No? What’d you mean no? Not a soul? Not a single one? Give it some thought, would you?"

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"Nope."

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"Family?"

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"Gone."

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"Friends?"

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"None."

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"Lovers — come now, no need for the lies; you don't look half bad."

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"My line of work isn't exactly lover-friendly — but you already knew that, didn't you?"

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Silence.

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The soldier shoved one hand deep into his coat pockets, fiddling about, then, mere moments later, retrieved a silver pocket watch sodden and bedraggled. Though Mistress Time had long since claimed the workings of its inner machination, he had not once thought of trashing the antique. No, how could he? There was a certain sentiment to it — a certain memory — and one the soldier clung onto.

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"A gift, I take it," Father Destiny said. "One from your father, perhaps?"

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"You know me so well."

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"I ought to."

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"Do you do this with everyone?"

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"Hmm?"

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The pocket watch was promptly stored away, right away, tucked between a lighter and a flask. Both were empty. "Talk to them, I mean — like this, right now."

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"It only seems fair, no? You humans come looking for answers all your life — I have them. This is it."

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"Right."

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"So let's hear it then."

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"Hear what?"

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"Everyone passing through this realm and the next is entitled to exactly one question — only one, and no more. It’s. . . Tradition, more or less. What will yours be, I wonder?"

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The soldier rose to his feet, wiped a speck of dust from one shoulder, then adjusted the crimson tie wrapped loosely around his collar. He dwelled upon the thought of it.. The possibilities were near endless. All the answers to all of the world’s greatest secrets stood before him, right for the taking. "I've got an idea."

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Father Destiny's lips twisted into a wry grin. "Well?"

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"I suppose. . ."

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"Get on with it, then; I haven't all the time in the wor—"

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"Why. . . Me?"

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The Divine too rose to his feet, slowly, quite obviously stunned. An intriguing one this soldier was, to pose forth a query of such simplistic nature. Most wandering through would question the very purpose of life and existence itself; others preferred to pursue far more philosophical matters of concern to them, and only them. But this man — this soldier — opted for a far less traditional approach. It was a simple question, really, but not one Father Destiny had had the pleasure of answering in so very long.

Or ever.

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"Would you care to elaborate?" Father Destiny's chair vanished into thin air, leaving but a trail of black to remind the two of its short-lived existence. "Rather sparse on detail, if I do say so mys—"

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The soldier remained standing. His gaze — once dull and flat and all things wearisome — flared to life in an instance.

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"Did you have to make my life such the shit show that it is? I mean. . . Really? Are you fucking serious, old man? All the shit I've been through in 20 years — was my childhood not enough? Did everything bad have to carry over to this day?"

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"Well. . . Putting things into perspecti—"

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"I mean. . . You are just a heartless bastard, aren't you? You are just an absolute prick. All the power in the world — all the fucking power — and you choose to fuck over people like me! I haven't been genuinely happy for. . . What has it been? Fucking years? Was one good day too much for me, huh? Did I not deserve just one good fucking day in my life? God, all I wanted was a break. A fucking break from all the world’s bullshit — but nope! Throw me another hard ball, why don't you."

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"You're upset."

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"Oh, wow, really? How'd you figure that bit?"

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"You're wondering why your life pales in comparison to all others. You're wondering why your days are always bleak and rainy. You're wondering why you — and you alone — must suffer for so long. Well, soldier, would you truly like to know?"

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"I'm entitled to a question, right?"

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"Correct."

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"Then hit me. Why — oh, does it really matter, now? I'm already dead anywa—"

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"Why not?"

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The soldier parted his lips, shut them mere moments later, then parted them both a second time. Still, no words managed their way out.

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Father Destiny remained indifferent. "Why not you? Hmm?"

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"I. . . What?"

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"You seem to think I care one bit about you. No, soldier, do not make such a mistake. The truth is, there are millions like you — all pawns of the military and the system — suffering for no apparent reason. You are replaceable; you are disposable. There is nothing special about you one way or another — there is nothing unique."

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"Fucking. . ."

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"You wonder why I subject you to these tortures; I'll do you one better. What reason should I not have, eh? Who are you to me, soldier? Who are you to the likes of I? I am a Divine. I am a living god, human. I am beyond your wildest comprehension. I have seen things you couldn’t even begin to imagine, done things that all of human history pales in comparison to. I was there in the beginning of time, and at the dawn of creation. You, on the other hand, well. . . You're like a bottle cap, an ant, or a piece of lint, even — forgotten in the times to come. You exist simply to die — to be thrown away. You exist simply because I will it so. You exist simply because of me, me, and me alone. Savvy?"

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Silence.

Silence.

And more silence.

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Then, the soldier spoke.

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"So that's the big reveal, huh? My life was the way it was because. . . Heh. . . Because. . ."

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"Oh, yes. . . Because I can do whatever I so please, and you mortals can only but obey. You must understand, surely — to play a benevolent god for all of eternity tires me; a change every now and then wouldn't hurt."

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"You. . . Bastard."

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Father Destiny snickered. "You don't mean anything to me, soldier. I couldn't care less if you live in fantasies or in nightmares. I couldn't care less if you're happy one day and begrudged the next. I couldn't care less about you. What need a god — such as I — think of an insect such as you? Answer me that."

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Silence, yet again.

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This time, the Divine spoke first.

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"So, then, are you satisfied?"

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The soldier nodded.

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"Oh, yes. Closure, just like you said. Asshole."

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"Hah. You humans really are my greatest creation yet; truly a work of art worth appreciating."

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Father Destiny willed a glass coffee table into existence — each piece of wood and shard of glass exactly as he saw fit — and atop it, two sets of ceramic cups accompanied by a clay teapot of masterful craftsmanship. Hot tea steamed from both glasses.

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"A drink perhaps, soldier? Before you go?"

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"I'm a liquor man."

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"Evidently so. You need it."