Everything hurt.

Everything jabbed, and throbbed, and stung.

Everything was oh, so very painful.

The soldier laid there, flat on his back and arms outstretched, staring way up unto the bleak skies above, eyes flickering and breath steady. Tumbling grey clouds rolled through the horizon, and along with them came the chilly, morning, wintry winds — not to mention, of course, the occasional streaks of flashing, bright lights as well. There would be rain, the soldier thought, and with rain, mud, and with mud, mess. He did not take too kindly to mud — and the smell and feel of it.

​

He forced his eyes away from the skies above and towards the barren landscape all around. It was bleak, grey, devoid of life and beauty, and most probably, also in the middle of damn near nowhere, which makes it that much worse.

​

The soldier dug his fingers deep into the wet earth, clutching onto a lump of dirt between his fists; it was a familiar sensation he had the most unfortunate fortune of having experienced all throughout his life. All throughout his schooling days, all throughout basic training, all throughout his times in the field — it was a memoir to his inadequacies.

​

To his failures.

As a soldier.

As a leader.

As a man.

​

"Are we to grovel about in the dirt for all of eternity?" There was a voice in his head, not his own. "You dare call yourself a soldier? You dare call yourself an army man? How disgraceful. Pick yourself up from the dirt, boy; the world needs saving."

​

The soldier tried to remember; he tried to think, but for the life of him, he could not. It was all but a blur. It was all but a rush; bits and pieces of memory clinging unto one another, jumbled to hell and back. There was no recollection, no retelling of what happened. He was in the blind.

​

"What. . . What the fuck happened? What. . . I was dead."

​

"Correct. And now, you have been given a second chance — in life — to do what needed to be done, and I have been granted resurrection. Let us both not waste this wonderous opportunity, yes?"

​

"I. . . Huh?"

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"Oh, must I explain everything as if you were a child, lieutenant? Please listen."

​

The soldier could only muster a grunt. The voice sighed.

​

"You and I were resurrected, together, as one Divine, lieutenant. In other words, you have lost your mortality; you have been deified, ascended, raised to a higher level of existence, and I shall be your wishful guide — for however long we may last in this lifetime. My powers are yours to command, and you. . . Well, you shall remain my steadfast vessel."

​

"And I — vessel, huh? — I agreed to this?" The soldier sat upright, wiping the dirt from his sleeves and coat and back. They stuck, still. "I fucking wanted this?"

​

"Father Destiny asked; you agreed — practically jumped at the opportunity, might I add."

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"I. . . Did? That can't be right. I can't — why can't I remember that? Why can't I remember. . . Anything?"

​

"Most humans brought back from the brink of oblivion suffer this. . . Adverse side effects. Some forget snippets of their past life; others, much less fortunate, might I add, cannot seem to remember entire decades. Do not worry, lieutenant, it passes — now or in the near future. Do yourself a favor and breathe, please; you're about to pass out."

​

The soldier forced himself further up, and unto his own two feet; the dirt beneath his boots squelched. He stumbled.

​

It was a barren landscape, alright, but certainly not one he recognized. He had been to oh so many places all throughout his life — on tours and missions and invasions and whatnot — and yet, even now, he had not a clue where he stood. There were hills in the far-off distance, depressing and foggy; lonesome, charred, withering trees, shaking in the wind; meandering streams digging into the earth, all black and no color; and lots and lots of craters — here, there, everywhere. Plus, there was this unmistakable stench of decay — rot and wither. Where it came from, however far, however near, the soldier could not exactly tell.

​

The voice in his head started back up again. "Do you know where we are?"

​

Silence, and a shake of the head.

​

"Would you like to?"

​

The soldier nodded.

​

There was a moment — short — before the voice spoke once more.

​

"This was the Imperium front. I was there."

​

"What happened?"

​

"A massacre. To call it a battle — a fight, even — would be the world's greatest overstatement. It was a bloodbath. A murderous rampage. I cleaved straight through rank after rank of Heimer Republics, tearing them asunder, ripping limbs from bodies, sending young souls to their demise. It was a grim day, and certainly not one I am. . . Overly fond of celebrating."

​

"So. . . Why the fuck are we here, exactly?"

​

"My father has a twisted sense of humor; I do believe this is his attempt at an unfortunate joke."

​

The soldier fell upon a knee, and looked deep into the earth, rummaging through the grounds. He looked past the muddied fields, and the twisting streams, and the barren landscape as a whole, and came to the realization rather quickly: he was standing atop a graveyard. It wasn't an ordinary graveyard as well. The voice in his head was right; it was a massive, massive one.

There were figures lying in the dirt, buried by rain and mud; faces devoid of color and life, staring off into the dark abyss; skeletons, bones, macabre corpses, and more; and soldiers not worth remembering, abandoned by the very nations they swore to protect — 'till death and the crows did them in, that was.

