War is hell, Bastion thought as death surrounded him. He was in a field of blood and missing body pieces. The chaos around him, the bombs exploding the screams of dying men, were a grim reminder of where he was: in a physical hell on earth in some god-forsaken spot where people were dying left and right of him.

What are we even fighting for, he miserably thought as he barely avoided an exploding shell. He dove into the muck and the mud. It seeped into his clothes, weighing him down. Bastion pulled himself up. Is he even worth it?

He was Tekhartha Mondatta.

A big deal in the omnic community. If there was a face to put to the omnic civil rights movement, it would be Mondatta. He descended from the lofty mountains of Nepal and spoke of civility and peace. He spoke to anyone who would listen to his ideals and slowly but surely, he gained a massive following. People and omnics came together and in ten years' time, Mondatta and his followers tamed the world and saved it from an all-out war. A tense peace fell over the world. No one had wanted to go to war but the itch to fight was still strong.

People came to accept omnics. Maybe not as equals, Bastion doubted that day would ever really come but things improved leagues from where they were. Omnics could walk the streets without fear of being kidnapped and stripped of their parts. The world wasn't a powder keg ready to explode anymore. For a small time, life was good until the day the Skin Program came out. From what he had heard, the Skin Program was good - too good. The program made omnics look human a little bit too well. Suddenly, the scores of omnics were, as far as anyone could tell, human. Outrage sparked the omnic civil rights debate back to life.

Opponents of the Skin Program, SP for short, argued that omnics masquerading as human was unjust. It was, as they called it, "false advertising". There was no way to tell the difference between a human and an omnic who used SP. It wasn't "us" versus "them"; it was "us" versus "an unseen omnic". Paranoia crept onto humanity and swallowed it whole. Riots broke out like wildfire. People, who were once perfectly rational, attacked anyone who exhibited what they thought was omnic behavior.

There were more humans killed during the attacks than actual omnics.

Mondatta stepped back to his podium. He hid his anger well and spoke with the eloquence and elegance that everyone expected of him. Mondatta was the voice of reason in an insane world. Those in favor of allowing omnics to keep using SP, touted him every and any chance they had. It was hard to show support for the attacks against omnics when Mondatta was on the other side. He was a highly respected figure during the debates and unrest. Some people called him a holy man, others a saint, a few referred to the monk as an anarchist, but Bastion knew what he called the famed man: Dead.

In the middle of a speech, proclaiming tranquility and harmony for omnics and their new updated skin, Mondatta was shot by an unknown assassin and was pronounced dead at the scene. His death set the world on fire.

In an instant, armies across the globe were set out to do battle. Bastion was one of many to be called into action. He didn't have an opinion on omnics one way or the other. He had seen battle before. Bastion was an old soldier. He knew the personal, not the financial, cost of war and the toll it had on everyone. He wasn't here to have some grand last stand and die like a dog in the trenches. No, he was here to get out alive. This wasn't his war. He didn't have an interest whether or not omnics had the right to look human.

Why would anyone want to be human, he thought bitterly.

As far as he knew, omnics never killed each other because of different opinions. Bastion raised his gun and pulled the trigger. One man went down. He fired his gun again. Another man died. He never knew what hit him. Again and again, without missing a shot, Bastion killed anyone who was in the field. He felt no triumph, no thrill, from killing. He was tired of it all. Bastion moved on. There was more killing to be done. He kept out of sight and stayed in the thick forest for cover. He was in enemy territory but saw no one ready to attack or kill him. It was too quiet. The shells stopped exploding. The ringing in his ears was present.

Did they book it?

It was the tail-end of the war. The opposition, those maniacal few who had gladly celebrated Mondatta's death, were holed up in a small part of the expansive forest. Unlike Bastion, they were prepared to go out with a bang. Reports from headquarters indicated that they were collecting and storing up a massive amount of guns, bombs, ammo – you named it, they had it. It was Bastion's unit, a special ops group that excelled in stealth, whose duty it was to clear the way for the tanks that would settle the war on the enemy's base. Bastion was glad for it. They were so close. Another day or so and the war would be over. He could go home, back to his tiny apartment in New York, and live out the rest of his days in peace.

