Tarnished

Tarnished

Forward infantry unit 32B4, also known as Greg, trudged ahead in silence, only the crunching noises beneath his boots keeping him company. He had been assigned to scout grid 17, with the mission of finding and eliminating any remaining resistance forces.

It was a pleasant enough day, the oxygen content just clear enough to forego the gas mask attachment, with the skies clear of enough smog and smoke to allow a full 20 feet of vision in all directions. Not that there was much to see in that 20 feet. Mostly it was the remains of what must have been some sort of housing development. A mixture of single and double story homes, now reduced to rubble and ash. A few homes still had walls standing, several of which might be sturdy enough for a squatter to hide within.

Interestingly, prior to the destruction, virtually all of the homes in this development were all but identical and indistinguishable from each other. Now, decades after the warfare, the mounds of rubble and dust that remained, were still indistinguishable from each other.

32B4, Greg, plodded over to the most promising of the structures, a single story ranch that still had it's front patio cover in place. Somehow, a wooden rocking chair had managed to avoid the devastation of the bombs and firestorms that swept over the area. Something glimmered for a scant moment just beneath the chair. Greg bent over, not an easy task in the confining and inflexible armor, and picked up the tiny object. It was a locket, shaped like a heart. It was silver, very tarnished, with a clasp on one side, presumably to open the ancient piece of jewelry.

Against regulations, Greg took off his gloves, in order to better handle the locket. He opened it, and within was a perfectly preserved picture. A child, with golden tresses, plastic framed glasses, and a tiny pink bow in her hair. In the picture, she had a half smile, almost a smirk. She was probably somewhere between 6 and 8 years old, give or take, assumed Greg.

Greg paused, and stared at the locket, as ancient memories overtook him. Prior to the great corporate reset, families existed. Groups of two, three or even a dozen adults all caring for children in a single home. That no longer occurred, massive corporations handled daycare and education, ensuring each generation understood the chosen and well planned out paths each must follow. Some children were destined for labor, others for service, while a few gifted ones might be placed in research or community leadership.

Greg pondered the fates of his own two children, both taken from him and his two wives at birth. Ponder is all he could do, the corporate overlords didn't update it's “citizens” on the progress of their children, as children were considered global assets, not family. It had been that way for decades.

One of Greg's children was a girl. He gazed at the face within the locket, wondering if his own child might look something like this young girl. He shrugged. He knew he'd never know. He closed the locket, and once again, against regulations, put the small piece of jewelry in his right hip pouch. It wouldn't be a major mark on his permanent record if they found it, but even the smallest blemish on your work record could slow or even put a stop to any promotional opportunities. He knew he wouldn't keep it, but at least for the remainder of the shift, he could hold onto some small portion of a more pleasant past.

“Damn”, he muttered to himself. Even thinking of the past in anything other then pure horror at how barbaric the lack of restrictions or rules were was treason.

As he stood motionless on the remains of the patio, a soft shuffling noise from within the structure broke him from his trance. Rather then rely on his own senses, he instead turned to the technology of his scout suit. Sensors showed a single heat source somewhere within what was left of the structure. Most of the time, it turned out to be a feral cat or a mangy dog. He put hand on his holster, not drawing the weapon yet, as he didn't have the heart, or the stomach to kill an innocent defenseless animal.

There was a time, quite some time ago, when he had two dogs of his own. A pair of amusing beagles left in his care, when his grandfather had passed away. Pets of course were no longer allowed now, only the elite class had the means to care for a pet. The closest anybody else could get was reduced to seeing one on the city monitor screens, when one of the leadership elders had some important message to pass along from their home. For some reason, they always seemed to have a cat on their lap, a dog by their side, or a squawking bird of some sort in plain view.

Greg carefully entered what was left of the home, his heavy armor boots crushing the smaller pieces of stone and flooring beneath them. He stopped suddenly as he saw a small shape huddled in one of the corners, covered in filth and dust, and garbed in what must have been a dress of some sort but was now just tattered rags. He enhanced his sight filters, reducing the floating silt and smoke to a minimum, and saw that what was before him was a small, slight young girl. Her hair was matted from dirt, her skin blotchy and covered with welts and bites.

The girl was clearly frightened by the hulking figure before her. She was visibly trembling, unable to shrink back any further as she was already huddled against one of the fallen walls. Seeing her visible discomfort, the heavily armored warrior removed one of his gloves, reached into the soiled hip pouch attached to his right hip, and pulled out the silver locket. He glanced at it for a scant moment, popped the clasp, then very slowly extended his hand out to the tiny child, offering her the trinket.

She reached out, her arm shaking, and took the bauble from his much larger hand. She looked down at the image within the locket, then looked up at Greg and smiled slightly. She couldn't see through Greg's darkened visor, but if she could, she would see that he too was smiling slightly.

Greg put his glove back on, then calmly pulled his service blaster from it's holster. He shot the girl directly in the forehead. She slumped over quietly.

“Rules are rules”, he muttered quietly to nobody in particular, as he walked back out into the ruins.