/This is where the helicopters came to take me away./
The sun seemed hesitant to rise from its shield of the horizon, edging ever so slowly over the rolling sand dunes of the Lost Desert. Finally, heaving upwards almost with a sigh, it spilled its reddened radiance over the sand, transforming the cooling grains to a warmer state. The light kept reaching out, over the barren land, until it rested upon the remains of a recovering city-the broken pieces of Sakhmet City, the remnants of the side of the town that had long been forgotten by the conventional public. Nobody had bothered to fix and repair this place, though it could be clearly seen from the city, an ugly blotch on the smooth surface of a booming city; for over it lurked a shadow, unseen, the shadows of those lost in battle.
Yet the usually abandoned broken piece now had a single occupant, sitting on one of the particularly large pieces of debris, hunched over in a stance that one might consider the figure was praying. But no, this solemn silhouette had no religious identity, and was here only to remember, as much as it hurt him so. Lifting up his head, the gray-coated Kacheek stared into the rising sun, a giant orange in the sky. Though his eyes glistened with tears, not a single one streaked his fur-they remained in their location, his black eyes, deeper than one might expect.
He remembered this place. Oh, did he remember it. For he once too had been a member of this glorious, bustling city, a Sakhmetian in his own right, even painted in the traditional Desert color. But no-that simple life had been interrupted at this very spot, in the middle of his prime, of his time he was most enjoying with his owner, a rather lazy inhabitant to say the least, he was carted off to something he was not prepared for, nor would any man or Neopet ever be prepared for: the perils and memories of combat, of cold-blooded war, life, death and rebirth. Excluding the last.
/This is where the children used to play./
The memory was all too sharp in his mind-it was like a splinter, digging deep into his flesh. His owner, in the ultimate act of sloth, had hurried the Kacheek outside, not wanting to be bothered, but rather to sit lazily on his couch, something the Kacheek had no intention of doing. The Kacheek, knowing this routine all too well, had proceeded to stumble over to the area where the other Neopets with similarly neglectful owners gathered-a place to play, to socialize, to find solace. His spirits rose just thinking of it; he really didn't want much from his owner. If he were to be a true companion to that dote, he would find himself immensely out of shape.
But no-his group of friends was not there, not residing in the sandbox, building towers only to smash them to pieces, running about playing tag or casually bobbing up and down on the seesaw. Instead of the usual banter, the familiar cry of his arrival, there was only the harsh noise of machinery-something not typical to Sakhmet City, although the Kacheek had heard and seen them in pictures before. He recognized this thing, the hulking beast before him that lived yet was not alive-they called it a helicopter, a chopper for short. He wondered what it was doing among his usual playgrounds, what it was doing intruding on such a sacred area. He approached it cautiously, not wanting to make it awaken, to perhaps have it strike out at him.
One of its darkened eyes retreated into its cold flesh and revealed a face he recognized: one of his friends, a Lupe. Upon his face was painted an expression of awe, a grin splitting his face nearly in half. "Hey!" he cried, and motioned for the Kacheek to come forward, towards the beast he was somehow within. "C'mon, or your going to miss all of the action!"
"Action?" questioned the Kacheek in a quiet voice, eyes puzzled.
"Yeah!" The side of the beast seemed to cave in, opening up a doorway to allow the Kacheek passage within. The Lupe's head still stuck out of its eye. "Didn'tcha hear? Sloth's army's attackin' Sakhmet, and we gots ta defend it!" he hollered. The Kacheek had never seen such an inspired look in the Lupe's face. He had heard the name Sloth before, used negatively, almost a curse word-a man to despise, a Hitler in his own right. But to think of him coming here, with his advanced army? It seemed a daydream, something unreal. But the Kacheek found it was very real, his feet plugging forward, as if they were programmed.
Within seconds he was inside of the beast, the hole closing, trapped amongst peers, armed to the teeth with a variety of different Battledome items, as well as attired in some of the flashiest armor he had ever seen. Items similar to those that all of his friends held were handed to him, and he dumbly equipped them to himself, as he had no owner to do those duties usual of one. He had little to no idea what was occurring, and instead of running decided to go along with it-besides, the beast was off of the ground, taking them to the designated area of the attack.