Thunder roared overhead. Bastion groaned. That was perfect. As if stomping through the mud and dying in the heat wasn't bad enough. The rain would bog them down. It would make setting up camp harder. The mud would cause their camps to sink and they would be sleeping in the rain. It made Bastion's bones ache. He didn't think he could stand it if he had to sleep one more damn time in the rain.

Please, let it be over. Please.

He couldn't do this anymore. The killing was never-ending. The deaths were nonstop. Sometimes, it felt like the war would never end. The days merged with each other into one endless, hellish day. The building storm rumbled and let loose a torrent of rain. The droplets felt like bullets against his unprotected skin. Bastion wanted to scream.

LET IT END, he wanted to shout. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LET IT END!

Were they really fighting over skin? Skin? This is what people were dying for? For a stupid program? Bastion continued on. If he could just finish clearing the path, then he could go home. He could leave this hell. He could finally leave. Then with a flash of light and a bang, the forest was on fire. Bastion was thrown to the ground from the force of the explosion. He scrambled for cover.

Through the storm and explosions, a mad, cackling laughter rang out. That's when Bastion saw him. Standing on top of a pile of rubble, throwing caution to the wind, was a man. In each hand was a grenade. He howled wildly as he bombed the field with his explosions.

"COME ON, YOU BASTARDS! IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?"

Bastion steadied his gun. This guy would be a pain in the ass. But what was one more death if it meant this ended faster? He wrapped his finger around the trigger. A grenade was hurled in his direction. Fire devastated the area.

Those aren't ordinary grenades, Bastion realized. Normal grenades didn't have that kind of blast radius that the man was throwing. Bastion moved farther right. He was sure that the man hadn't seen him.

"I KNOW YOU WANKERS ARE OUT THERE!"

A wave of grenades flooded the area. Bastion ran for his life. The mud and rain made running hard. He was couldn't see at tall. A grenade exploded close to him. Something sharp torn into his leg. Bastion gasped in pain. He fell over into a ditch. He looked down at this leg. A thin jagged piece of metal was sticking out. Blood gushed forward.

"Damn it."

He wouldn't be walking or running with his leg like this. Bastion pressed a button on his visor. "This is unit 663, requesting medical back-up. I'm in the northern part of the forest. I repeat this is unit 663, requesting medical back-up. I'm in-"

There was no response. The visor that allowed him to contact his comrades was fizzed out. The high-tech visor that the higher-ups promised would never fail in the heat of battle was nothing more than an extremely expensive bike helmet. Bastion reached for his back-up radio.

"This is unit 663, requesting medical back-up. I repeat unit 663, requesting medical back-up."

There was no response. Static hissed through the radio. Bastion cursed. He would have to wait for help but help would not come if that firebug was in the way. It would be tricky but Bastion had killed stronger and tougher men than the maniac who was laughing his head off. Grunting, Bastion got on his knees. He peeked out of the ditch and saw in front of him was a member of his unit. Half of his face was burnt away and shrapnel riddled his body. The body armor did nothing to protect him. It let the fire roast him alive.

I am sorry, my friend.

He steadied his gun on the side of the fallen soldier. The pain from his leg distracted him. He couldn't fire in his condition. For the first time, in a very long time, Bastion used the scope of the gun to take aim. He saw the grenade throwing man and he could not pull the trigger. The man was no man at all. The grenade throwing maniac was barely a teenager. He had to be fourteen, maybe fifteen years-old.

They're using children, Bastion froze as terror came over him, they're using children soldiers.

Terror gave way to anger.

