The streets of New Washington gleamed beneath an artificial sun, its golden rays cascading over towering monuments and pristine skyscrapers. The city was a showcase of URT pride, every corner adorned with holographic banners displaying the flag—a stylized stars-and-stripes encircled by planetary rings.
Nathaniel Hayes stepped out of the transport pod and into the heart of the city. His polished boots clicked against the clean, white pavement as crowds bustled around him. Civilians stopped in their tracks as they noticed him, their eyes widening with awe.
“It’s him,” someone whispered.
“The Iron Will,” another murmured, and before Hayes could respond, a small group of children approached, their teacher urging them forward.
“Sergeant Hayes!” a boy exclaimed, saluting with a sharpness that made Hayes wince.
“Can I… can I shake your hand?” another asked, her small fingers already reaching up.
Caught off guard, Hayes crouched, extending his hand. The girl’s tiny grip was firm but trembling, her face alight with excitement.
“You’re the reason I joined the Young Defenders,” she said, her voice filled with earnest pride. “My papa says you’re the bravest soldier who ever lived.”
Hayes forced a smile, though his stomach churned. “Thank you, kid. Stay safe, alright?”
As the children waved and ran back to their teacher, Hayes stood, his gaze drifting to a towering holographic projection nearby.
It was of him.
The image showed a larger-than-life Nathaniel Hayes, clad in his old fatigues, holding a flagpole planted firmly in rocky soil. Behind him, the stars of the Pacific stretched out, while below, a bold slogan pulsed: "Loyalty is Forever."
Hayes clenched his fists. This was the man they’d resurrected—not him, but an idealized version of who he had been.
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A military escort brought Hayes to the Hall of Valor.
The building was vast and imposing, its marble steps leading to towering columns etched with the names of countless soldiers. Inside, holograms flickered, projecting scenes of battles from Earth’s long history: Normandy, Vietnam, Afghanistan, the Pacific Mirage War, and now the URT’s war against the OUC.
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General Voss was waiting for him in a circular chamber at the center of the hall.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” she said as Hayes approached.
He glanced at the display in the center of the room. It was a massive 3D map of the galaxy, with glowing lines connecting Earth to its colonies. A red ripple spread across the outer rim—symbolizing the OUC rebellion.
“Impressive is one word for it,” Hayes said flatly.
Voss gestured to a wall where his likeness was engraved in gleaming bronze, the plaque beneath it reading: Sergeant Nathaniel Hayes, Defender of Freedom.
“This is your legacy,” she said. “You’re not just a man, Hayes. You’re a symbol. A reminder of what it means to sacrifice for something greater than yourself.”
Hayes frowned. “A reminder? To who? Civilians who’ve never seen a battlefield? Kids too young to understand what war really is?”
Voss’s gaze hardened. “You think that statue is for them? No. It’s for the soldiers fighting out there right now. They need hope. They need to believe that they can do the impossible—just like you did.”
Hayes took a step closer, his voice lowering. “And what about the truth, General? What I did back then wasn’t heroic. It was messy. People died. Innocent people.”
Voss shrugged, her tone cold. “Heroes aren’t born from truth. They’re born from necessity. And right now, the URT needs heroes.”
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Later, Hayes wandered the Hall alone.
He stopped in front of a section dedicated to the Pacific Mirage War. The holograms displayed scenes of Marines storming beaches, jets streaking across the sky, and ships engaging in furious naval battles.
One hologram showed him directly—charging into enemy fire during the final hours of Operation Tidal Spear. The projection depicted him as invincible, his rifle blazing as explosions erupted around him.
Hayes scowled. That wasn’t how it had happened. He remembered the panic, the desperation, the screams of his squad as they fought to hold the line.
The lies were everywhere.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” a voice said from behind.
Hayes turned to see a woman in civilian clothes standing nearby. Her posture was casual, but her eyes were sharp.
“You’re the real deal, aren’t you?” she continued. “The Iron Will.”
“That’s what they tell me,” Hayes said, his tone cautious. “Who are you?”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Someone who knows the truth doesn’t fit on a plaque. Name’s Reese. Let’s just say I’m not buying what the URT is selling.”
Hayes tensed. “Careful what you say. This place has eyes.”
“Doesn’t it always?” Reese replied with a smirk. “But you’re different, Hayes. You’ve seen the cracks, haven’t you? That’s why they parade you around. They need you to patch them up.”
He didn’t respond, but his silence seemed to confirm her suspicion.
“They’ll use you up, just like they’ve used every other ‘hero’ before you,” Reese said, leaning in. “And when you’re no longer useful, they’ll rewrite your story to fit their agenda.”
Her words struck a nerve, but before Hayes could respond, she turned and walked away, vanishing into the crowd of visitors.
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That night, Hayes sat alone in his quarters.
The holograms from the Hall replayed in his mind. The children’s admiration. The civilians whispering his name. Voss’s cold pragmatism.
He stared at his reflection in the darkened window, his glowing eyes a reminder of the man they had turned him into.