Hero to Zero

The battle was over, so many were killed. War is an unimaginable horror, and this is the sort of war whose images of mechanized death are enough to create nightmares forever. He tosses and turns in his comfortable king sized bed, the pictures of the young men tattered and torn shred apart. He froze, and he ran like a coward. They towered over him by a good three feet, mechanized limbs and laser cannon barrels pointing right at his head. The moment of martyrdom was in front of him and one fell swoop he just pushed him. A human shield if you will, to be vaporized into ashes as he took a blast to save his life. In the heat of battle a moment of self-preservation, a kid from Sector 9 one of the worst shantytowns on the planet. There he was the decorated veteran, a name with generations of warriors and an incredible amount of inherited wealth. He cannot forget the look of the man in the mechanized suit. Disbelief at the act of cowardice he had just seen, he did not bother to take another shot and behind the glass, he remembers that twisted smile that haunts him still, he decided to let him live to live with the guilt of what he had done. He can't sleep.

He awoke frustrated, the silence a deafening sound for three straight weeks he keeps reliving the moment over and over again. When he was a young cadet, they always spoke of valor and tried to instill him the morality of war. A general should die for those he leads into battle; he needs to show that he can die a warrior's death, but instead he allowed a young man to serve as a human shield. Suddenly the inside of his room becomes oppressive he needs a walk, and maybe a smoke. Outside the air feels cold on his skin and the three moons of Arcana smile down at him, the same three moons he has always prayed to as a child (during his moon worship days). Does he continue to ponder the moment a part of him congratulates his ability to live after all there is only one life right? This is the plight of the unbeliever, the heathen; maybe it was his lack of belief that aided his cowardice perhaps he deserves to die. He pulls a small blaster from his pocket and holds it in his hand that is trembling uncontrollably, as the cold air seems to become oppressive, perhaps now is the time to finally end it all however as he is about to take that leap into oblivion a sound, distracts him from this moment and he now points the weapon out into the darkness. Suddenly he feels that nagging voice of self- preservation rising within again, a voice that is screaming for him to save himself and shot out into the darkness. Should he fire a warning shot first? Perhaps question who could be stumbling around his property.

Maybe it is a mere creature but what if it isn't? What is it an enemy lifeform the fanged and clawed Dragos? At any moment it can leap out of the darkness rip his throat and leave him to die in obscurity. What would the headlines say? "Decorated war hero caught with his pants down outside his home?" That is unacceptable. He can hear the voices of his ancestors laughing at him, once again another moral failure on his part. He suddenly turns as the footsteps grow louder his heart begins to pound, almost leaping out of his chest, his hands trembling. He wants to scream for it to stop but he does not. He remains silent his hand shaking finger on the trigger ready to fire. He could always turn and run! Yes, another voice inside his head trying to break through the heat of the moment. It is either shoot or run, and he has but a few seconds to come to a final decision and then in a flash he presses down on the trigger a brilliant red burst fires several times out of the barrel, and he can hear it make contact, a scream of agony and then silence. He has done it! Somehow he has managed to survive again; somehow he has managed to take down this would be assailant in the night. He walks over to examine the body, what did he kill? What is it some animal? What is it, a Dragos as he had suspected? He looks down at the still charred body and the sight before him left him in shock. There before him was the charred remains of Charlie Valento, a messenger for the armed forces in his hand he was clutching to a handwritten note and a small box. He slowly takes it out of his hands and reads the scrawl that he recognizes as Commander Bradford's' handwriting.

"Dear Captain Shaw,

I know you have been through a lot. Sorry we missed you at the ceremony. I have sent Charlie over to give you your award for valor and leadership in the battlefield. You deserve it.

Sincerely,

Commander Bradford"