War was something that no man should have to go through but to use children? No, he wouldn't accept it. How could he ever? What low-life would use children to fight in a hopeless war? Bastion centered himself and prepared to take the kid's life. He didn't want to. More than anything in this world or the next, more than he wanted to leave this hellish scene and escape military life, Bastion did not want to shoot that kid. He peered through the scope. The kid was bone skinny. He didn't have a shirt on – just the dog tags from his unit jangling from his neck as he hopped up and own while he threw his grenades.

"WOO WHAT A LOVELY DAY!"

The kid shouldn't have been here, hooting and hollering like school let out for summer vacation. How did someone like this kid even end up here? How did he come to end up in this hell? Where was his family? Did they know where he was? Did they know what he was doing? Did he know what he was doing? Did he think it was a game? Did he actually know that he was killing people? Bastion hoped that he didn't. Steady hand on the trigger, Bastion prepared to kill the blond boy.

A grenade exploded right in front of him. The flames licked his bare skin. He dove into the cool mud. His eyes felt like they were going to rupturing. Blisters bubbled over his face. Bastion threw his gun to the ground. It wasn't worth it. Nothing was worth this pain. In his heart, he couldn't kill this kid. He would leave the deed to another man and let him deal with the guilt. Bastion crawled in the ditch. There was a camp, not too far to the right. If he could make it there then possibly he could receive medical attention. Bastion grabbed his gun and used it as a makeshift cane. He kept low as he limped away. Every part of his body screamed at him to stop and rest. But he couldn't - stopping meant death.

The ditch led into an open field. There were a line of trees blocking the kid's sight. He wouldn't be able to hit what he couldn't see. Bastion limped. A little bit more and he would be home free. Bastion hobbled to the field. On the other side, he could see the camp. It was a dingy little thing but to Bastion, there was no better sight in the world.

He set foot onto the field and the next thing he knew, he was surrounded by fire. Pain rocketed through his legs which was then followed by a numb situation. Bastion was in the air and then he was on the ground, drowning in the mud. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. He was numb. The mines he had stepped on set off a chain reaction. The blonde kid laughed hysterically.

"I GOT 'IM, ROADIE! LOOK AT THAT! I TOLD YA I WOULD GET 'IM!"

The rain let up as the tanks came roaring through. They passed through the muck without stopping. The kid stopped laughing and disappeared. Airplanes could be heard overhead. Reinforcements were on the way. Bastion opened his mouth and cried out for help but nothing came. He screamed for help but nothing came. Soldiers marched through the devastated area, keeping clear of the mine field. They didn't see Bastion. They marched through without ever knowing there was a man down. Any hope that Bastion had of being found was gone. He laid in the ravaged field for hours. Bastion fought to stay alive as the cold set in. He had lost the sensation in his legs and his face hours ago.

I want to go home.

He just wanted to go home to his tiny little apartment. Bastion heard, of all things, chirping. He saw a flash of yellow – was it another bomb? Bastion closed his eyes and waited for oblivion but oblivion never came. The chirping got louder. Bastion weakly opened his eyes. A small yellow bird was inches away from his face. How did anything survive this hell?

must've bombed his home…

Never before in his life did he empathizes with a bird.

I bet that he wants to go home too…

Darkness came over him.

Waking up was painful. The sensation was slow but when he got his bearings, everything hit him at once. There wasn't a part of him that wasn't without pain. His head felt like it was going to explode. The left side of his face was prickly and numb like it was made of static. It traveled from his hairline straight through his eyes and down to his molars. His eyes had suffered. His vision was blurry. Anything on the outside was blurry and out of focus. No matter how many times he blinked, it was never enough. It never got better. His arms weren't much better off. They were heavily bandaged and smelled of disinfectant. The smell was overwhelming. It made him want to gag. Bastion coughed and moaned. Everything hurt. Except, strangely enough, his legs.

Why aren't the drugs working on the rest of me?

Bastion gave an experimental shift of his body. He felt completely off balance. He felt unsteady and strange. His eyes went down to his legs. Bastion let out a strangled cry.

