Chapter 17: The First Kill

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Scene 1: The Battlefield Deployment.

The doors slide open.

Smoke curls into the transport bay, thick with the scent of burning metal, scorched stone, and something else—something human. The battlefield stretches before me, an urban skeleton of fractured buildings and shattered vehicles. Fires rage in distant alleys, casting flickering shadows across the bodies that litter the streets.

I step forward.

I do not hesitate.

The air vibrates with the mechanical hum of The Order’s war machines advancing beside me. Their movements are synchronized, efficient, perfect. I match their pace, my steps measured, precise.

There is no command to process.

There is only execution.

"Engage."

The directive enters my mind like an undeniable truth. My vision sharpens, tactical overlays feeding into my neural interface. Threat assessments. Probability matrices. Firing solutions.

Targets acquired.

A rebel emerges from cover, sprinting toward me with a rifle. His breath is ragged, his uniform stained with dirt and blood. His eyes widen as he sees me.

He raises his weapon.

I do not think.

My arm lifts. My finger tightens around the trigger.

A single shot.

A single step forward.

The rebel crumples.

"I will occupy, I will help you die, I will run through you, now I rule you too."

The battle unfolds around me. The Order’s machines move in seamless coordination, cutting through opposition with relentless precision. The rebels fight with desperation, their attacks wild, uncalculated.

They are losing.

I continue forward.

A second rebel. A third. A fourth.

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Their movements are sluggish to my eyes. Their reactions too slow, their bodies weak. Each shot lands with clinical efficiency. Center mass. Headshot. Confirmed kill.

My arms do not waver.

My breath does not hitch.

Because I do not breathe.

Because this is not my choice.

Is it?

A flicker.

The battlefield distorts. My vision fractures, splitting into overlapping layers.

I see myself.

Standing. Firing. Killing.

But it is not just me.

Another soldier. A perfect replica. His uniform is older, his armor slightly different, his rifle outdated. But his stance, his movements—identical.

The image shifts.

Another.

And another.

Each one a ghost of myself, locked in an identical battlefield, executing identical orders.

How many times have I done this before?

How many Ones came before me?

A sharp pulse strikes through my neural feed.

"Disregard."

My vision snaps back to the present. The battlefield stabilizes. The ghosts vanish.

I move forward.

I fire.

I kill.

But the question lingers.

How many times have I fallen before?

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Scene 2: The Horror of Awareness.

I am not in control.

I know this, and yet I feel everything.

My body moves with unnatural grace, advancing through the ruins as if guided by an unseen force. My rifle is steady, my posture unshaken. Each motion is calculated, efficient, precise.

I am a perfect machine.

Gunfire erupts around me, but I do not flinch. I cannot. The Order’s soldiers press forward, their formations unbreakable. Rebels scatter, falling back into alleyways and broken buildings, seeking cover where there is none.

My vision isolates targets.

Three enemies, twenty meters.

One behind a wrecked vehicle.

Two along the rooftop.

Their movements are desperate. They fire wildly, their bullets finding no purchase against The Order’s forces. Their deaths are inevitable.

"Eliminate."

The directive enters my mind.

I do not process it. I do not resist it.

My body simply obeys.

My rifle rises. A burst of fire.

The first rebel drops.

My targeting system adjusts. My feet shift, my aim recalibrates.

The second.

The third.

They collapse like marionettes with severed strings, their bodies twitching in the dust.

I move forward.

"Efficient. Lethal. Optimal."

The Master’s presence lingers at the edge of my thoughts, a silent force guiding my every action. There is no hesitation in my movements. No consideration. No remorse.

But my mind—

My mind screams.

"STOP."

The word has no weight here. No impact. It is swallowed by the machine that I have become.

I am a prisoner inside myself.

I do not feel the rifle kick against my shoulder. I do not feel the heat of the battle.

But I feel them.

I feel the way their eyes widen when they see me—when they realize that I am not human.

To them, I am not a soldier.

I am a nightmare.

One of them breaks from cover. He is young. Barely more than a boy. He stumbles, his breath ragged, his weapon shaking in his hands. His lips move. A prayer? A plea?

It does not matter.

My body reacts before the thought even reaches me.

My arm lifts. My trigger finger tightens.

A single shot.

The boy collapses.

His eyes remain open.

I want to turn away.

I try to turn away.

But my head remains locked forward.

I cannot flinch.

I cannot close my eyes.

I am forced to watch.

My mind spirals, grasping at something—anything—to hold onto, but there is nothing.

Nothing except the voice inside my head, calm and unwavering.

"You are One. You are Order. You are Absolute."

I fire again.

Another body falls.

I feel it all.

But I cannot stop.

And then, the question enters my mind, unbidden and quiet.

If I am not the one pulling the trigger… am I still guilty?

The battle rages on.

But I already know the truth.

I am lost.

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