A calm, cold January. A man, still dressed in his uniform, leaned back in the cold wooden shelter, as he finished reading the last acknowledgements of a memoir of sorts. The book returned to the cold shelf from which it came, as the man looked out the thick insulated window, out to the cold wastes outside. It was peaceful. Not a single person in sight. Was it sad that this was all the man needed in life to feel satisfied? No, he didn't think so. There shouldn't be anything wrong in enjoying the serene silence of the outdoors. It was beautiful to look at, and the silence only made the somber tones of the memoir all the more poignant. A touching memoir, and while he did not entirely agree with the author, it did not change the tones or the touch of the story. A grand daughter of a soldier in the Great Faunus war. Terrible atrocities had been committed, and for some belligerents, a sense of guilt was to be had. Coming to grips with the fact that yes, your grandfather fought and killed the enemy, for a cause that was not just, was something that some had to deal with, even if their hands had never held arms, or their eyes never bearing witness to the landscapes carved by the war. Even if they did not commit the atrocities themselves, were they still responsible? As a sergeant, the questions were all the more significant to him. Like an alarm waking one from a deep sleep, earned from a day of hard labor, a shot rang out and interrupted his musings.

He reached down and typed a simple code into his pager: report. Not the letters themselves, but a code agreed to beforehand. In response, a single hard knock echoed on the aging pine door. A nice touch for a homey environment. "Enter."

Swiftly opening and closing the door was a young man, barely in his mid-twenties, dressed from head to toe in an assortment of white garbs. A simple white helmet, with a white visor, milky, as to provide eye protection, while also matte, to prevent the reflection of light. While not the best for either appearances, or for vision, it was better than the black visor alternative, which was a dead give away in these frozen white wastes. The man snapped to attention, his boots throwing off bits of snow as the heels clicked together. "Sergeant, Private 437, reports as ordered," stated the man, as his gloved hands remained at his sides.

"At ease." The Private relaxed and let out a breath. The sergeant continued. "What does protocol state about firing rounds?"

"To not do it. Sergeant."

"At ease, private," waved the man. "I'm not like that. It gets in the way of the transfer of information."

"Understood," firmly stated the private.

The sergeant stood from his desk and pulled up a chair that was leaning on a wall. "Have a seat. Don't be so nervous. So tense. It's a beautiful day outside, don't you think?"

The sergeant was looming over the now seated private. "Yes. It is a beautiful day."

"And I personally think that part of its beauty is the silence." The man dramatically sighed, letting it linger in the air like a fog rolling in. "Why, oh why, did you ruin the beauty of today?"

"I saw movement sir."

"Please, I'm not your sir, or madam. I'm just a sergeant, who happens to be filling in for this week. No need to be so nervous." The sergeant's perfect teeth split his face. "Just tell me what scared you."

"I believed I saw movement sir and fired at it. This is a mistake on my end, and I should be held responsible for my mistakes."

"Did you hit it?"

"Hit the moving object?"

"Of course. I've heard great things about your tracking skills, both in the snow and with your sights." The sergeant's hands were gripping the back of the chair, so not a single hair was touching the private, but his figure seemed to surround him. "Why don't you show me some time."

"I hit the target. It was simple a shelf of snow that fell off due to the sun melting a portion of it."

"Interesting. Do keep me updated with any other snow bunnies you find."

"Yes sergeant."

The sergeant detached from the chair and gestured to the door. "Off you go." The private quickly vacated the room without doing the proper exit procedure. No matter. The chair was returned to its rightful place on the wall, and the sergeant returned to his own. There was nothing quite like discomfort. On that note, he turned to the window, and stared out into the abyss. And he waved.


Dove froze. He knew.