His legs were gone. Bandaged nubs right where his knees were meant to be had taken his legs' place. Bastion forced his gauzed up fingers to touch the nubs. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. This had to be a horrible mistake! He couldn't be like this. Injuries like this happened to young pups who ran headfirst into battle and paid the price. He was careful. He was trained. He was a damn professional but Bastion couldn't deny what his near dead fingers felt.

His legs were gone.

Bastion shook with anger and shock. He wanted to cry but the pain that his eyes already suffered prevented him from wearing his heart on his sleeve. Bastion was left sitting in his medical cot with pristine white sheets completely paralyzed with grief and anger. He was stuck.

Anger flooded through him. Bastion wanted to jump out of his bed, legs be damned, and punch something. He wanted to break anything he could get his hands on. He opened his mouth. He was going to scream until his throat burned, until he couldn't scream anymore, until everyone in the whole damn world knew what he felt. He would wake the dead with his scream.

Silence.

Horrible, deafening silence. Bastion screamed again but was met with silence.

He couldn't use his hands.

He had no legs.

He had no voice.

Why am I even alive, Bastion thought, what was the point of surviving?

The dark green curtain separating the cots parted. A gorgeous woman with blonde hair and blue eyes came in. Her clothes, military fatigues, were covered in blood. She smiled and Bastion knew that he was going to die.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

There was something very wrong about that woman's smile. It was fake and as cold as ice. Bastion had seen that smile a couple of times before in battle. It came to a select few who enjoyed killing too much. People who had that smile were dangerous. They had something in their brains that when it came to ending a person's life, they kept it going for as long as they could. Whatever their method for killing, whether it be strangulation or a gun, they would let their victim breathe and live before dragging them back to the brink of death. The woman walked to him and her smile got bigger.

Oh god, oh shit!

Bastion opened his mouth and futilely screamed. Was there anyone around? Did anyone know he was here?

Help! Oh god, someone help me! Help me please!

The blood drenched woman with her demented smile came closer. She was right next to him. How was she going to kill him? Bare hands? He wasn't able to fight back.

"Hello." The smiling woman had an accent. Something northern. He wasn't really sure. "I am Doctor Ziegler." The name was familiar, definitely not on the enemy's side but he couldn't quite place it. "But you may know me as Mercy."

That was it! Now he knew her. Everyone knew of the famous physician that was Mercy. She was a godsend on the battlefield. Troops called her an angel. She once preformed a successful open heart surgery in the middle of a battle. Her medical skills were legendary.

But then, Bastion thought, why am I like this?

"You have questions, I'm sure."

Bastion nodded. He was prepared to attempt to speak again but if screaming didn't work then what would? Dr. Ziegler sat down on the side of his bed. She gave him a pen and paper. Mentally, he scoffed. He couldn't form a fist, how was he supposed to write? His fingers slowly grasped the pen. It was infuriating how his own body refused to work. It wasn't fair. He was in perfect health and then…boom! It was all gone. He could fire consecutive shots, precise and deadly, and now holding a pen, a stupid crappy pen, was a challenge. He could barely hold it. He wanted to scream again.

What happened?

The words looked like they were written by a first grader. He took a minute to mourn his penmanship. He would never be able to write like before. He missed the way his W's were big and loopy and his t's were so neat and clean looking. This wasn't fair.

"We're not sure. You were found outside of the medical tent."

How?

"We are also not sure. Your little friend led us to you."

Friend? He heard chirping. Above his bed and to his right was a small yellow bird.

"He wouldn't leave you alone. He kept breaking into the tent to see you. I hope you don't mind but it looks like he's yours now."

Legs.

Your legs were badly…we had to amputate."

Couldn't save them?

"There was nothing to save."

Bastion put his pen to paper but didn't know what to write next. He was stunned at it all.

"We worked for six weeks to keep you alive."

