With Regards

by Imperaxum

Rating: everyone
Tags: Human, Sad
Length: 1312

When given crumbs, our brain bakes bread. When we're given fragments, we create epics. Head-canons, creativity, educated guesses - us readers tend to give these worlds and characters far more depth than the words do. This story is a feast for th

A well versed diary. A tale of a struggle that transcends the physical, and ascends to the very essence of their humanity. A reality of misunderstanding, filled with strange creatures that defy reason as we know it. A story of loss as much as gain.

~

When given crumbs, our brain bakes bread. When we're given fragments, we create epics. Head-canons, creativity, educated guesses - us readers tend to give these worlds and characters far more depth than the words do. This story is a feast for that.

Let your thoughts run wild. Those wild guesses and random ideas you come up with in the middle of the chapter? They may just be correct. That little nuance, or structural quirk that stands out to you? It could be significant. Whatever you think, if it makes sense to you, who's to tell you you're wrong?

This story is as much the reader's story as it is the author's.

Related in some way to And They Speak English.

Thoughts? Ideas? Comments are great places to be in that case.

Have fun, and good luck.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-09-08 23:46:46 UTC

1.

**1.* My luck has been as insufficient as it usually happens to be. I arrived at the assembly station at a regrettably later hour, and it seems my lot for the service has been cast accordingly. The entrance offizier appears to have deliberately made my entrance noticeable, if only to start me off on the wrong note with my fellows.*

No surprises. I have no doubts as to the contents of the file the man has read before I arrived. I cannot imagine it contained an excess of flattering adjectives, can I?

Despite their probable assumptions, I don't hate the call up. For me to complain to others that I've been forced into this profession would be a tarnished truth. I mean - perhaps unconsciously? We know so very little of each other, and barely more of ourselves. Everything word I speak to others, my actions around them and my apparent personality itself are never truly mine. To the last glimmer of thought put into them, they're influenced, molded, in many ways created by those other than myself. I am *not** myself. None of us really are.*

My mind wanders ceaselessly these days. Again, I simply cannot fathom the logic of my mind. In my final moments of freedom, perhaps even of life, depending on how my tour goes at least, my mind is swimming. There's no sense to be made, yet, in a way . . .

I suppose it's comforting to spend my final moments as close as I can to being myself.

~

2.

**2.* The first week of basic has exceeded my expectations for physical exertion and the ruthless crackdown on individuality. As I sit in my bunk, putting these thoughts to paper, I endure the jeers and taunts of my supposed comrades, the ones who I must bond with to form an effective team. For killing. Unenviable prospects, to say the least.*

These poor creatures - I do not fool myself for a moment that I am superior in any way, but to willingly conform oneself to such dysfunctional men as of instructors? They berate and beat us down, and yet everyone seems to want to emulate them! Whether they simply want to please and ease their sufferings, or actually believe in the speeches they give us, is beyond my comprehension.

Here I find a crossroads, a divergence, two paths. I can sample both, enjoy both for a little while.

These pathetic, listless parasites that swarm around me are incessant in both their vocal beliefs, and their determination to instill said notions upon me. Idiots, fools the lot of them. They serve an ideal that cannot be quantified any more than two people claiming one color or another is superior. They're parasites, leeching off of each other to find their own, self-perpetuating purpose for their woeful existence. Their thought processes have been trimmed by years of hidden  conditioning for service. Or, at least, they were the ones in our society gullible enough to believe.

On the other hand,  I could understand them, I genuinely could. I'm an outcast, a quandary. Humans tend to react poorly to that which they cannot quickly understand. Their thoughts run free and unchecked if they fail to come up with a satisfactory explanation to *me.***

I know what they fear. Men are never

It's not as if they can rightfully have anything else against me.

~

3. Here I come to a crossroads. An oath must be taken today. The months of basic have been strenuous, yes, but they are nothing to me compared to the leap that must be taken today. It's worth mentioning that in most militaries one takes their oath before the simplest of instruction takes place.

All the maltreatment and misuse has lead up to this. It has been ruthlessly hammered into us from the opening day that we live to serve our country and it's people - our people. It's likely that this oath has as much historical significance to some obscure, misunderstood event in their past as it is a final, minor test.

Minor to them, perhaps. Do I give up my individuality, my person, my life, my freedom, *me*, to these men?

I must go now. I hear their calls, beckoning me to

~

**4.* I lie in the darkest corner of the troop airship, pouring my head out into this cup. No one bothers me, and I gratefully return the favor. My head is one step away from swirling with thoughts of the year to come, our destination, and the actions we'll undertake there. I've given my life, but will they keep it? They've set my physical destination, my moral destination, my purpose and my hopes.*

3.

3. Here I come to a crossroads. An oath must be taken today. The months of basic have been strenuous, yes, but they are nothing to me compared to the leap that must be taken today. It's worth mentioning that in most militaries one takes their oath before the simplest of instruction takes place. This one does not.

All the maltreatment and misuse has lead up to this. It has been ruthlessly hammered into us from the opening day that we live to serve our country and it's people - our people. It's likely that this oath has as much historical significance to some obscure, misunderstood event in their past as it is a final, minor test.

Minor to them, perhaps. Do I give up my individuality, my person, my life, my freedom, *me*, to these men?

I must go now. I hear their calls, beckoning me to make a rushed decision of immeasurable importance.

~

**4.* I lie in the darkest corner of the troop airship, pouring my head out into this cup. No one bothers me, and I gratefully return the favor. My head is one step away from swirling with thoughts of the year to come, our destination, and the actions we'll undertake there. I've given my life, but will they keep it? They've set my physical destination, my moral destination, my purpose and my hopes.*

19. ~Anfang~

**19.* I draw no comfort from my own fabrications. No solace from these illusions. The unshakable truth is a constant burden, one that neither conforms to my expectations, nor ceases to astonish. At times, it laps at the recesses of my sanity like waves on a gentle beach, while without without warning the wind will rise, tempests shall awake, and an incomprehensible storm breaks over me.*

So to speak, at least. Absolutes are rare in reality, and rarer still here.

These infuriatingly innocent creatures continue to badger me. Their colors remain as bright and illogical as ever, and their demeanor harbor none of the sort that afflict me. If I'm supposed to be lightened by these equine's behavior, I must be failing my cause.

Gott.

These shameless lies - as natural as those great metal beasts we used to watch thunder along the cobblestone road, watching from the false sense of security so objectively provided by our little bunker. Before long, we could discern between the lofty, immaculate reserve machines, and the more, shall we say, down to earth nature of our own unit's metal beasts, more often than not stained with the gore of their passed masters.

How you and I looked up on these great heroes, craning our necks from the mud and filth of the holes we slunk in. Or, perhaps we sheltered ourselves from the storms of man in luxury apartments. Memory is such a fickle mechanism. You and I discussed it in the waning hours of leave, the only sober patrons of that run-down old dump of a bar. At least it was safe, surrounded by one of the few constants of existence - the earth.

I must accept eventualities. Even when they lead to unenviable results.

~