Rewritten prologue.

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It was a glorious day, they had said. The sun had shone over dried blood on that day, illuminated festering bodies and smoking husks of buildings in a golden radiance. They reveled in the light, cared not for the plates of metal that burdened them so as they ate and drank, jovially but modestly, as they would've any other day at the academy.

He'd shot a child that day, in the hours prior to their victory. He couldn't even tell it aside from the fleeing town watchmen at the time; they'd been naught but silhouettes in the smoke, all of them mere targets. It was his first kill on the battlefield, a single well-aimed shot guided with steady hand. It would've made his drill instructors proud. And so he ate, and drank with his comrades that day.

He'd shot another child today. He had seen the terror etched into the boy's face, heard the screams of their mother as he'd towered over them. He'd felt the way their skin clung to their bones as he hefted them into body bags, pried away their fingers from each other's forms. He'd shot them from a mere three feet away, after much hesitation. He had missed the first shot. His hands had trembled. He'd emptied the entire rifle clip, all seven remaining shots, into just the two of them.

It would not have made his drill instructors proud. It was raining outside today as well.

There had been no celebration to be had.

Today, he had been greeted by his squad's Sergeant, as opposed to his friends from the academy; they had been long been reassigned to the quickly advancing frontline while his own squad remained in the town ruins to await reinforcements.

They had jeered that the war would be over by the time his squad moved out of the town. He had been deflated to hear that at the time, for to that day he had still only killed the one boy.

Today, he stood underneath a rickety outcrop of planks with his Sergeant in the drizzle, waiting for the rains to subside so they could carry the body bags of the mother and boy he'd killed to the graves they'd made up on a hilltop outside of town. The ashen incense of his Sergeant's cigarettes melded poorly with the still tangy scent of blood lingering in his nostrils. It tainted the once-comforting smell of damp cobblestone.

Today, he did not smile contently under his helm, did not keep his shoulders squared and his head held high. Today, he dared to question the purpose of the Army, dared to wonder how he'd come so far; from shooting mounds of dirt in the sunlit training yards, to shooting children in rain-drenched lands.

He did not care that any proper officer would reprimand him for thinking such things. The words tumbled out from his drying mouth into the cold rain with no grace or control; he shivered under his armor, chilled flesh quivering under the damp leathers and dulled plates of his armor, as he struggled to keep his voice level.

His Sergeant did not reprimand him. His Sergeant stood, leaned against the wall, and merely listened while smoking his cigarettes. He didn't bother to speak much at all, but nodded along, and every so often grunted in bitter agreement.

It was a small comfort to be had, under the clouds and crater-pocked roofings. The words that came from his Sergeant's mouth when he'd finished, panting and sweating and trembling with exertion, brought about a strange calmness in his racing mind.

They were all just pawns on a board, the Sergeant had said, nameless puppets moved around by tacticians and politicians. They were grey, and their enemies were blue. There were no children or families on chess boards.

And so it was that he straightened his back again, squared his shoulders.

His lips settled into a flat line; it mattered little though, for nobody would ever be able to see it past his helm.

Nobody, no matter how much they lost themselves in the lens of a scope to watch him, how tightly they tracked his movements, could ever see beyond the grey armor that encased him.

He was glad that his Sergeant had been given the chance to impart that upon him before a bullet pierced his head. It made his own last moments of existence that much more bearable.

His name was Private. He was only 17 when he died that day.