​

It was a graveyard, spanning the miles, from where the soldier stood to the distant hills to the lands beyond and so much further.

He felt like vomiting.

He didn’t.

​

"How many did you kill?"

​

The voice was quiet.

​

"Enough to lose count."

​

Silence, again.

​

"So how many?"

​

"Thousands, lieutenant. Thousands."

​

"Yeah. . . I figured as much — considering you’re. . . You."

​

The soldier shifted his foot forth, then, another, and then, another yet again. Slowly at first, he started limping, walking, inching his way forward. He didn't know where exactly he was headed, but that mattered little; all that mattered was that he kept moving.

All that mattered was that he kept his head high and his chin up and his breathing in order.

That’s what they taught him

​

"Where to now, lieutenant?"

​

"I don't know. Just. . . Anywhere else. I can't stand the—"

​

"Smell?"

​

"Right."

​

"There is an Imperium town seven miles south. They have fantastic gin and tonic, and a warm inn for the night, I suppose."

​

"Good, I could use a drink."

​

"And that, we can agree upon."

​

The soldier went his way.

Slowly.

​

"So what can you do, huh? What's your thing?"

​

"When the time comes, you'll see."

​

"And when's that?"

​

"I’d give it 30 seconds. The claws are near."

​

"The what?"

​

"The claws. Can't you hear them?"

***

The claws came sooner than expected, stomping and skittering and darting through the barren wastelands, disturbing mud and dirt from their rests, and pieces of rotten flesh from the corpses. Snapping jaws, swinging claws, a set of hawk-like eyes and leathery, dark skin — it was the Plainsland Raptor.

​

Fast, agile, merciless — nature's perfect killing machine.

​

There were three, peeking from behind the distant hills and withering trees, and atop each one sat a rider, clad in the most raggedy of apparels — tattered coats, torn jeans, battered gloves, you name it. One bore several sizable blades, crooked and twisting; another hauled along a shotgun, cut upon its end; the third and final was unarmed, though he didn't quite act like so. They were all looking at the soldier, staring, whispering, talking amongst themselves and ever so occasionally brandishing their weapons of choice.

Wasteland Bandits, the soldier thought; food for worms, the voice in his head said.

​

The bandits grinned, way off in the distance. They nodded at one another, then, together, tugged at the reins, setting off. The raptors gave a cry of delight, charging down the hills and across the stream and through the mud and dirt.

​

"Well, shit," the soldier took a step back, then another, only to find his very own body unwilling.

​

"And what do you think you're doing?" The voice said. "Running, are we?"

​

"I don't have a fucking gun."

​

"You don't need a gun; you have me."

​

"Well then, show me something — like right now, actually."

​

"In due time, of course. I enjoy playing with my food."

​

"Why, you are just one sadistic fucker, aren't you?"

​

"I call it karma."

​

"I call it being a psychopath."

​

"To each their own, lieutenant."

​

Another tug of the reins stopped the raptors dead in their tracks, almost instantly. They skidded to a stop just a few paces short from the soldier himself, jaws snapping, claws gleaming, eyes glaring and darting and bloodshot. Clearly, they were starved — and pissed — but still tame as ever.

​

"Well, well, well," said one, with a large cigar burning most lively between yellowed, chipped, dirtied teeth. The name, 'Raidar' was tattooed on one arm. "Looky what we got here, boys — a lonesome traveler."

​

"Nice coat ya' got there, buddy-o," said a second, brandishing his shotgun the soldier's way. "I like me some men in uniforms; makes the killin' that much more better. I do hope ye'll be puttin' up one hell of a fight."

​

"Far from home, soldier," said the last. "And far from company. You're all alone, here."

​

The soldier parted his lips to speak, but the voice and words that came to were not quite his. They sounded anything but human, and rather, much more like an ancient, evil tongue plucked from the depths and brought back to life. It was the voice from his head, deep and rasp with a hint of clinically diagnosed insanity, and it was speaking. Out loud. To the world. "Gentleman, please. I've had a rather long — and emotional — day, so I would appreciate it wholeheartedly if you could kindly leave me be. I promise you, you do not want this fight."

"Ya' hear that? Soldier-boy's actin' all tough on us. I like-y that."

"Two seconds, Bleek, that's an officer's uniform he's got on."

"It is, ain't it, Jacks? That just makes it so much better, aye. Move."

Three sets of boots met the mud, then, carried forth, step after step. The raptors stayed put.

"8-16th Battalion Imperium, huh?" Jacks said, strutting forth; the two others watched from behind, shotgun and blades in hand. "That's odd. Here I thought every single 8-16th was wiped from the face of Escardia two days back, and yet. . . Here we are."

​

The soldier said nothing.

