Real-War

I hate close combat. I hate the smell of ozone from laser fire passing through recycled star base atmosphere. I hate the cries of fallen comrades in my headpiece. I hate the blood that splatters on my ebidium chest plate. As I led my squad through the outer areas of the Horizon Mining Outpost's command center I thought to myself that we pilots, the privileged few, are too insulated from warfare. We command our warships. We fire our missiles. We direct our missile batteries. Our victims are blips on a sensor display. Their death-cries are oxygen burning out in vacuum.

There I was. Crouched behind a bulkhead as the valiant defenders fired lasers and slug-throwers over my head. I nodded to the Union Marine Sergeant in my squad. He led two agile Keldons around the bulkhead as the rest of us lay down covering fire. Once they reached their advanced position the Sergeant lobbed a plasma grenade into the mob of defenders. There was a piercing shriek and a flash of light. The resistance at this part of the command center was over.

Using hand signals I directed my squad to form a defensive line on our new position. I radioed Son Dagobert that we had cleared the way to section three. I traded a knowing glance with my clutch-brother as he led his Keldons on toward victory.

I scraped a bit of blood off my armor with a talon as i listened to the laser fire echo down the promenade.