A/N: This was orriginaly posted on my other account but I decided to move it here because I liked it so much and on my other account it was merely a chapter in a series of oneshots. Here it can stand alone so here it is. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: My plot. My rules.

"I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask, 'Mother, what was war?'" – Eve Merriam

"A penny for your thoughts, freak?"

So many thoughts cloud my mind as I look out over the battlefields I've travelled and this room is no different. Thoughts of death. Thoughts of lost hope. Thoughts of defeat. They all plague me even down here where the scent of fear and pain cover this land in a blanket. I can almost taste the bloodshed on my tongue as it seeps through the ground to this underground bunker where those in power hide! And to think that we allowed you to control us. You who hide like children.

"You want to watch your tone?"

I don't think I do because anyone of the men and women whose blood is crawling towards us could have been here, right now, alive and well. To think they could be me. And I could be them. Or maybe you will be the ones struck down.

"You'd better bite your tongue you jap! Remember I can end your life in a second."

Your punch and words have had no effect before. Why would a slap and a death threat now be any different? And what does it matter what race I am?

Germans. Americans. Chinese. Japanese. Canadian. British. Russian. Italians. French. Middle Eastern. What does it matter on the battlefield? Who looks at you and asks what nationality you are before they shoot your brains out? Do they even realize that you are just as human as them? That you have a family waiting? That you want to live? And that you have a name and are not just a faceless, nameless soldier?

Of course not. If they do, you become a person. Precious. All the propaganda means nothing if your killer learns that you are a person so they don't ask. And neither do we.

"So what makes you so good? What makes you act so righteous? We both know that you've kill your fair share of people too."

No one who kills is better than the one they kill. Don't you get it? I'm not better. We are no better. Sure we have more efficient ways to kill, but we are no better.

Were the Canadians better than the Americans in the War of 1812? Were the Indians better than the French, British, Canadians, Americans, or the Spanish through all their wars for land? Were the Americans better than the British in the American Revolution? Were the Allies better than their enemies in the World Wars?

"Well—"

No! No one is better than the side they are opposing. We are all horrible for playing this game. Especially those of us who let people like you play this game without a second thought! That is what it is, isn't it? A game? A sick and demented game on the big scale with even bigger strakes? And just like in the collusion, everyone loses at some time, in some way.

And you know what makes this even worse?

We know. We know the truth about war. We know how it rips people to pieces leaving only a few alive. Not because they are the best. The strongest. Or the smartest. Because they are the luckiest. We know that war is evil and yet we still roll the dice and make the bets.

"Listen you stupid, arrogant, son of a bitch. We win the wars because we are the best! Not because of some game of chance!"

If you are the best then why don't you stop the wars before them start? Or are you going to put the blame on us the voters?

"Listen you—"

Every day of the hellish war I have seen my brothers shot. My sisters raped. My mother whipped. My father hanged. Death has followed me— has followed everyone here like a lost puppy. Waiting. Whispers of hate cloud my mind. They tell me to hate them— hate you! The ones who "did" this to me. But how can I? How can I hate you when you are my people? When you are the ones who took me from my war torn country and protected me? Who gave me work? Who allowed me to meet the woman who has left me? How I can I hate you who I voted into power? The ones who gave me the gun and told me to save my country? How can I hate my country were I was born to save the country where I live?

My brothers are the men in front of the gun. My sisters the natives of many lands. My mother, the earth I walk and my father. He is the man I could have been without this war. Because of this war that you helped create, my dreams are covered in blood. My hopes have been stabbed with the knives of reality.

War is death. Not glory. Not honour. Not to save. Not for goodness. Not hope for a better world. War is death. Pain. Hate.

"He's lost it, sir."

Call me a traitor all you want, you hellish worshipers of death! You so called leaders of our country! You haven't seen what I've seen. You sit down here in your planning rooms, believing that we soldiers, we Americans, are all just pawns. Not humans. Not people. You are no better than the people you call enemies! You don't have to try to block out the guilt because you never have to face it. But the fact is, you know nothing of war. You don't know of the struggle to survive! The pain of seeing your friends shot down in front of you by the sons of a bitches who are just as brainwashed as us!

Maybe we should throw you all up on the front lines and see how quick you are to go to war when you know what's it really like!

"I've had enough of this. I'll admit it was quite a speech but it won't save you or stop the wars."

You can shoot me all you like but that won't stop us. The ones who truly want peace and realize that peace isn't having a bigger stick than the other guy. I'm not the only one who knows the truth.

"Perhaps not. But you'll be the first to die for it. Enjoy martyrdom, you son of a bitch."

Martyrdom is only the beginning.

"He really said that?"

I look at my great grandchildren as one blurts out the question. He is six, an age full of curiosity, and his brown eyes clearly show it. My other two grandchildren also stare at me with wide purple eyes. I answer my grandson's question with a nod. "He was one to fight for his ideals."

"And they shot him?" My seven year old granddaughter asks.

I shake my head. "If only. They were unable to so they tortured him until he died. Just an hour before the war truly ended."

My youngest, only five, bows his head. "That's sick."

I nod. "But he was right, wasn't he?"

All three of them stare at me. "What do you mean, ojichan?"

I give them my signature smile that my great-great-grandfather used whenever he turned a duel around when all hope seemed lost. "How long as it been since you've heard of someone starting a war?"

The looks on their faces was hilarious as they pouted and narrowed their eyes as they tried to think of a date. Finally the eldest shook her head. "Never," she said.

My smile grows. "And what was his mission?"

Their eyes widen as my five year old says, "To stop all wars."

Their great-grandmother chuckles. "They get that from your side of the family," she whispers to me.

I ignore her and continue. "Martyrdom really was only the beginning. His speech leaked to the press and soon there was an uproar. It took a while, but here we are. 70 years without a war."

My grandchildren nod and turn when their mother enters the room.

"Cookies are done."

Without another thought, the children dash towards the kitchen leaving us, their great-grandparents alone.

"I still can't believe he really did it," my wife comments.

I look at the pictures covering the walls. Some of our family before the war. Most were pictures post-war of our children and grandchildren growing up. But a small few were old and faded. The men and women in those pictures had metal disks on their wrists, cards in their hands, and grins on their faces... except for one who was scowling. But I focused on the picture where a man stood tall and strong. After a moment, I nod. "That's our pal. Just like his namesake before him."

"They were both amazing."

"And short," I add with a laugh.

My wife just nods and moves her wheelchair into the kitchen leaving me to stare at the picture on the fireplace of my good friend who died for us.

"Hon, hurry up. Your coffee's getting cold."

I mutter something about coming and turn to fully face the picture. I raise my hand to my forehead and stand tall and straight. "You did good, Yug. You did good." With one last salute, I follow my wife into the kitchen. But as I leave I could almost swear I heard his voice saying, "As did you, Jonouchi."