​

"Nasty, nasty ambush, if I do say so myself — which makes me wonder, really. . . How is it exactly did you make it out alive, err. . . Lieutenant Raiden Arcanova? The way I see it, there's two things that could've happened: either you deserted, or you're wearing a dead man's coat, and I'm not exactly sure which is worse."

​

Jacks cocked his eyebrow.

​

"Take it off — the uniform."

​

"I'm not sure I'd like to," the soldier replied.

​

"Ya heard what the man said, aye," Bleek pumped his shotgun a-ready. "Take yer coat off. Now."

​

"Do what he says, traveler; it'll be easier that way," that one was Raidar.

​

"Gentleman, please, I beg of you."

​

"Im'a count to three, aye, soldier-boy?"

​

"The coat stays on."

​

"One."

​

The soldier stared him down.

​

"Two."

​

Unmoving, and unyielding.

​

"Three!"

​

Blam!

***

The pellets sailed forth, then, pushed straight through the soldier's skull. It ripped through his skin, tore through his nose and eyes and mouth, and cracked right through bone — right through the skull and brain. A fountain of blood exploded outwards, showering all three man in a tint of hideous red. It was Jacks, who first responded to the sudden rashness of his compatriot, albeit far too casually. There was no remorse in his eyes, and even less so with every word and gesture.

There was just. . . Disappointment.

And perhaps frustration.

​

"Well done," he said, wiping dribbles of the soldier's blood from his sleeves and cuffs and sides. His entire front side was completely red. "Well done, indeed. Now my coat is beyond ruined, and I have you to thank for that. Wonderful."

​

Bleek popped the shotgun open, ejected two shells — one spent, another full — before shoving in a fresh new pair. They fitted like a glove, all snug and cozy, snapping into place with a satisfying click. "Not me fault, aye. I told the lad what'ta do; he ain't havin' none of it. He should've just taken the damn thing off — why, I would've looked dashin' in it."

​

"I told you to wait."

​

"Aye, y’know me, Jacks. I go pedal to the medal, and h—"

​

Jacks shot his friend a look, sharp and venomous. "I told you to wait."

​

Bleek swallowed, hard. He grew quiet. "Sorry, aye. Got caught up in the moment, I s'ppose."

​

"Don't you ever go doing that again."

​

"Yeah, gotcha. Never happenin' again."

​

Jacks took two steps forward exactly, in the direction of the soldier's body, and grimaced. The sight was an unruly one, to be sure: with a skull all exploded, a brain all splattered, and whatever remnants remaining thereafter leaking all over the place. A puddle of blood had already started to spill unto the desolate earth, mixing and matching with the wet, black dirt.

​

"I am—" he paused; what were the right words, again? "—So very sorry, dear traveler. I do humbly apologize. This was not at all how I intended for things to go. My friend is most. . . Reckless, you see — an idiot, if I've ever met one. You understand, no?"

​

Jacks passed on his condolences, which in this specific instance, amounted to nothing more — or less — than a single nod of the head and perhaps some staring. He glanced around and about, almost as if he was concerned, possibly, with potential witnesses. There were none, of course.

​

There never were.

​

There was only the murder of crows roosting atop a nearby tree, squawking, chattering, watching with utmost intent. They were waiting; waiting for the sun to fall, and for the three men to leave them be; waiting for their bountiful harvest, and for their feastful splendor; waiting for the stench of rot, decay, and death to carry on over and entice them forth. The vultures would surely come too, Jacks thought, and if not now, then later, and if not later, then soon. By morning, the soldier's body would be but clothes and bone, picked clean by nature's greatest scavengers. Not exactly a warrior’s death in fashion.

There goes another one.

​

"Was that pain real?"

​

Jacks jumped; Bleek raised his shotgun quick; Raidar took a step back. All three, together now, watched as the soldier's corpse twitched, like an animated puppet upon marionette strings. The legs twisted first, then, the arms; the rest followed suit, snapping and clicking and turning in all the wrong ways.

​

"Or was it just a. . . Memory — of when I was. . . Less?"

​

The voice came from nowhere, and everywhere at once. It was not human.

​

"How awfully rude, Jacks."

​

The corpse rose, headless, yet still lively as ever.

​

Its right hand shot out, fingers grasping at the free air. In a moment's notice, the very space around began contorting, twisting, turning blacker with each passing second, and shuddering ever so violently. And then, just like that — with the snap of a finger — the scythe came to.

​

It was a large, black scythe, with silver for its blade, polished to a gleam and sharp beyond belief. It swung effortlessly, and without so much as a protest, slicing through the air with a deafening swish. The headless soldier turned to face his three assailants.

​

"You humans. . . Such irksome, tiresome creatures."

​

The bandits froze.

​

"Run, please.”

Jacks swallowed, hard.

"I love the chase.”