Evan Peters strolled along the pedway, slipping through the crowds of Christmas shoppers. Signs, holographic, neon, and augmented reality advertised the latest goods and services in an almost overwhelming blitz of sounds and colours.

The air was crisp and, thanks to a low pollution level, clean. Stepping to the side of the pedway, he paused to take a long, breath, savouring the smells around him. Shoppers bustled passed, each completely focussed on the task at hand; get everything they need at the best price.

Times were hard, and were only going to get harder. The war wasn't going well, and most of Europe had been lost to the ChinKor forces. Imports were down, prices were up, and people were struggling.

'We'd be better off if we bloody surrendered,' a shopper exclaimed as he walked past with a friend.

Can't argue there, thought Peters. He rubbed at the bone-deep ache in his thigh before he could stop himself. It was pointless, there was no leg to rub, no thigh bone to ache. Lost in his fifteenth deployment, and replaced by a state-of-the-art prosthetic, he still suffered when the weather was cold.

'Are you a centurion?'

Peters looked around for the voice before looking down. A child, no more than six, so wrapped up in winter clothing it was impossible to tell their gender stared up with wide eyes.

Peters looked around, trying to spot their parents, but there was no-one who looked to fit the bill.

'Where are your parents?' he wasn't good with kids. He'd seen too many killed in the battlefields of Europe to feel comfortable around him. The live ones made him feel sad, and lonely. The dead ones made that even worse.

'Is your leg real?' the kid wiped a sleeve across their face, wiping sticky yellow snot across it.

'That's the question, isnt it?' Peters said, gorge rising slightly at the sight of the snot. 'Nothing seems real. I spent nearly two years fighting in a simulation. Served out my time, lost a leg and and a hand,' he lifted the hand in a wave. 'But that seemed far more real than all this.'

The child looked around as he waved his hand to take in the street. And it was true. All of the sights, sounds, tastes, touches, smells were manufactured in the Duty Calls Online simulation. But they seemed to be far less fake than what he was experiencing.

There was a medical term for it, but he could never remember the exact wording. Nothing in the real world seemed to be real. In Duty Calls Online, there were people like those passing him by, like the child before him.

They all had lives, feelings, emotions, and looked and smelled like people should do. But they were constructs. Constructs that were so real he cried the first time an NPC child died in his arms. He could still feel and smell the blood that coated his hands as he tried to stop the child's stomach from spilling onto the ground.

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Would I feel the same if this child were to die? he thought. Probably. It might even be worse knowing that the child was actuall real. But was it? Was he really out of the immersion tank, or had he been slipped into another simulation and tricked into believing he was free?

'Did you kill any people?'

The child was still staring at him, nose still leaking bright yellow mucus.

'No, I didn't kill any people.'

'But you are a soldier. Soldiers kill people.'

'No,' Peters said sadly, 'we don't. We kill enemy soldiers. People are civilians like you. They have no wish to fight, no wish to die. They only want to get on with their lives. The enemy soldiers probably felt the same, but like me they had to fight. So I killed enemy soldiers. I didn't kill people.'

The child continued to stare up at him. 'But are you a centurion?'

Peters bit his lip in an effort not to snap.

'Of course I'm a centurion, I wouldn't be bloody walking around here if I wasn't would I?'

'My daddy died.' It was said matter of factly, as if they were commenting on the fact that it was cold. And a piece of Peters died. He didn't think he had anything left after the things he'd seen and done. A programmer in his old life, he'd been surprised at just how good he was at killing the enemy. How good a soldier he was.

His first battle he'd pissed his pants. Pissed them in every battle to follow as well. But once he'd done that, his fear had abated. It had been replaced by his hate. His hate of the ChinKor and their never-ending expansion across Europe. Hate for the ChinKor soldiers that had killed him and so many of his friends.

A hatred which had carried him through battle after battle. Seen him raised into the hallowed ranks of the Special Air Service, the near-mythical SAS. His war had changed then. The leash had been removed as he and his brothers- and sisters-in-arms slaughtered enemies by the dozen.

And then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, he'd completed his 100th mission. With 35 lives left no less. Even quicker, he'd found himself plucked from his immersion tank by ChinKor soldiers, packed onto a rusting transporter and flown back to Dartmoor airport.

No fanfare for him. No doting family. Just a few words by a Colonel, a handshake, his medals, and a quick pat on the back.

'John! Don't go wandering off like that!' A women darted from the crowd and pulled the snotty child into her clasp. 'I'm so sorry, was he bothering you?'

Yes, he fucking was thought Peters.

'No, not at all,' he replied, plastering a smile on his face. 'Seems to have a bit of a cold.'

'His nose runs more than a leaking tap, pollution.'

Peters nodded and, not having anything more to say, moved off.

He wandered. Not having anywhere to go, just walking along the pavement, soaking up the atmosphere. Other centurions passed, marked by augemented reality on his retinal monitor, something that the boy had been too young to have. Each one bore at least a scar, others missed limbs, organs, their souls. Every time he passed one, he would give a slight nod. Some were too lost in their own thoughts, others would nod back, straightening their backs just slightly.

Peters paused in his wandering. He'd lost track of where he was, but couldn't be bothered to check his retinal map. For a moment, he just stood, looking across the street at the row of shops, many of which were either having closing down sales, or had already closed.

'Looking to re-enlist?'

Peters turned at the sound of the gruff voice. Before him stood a picture-perfect ECAF soldier. Every detail of his uniform was parade-ground correct. He too was a centurion, and had served in many of the same campaigns as Peters. Peters' retinal monitor marked him as a Sergeant Major, Coldstream Guards. An elite infantry unit, one of the original regiments of the British Armed Forces, formed centuries ago.

Peters looked at the man for a few seconds, unable to frame a thought. He hadn't even considered rejoining the fight until that very moment. And then it came to him. He missed it. He missed the comradeship, the sense of purpose, the killing.

'Fuck it, why not?'

Followng the Sergeant Major, he gave the real world one last look.