The second of February 2115. The Atlantic Republic; Mozambique coastal village;

They were dropped into the battlefield and immediately sent to work. Everyone went their own way within the confines of the immediate zone. John had momentarily disappeared, he'd hoped to recovery tasks with. Garrick moved awkwardly with the plate of Kevlar on his body, and under that was the thick work jacket they had to wear for protection, the small ankle monitor on his right leg didn’t make walking any easier.

The monitor was there just in case penal workers such as him got any 'funny ideas'. Like maybe running into a rebel camp or deserting, something he wouldn’t dare do at the moment. Perhaps one day, the hands that dealt the cards will make the wrong decision and might just run from his snare. It would be risky, but he could always wait for his sentence to end, that's if he doesn’t find himself in the crosshairs of angry people.

The very first thing that caught his eye, were the destroyed buildings that now made up a majority of the village architecture. The roads have developed nasty potholes, likely caused by mortar rounds or artillery. Messy gravel and tar everywhere the eye could see. Broken and collapsed street lamps that were still on, miniature floods likely caused by whatever broke the local water supply or sewer control.

Garrick had always been exposed to such events from the comfort of his screen. Seeing this stuff up close, genuinely hurt on the inside.

The smell of something well-cooked entered his nostrils. Smelled like someone was serving up fried pork chops. At first, he’d wonder if this was the next policy implemented by the Atlantean government, immediate celebrations upon pillaging practically defenseless villages, only then did he really notice why that was strange.

Bodies, burnt bodies, burnt human bodies. He noticed them strewn about, everywhere the eye could see, some Atlantic military personnel, the other bodies didn’t wear uniforms, but there was always a gun nearby. A severed limb or two, a weapon still strongly gripped by a hand. Even at the hands of death, did they cling on to a fight?

Yeah no, it was more than clear to him. He did not belong here. War is hell, and the Atlantic Republic was not here to do peacekeeping missions, this was a ploy, an excuse to destroy, conquer, expand. It was why he was arrested in the first place. Calling out propaganda in the wrong place.

What a farce.

“Garrick!” His officer shouted from behind him, sending shivers down his spine and making him jump upright. “What the hell are you gawking at, get to fucking work!”

“Sir yes, sir.”

Garrick fled the scene. He wasn’t keen on ‘giving it his all’, but fear is an excellent motivator.

The job of the recovery crew was simple, clean up the battlefield so that the average soldier will have a simpler way to conduct warfare. The job of the recovery crew was complex, extracting anything of valuable nature, to aid the war effort. There was no overseeing command once he was out ‘scavenging’. Everything was recorded on the visor. What he did would be criticized or rewarded once he returned to base by the all-seeing A.I.

Garrick entered a half-blown-apart ruin, formerly someone's home. Now a tactical position. The very first thing he noticed was the rebel machine gun nest, that pointed towards the landing point their forces arrived from. He made sure to detach it from its emplaced position. It felt heavy in his hands, for a moment he imagined himself, a soldier in the Second World War, gunning down enemy forces out of his bunker. Immediately snapping out of his stupor, 'They' did not like it when you played with weaponry.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

A bloody fight happened here. Two lifeless bodies lay on the ground, one a faceless Atlantic soldier, the other a young Mozambican man. Both lay lifeless. Their wounds are lethal, with no signs of bullets being used, an all-melee encounter. They stabbed each other to death, the Mozambican boy had a large crude, and sharpened kitchen knife in contrast to the tactical blade the soldier had in his hands.

He removed the combat knife from the soldier, throwing it in an expandable bag made of hard but stretchy fibers. Dragging his massive body out to the entrance and got to work stripping the dead man of his belongings. There was a pistol on him, a 10mm hand cannon, all of its rounds emptied.

A Lousy shot he must have been. And into the bag, it goes.

Next came the armor pieces. All of which were detachable. State-of-the-art body armor. First the grieves, then the shoulder plates, then the chest, and the helmet. Smooth hyperglass visor. He couldn’t help but imagine himself putting it on. But he’d be reprimanded for it.

Next came the removal of the clothes. The part Garrick hated the most, declothing corpses so that nothing but their underwear was left. Everything could be recycled and reworked, even a bloody work uniform.

He slowly removed the clothing from the dead soldat. Every time his fingers touched the cold, heatless body he shivered with fright. He had to do it almost every week, he preferred normal janitor work, messy as military dorms were. Every moment he spent with the corpse he half expected it to jump at him.

As he emptied the dead man’s pockets, he found everything that gave a corpse identity and a personality, even a story. A personal diary, Identification card, a pair of dog tags, and most importantly photos of this person’s family. He had a Wife, a daughter, and a son almost the same age, as his adversary. It was ironic that he came out here to protect his family, but took the life of another’s son.

He’s glad he never willingly enlisted. As a boy, he fell hard for the propaganda.

“Boo!” A voice came from behind. He leaped away.

It was John. Acting like a spook.

“Well, aren’t you taking awfully a long time?”

“That ain’t fucking funny man!” Garrick was agitated.

“Relax, nothing like a little banter in the sports field.”

Garrick shook his head. He did not like pranks of any kind. Especially when it was played against him.

“Maybe it’s not the right place to do this.”

“Our A.I. overseers seem to have no problems with it,”

That’s because they weren’t human. They aren’t compelled to feel.

“At any rate, command wants to check out the town, something fishy going on at the center of it. The rebels have all but fled the scene.”

“So we’re scouting now? And they couldn’t send drones?”

It was hardly strange to him, he had tangoed this dance before. It happened every so few dozen missions. He knew it was nothing more than a scheme to use penal workers as disposable probes and manpower to be depleted. They were going to walk right into an ambush and then retreat, maybe call it a day.

“Hey you shouldn’t look the gift horse in the house and don’t shoot the messenger while you're at it, let's go,” John shouted.

He was frustrated, at first it was supposed to be a retrieval mission and then it turned into some bullshit, that’s how it always goes. The state was smart and machiavellian. He swore to himself, that he would one day write about the injustices carried out of the republic’s borders.

“You know they could simply use drones, to carry these bodies to a nearby base. Requisition whatever’s left there.”

“C’mon now, don’t walk that thread. You know why we’re out here. Strange diseases and shit.”

“That makes no sense and you know it. It could be sterilized in compartments and rooms, why use penal workers.”

5 social credits, for unreasonable criticisms of the state. The state does everything in its power to ensure the safety of its citizens, efficiently and ethically.

The AI punished and berated him, the voice coming from the monitor on his ankle.

What was he thinking that rant was gonna set him back? John looked at him, slightly pissed off. ‘The told you so look.’

He shook his head.

“C'mon, to the center of the village.”

He grunted. "Ladies first. Go, I'll follow."

John shrugged off, the bag on his back likely three times as dense. He knew he needed to humble himself if he was going to survive this. Perhaps there were things to learn from the farmer.

He went up to the young boy and took a picture of his face and body, threw his crude knife in the bag. It wouldn’t be too hard to explain it. They could claim personnel items from the enemy as long as it was reasonable. He needed something to remember the boy by.

As he leaves the ruin, he stares at the bodies of the fallen strewn outside. He hurled over and felt something coming up, but nothing but spit on the ground. Hopefully, it wouldn't lead to nausea. His bag had become slightly only a few more bodies to clean up.

Oh, how he wanted to go home.