Six weeks clicked in his mind. The war! He had a war to win and then he could go home. Dr. Ziegler read his mind and said quickly, "The war is over. We won."

And just like that it was over.

What did miss?

"Most of the troops have been sent home. The treaties are being signed tomorrow. We-"

Home.

"Home?"

Want to go home.

"In a few days maybe. We're-"

Now.

Against every medical professional's advice, Bastion went home with his new pet bird. He was given an honorable discharge from the military, he received prosthetics for his legs and arms, and went back home. Everything was a struggle when he returned to his neighborhood in the Brooklyn. It was all those eyes staring at him, dissecting him, picking him apart. Those who were brave enough would ask him questions.

"How'd it happen?"

"Did you feel it?"

"Were you ambushed?"

"Did it hurt?"

"Why do you look like that?"

He hated the questions. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about it. And yet, in the papers everyday stories about the way, about the great feats that were done during the war. It brought back haunting memories of bleeding to death in that field of that kid throwing bombs. He couldn't and he wouldn't put himself back in that hell. Bastion stayed in his small apartment. He never went out. He stopped watching the news and reading the paper. He had his groceries delivered to him and had his mail slipped under his door.

He didn't have a life anymore.

Every morning, he would wake up and spend a majority of his day in his chair. His only comfort in his life was his bird, Ganymede. He liked Ganymede. Unlike others, Ganymede never asked intrusive questions or battered him about his prosthetics. Ganymede was simply there. For a while, life in his small apartment with Ganymede was good. But then winter came. New York winters were the worst. The cold seemed to bite into his bones. Life with his prosthetics was hard and made the simplest task feel like he was climbing Mount Everest but when it was that cold out, he stayed in bed just rotting away. Ganymede would flutter in and out, periodically checking up on him. He never strayed too far from his side. It was on a particularly bitterly cold morning that Bastion was grateful for Ganymede.

The cold had frozen him from the inside out. He was so cold. It ate at him. It didn't feel like he was home. To Bastion, he was back in that field – dying all over again. The bombs were exploding all around him. He could still hear people dying and that kid! He could hear that kid laughing like he just won a game so clearly in his skull that it was maddening. Bastion woke with a gasp; he was still in battle. He had to get out of here. Bastion fell out of his bed. He had to escape the bombings. Bastion dragging himself across the floor with his burned and scarred arms.

I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here. I'm not going to die here. I'm not going to die. I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.

Ganymede saw Bastion from his cage. He flew out and chirped at him but nothing worked. Bastion was intent to escape his imaginary hell.

I have to get out of here. I'm not going to die here. I want to go home. Please, let me go home.

The bombs were so loud. The kid was cackling with laughter. People were dying all around him.

Let it be over! I want to go home!

Ganymede screeched at Bastion. He pecked at him but Bastion was still in the field, trapped and dying. Bastion broke the glass balcony doors. The icy wind kept him stuck in the war. Bastion grappled at the metal. He was so close to escaping. He could finally go home. Ganymede pulled at his hair. He pecked at his scalp. Ganymede clawed at Bastion's face. Bastion lost his grip and fell back to the ground, safely on the balcony. Ganymede flew onto Bastion's chest and chirped sadly as though to say: sorry. Bastion came back. He gasped and sobbed. He had nearly thrown himself off his four story balcony.

This was no way to live.

The next day, Bastion closed his bank accounts, pooled all his money together, and told his landlord that he was moving out the next day. He couldn't live in New York anymore. His apartment wasn't home anymore. He bought a ticket, packed a week's worth of clothes, and grabbed Ganymede. It didn't matter where he went so long as it wasn't there. One ticket lead to another which led to a long wait in an airport lounge which turned into a stranger, another veteran of the Omnic Crisis, talking to him and telling him about his hometown in Texas. Ghost Town, Texas was apparently as the stranger told him, quiet, hot, and friendly.

Bastion settled on Ghost Town without a second thought.