/This is only half a mile away from the attack./
The trip within the beast was not long-no, not at all. Soon, it descended to the ground, dust rising around it, the noise dulling to nothing. Yet noise was still all around them-sounds of clanking armor, of firing bullets. The ting-ting-ting of lead against metal could be heard on the beast-it gave a groan, and then stuttered to a halt completely. The cavity that had allowed the Kacheek passage before now opened once again. By the instructions of a rather hardened-looking Grarrl, the newly formed company plunged into the unknown, and were instantly submerged and nearly drown in combat.
/This is where my life changed in a day, and then it changed back./
He could not delve that far into the past, however, to exhume the memories that he had intended to bury forever. They would undoubtedly arise from their grave one time or another to maul him, but this moment needn't be now. He rose from where he sat, looking wistfully at the sun and then to his surroundings. The memories charged at him, not letting up a smidgen- they wanted to surround him, consume him. He allowed them in gradually, not wanting to submit to their assault but being forced to as they flooded over the crumbling dam he had created in his mind. He was suddenly in the heat of battle again, choking on dust and miniscule metal shrapnel.
/Buried in the din of rotor noise and close explosions,/
It seemed nearly everything had been lost in the confusion, in the spats of gunfire that shattered his eardrums and the dust that clogged his senses, dulling his understanding of all around him. He wondered for a moment whether it was truly dust or that gas some spoke of-nerve gas, a human creation, deadly, just as human beings were with intelligence. No, it was probably of the Battledome variety, but it affected him just the same, making him woozy and finding it hard to collect himself and find his foot. In fact, he found himself tripping over his own feet, unable to find the ground.
But he had to, as he rolled just out of the way of being crushed by a vehicle, moving at top speed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the driver and the passenger: two Mutant Grundos, each sporting a strap of ammo across their chests. Commanders. So it was true.
The image did not last long in the Kacheek's mind-for when the jeep was only about three yards away from the Kacheek, a black comet seemed to sail in between the passengers. There was a grunt of puzzlement from the both of them, and then a blinding flash where they formerly were, the jeep's skin seeming to balloon out in an obscene fashion from bright white light. The Kacheek watched in disbelief as the white turned to the burning red of flame, along with black smoke. An instant later the sound came, knocking him backwards into the dirt even more than the actual explosion. He flattened his ears and whined, being grabbed by the arm and pulled to his feet.
"Up, soldier!"
So he was a soldier now, with a generic name given to all. So this is what they faced, those soldiers he had heard about, in the great human wars- noises all about, screams of both organic and machine sources. A sharp pain seared through his cheek, and he yelped, alarmed. It burned momentarily and then gave way to full-fledged pain. He could feel the blood on his cheek, making its way down his fur like a crimson tear. Lifting his hand to his cheek, he pulled it away to find his fingers bathed in blood.
Fear washed through him at that moment-he had been struck. This was real; it was not a fantasy, not a nightmare. He suddenly became conscious of the weapons he possessed-something that resembled a gun (probably nothing more than a Rainbow Gun, but perhaps something more) and a sword. As he looked around at the Neopets mercilessly attacking the invading Mutant Grundos around him, something surged into his chest-an odd inspiration, a hatred, a lust for warfare, temporary as it was. With a animalistic cry that was more suited to a Tyrannian then a Sakhmetian, he charged forth into the heat of the battle, his finger grasping at the trigger of the gun, firing round after round at an unseen enemy until he had nothing left.
Tossing the useless weapon aside, not even thinking he could refill the ammunition, he grasped for the sword weapon and swung it like a samurai atop a mount-except for striking heads, he struck legs, arms, stomachs of enemies, perhaps even allies. He could not tell the difference-they all wore the same face, the same mask of indifference, just sitting there stupidly and firing, drool slowly rolling down their faces, replaced by blood, and then nothing at all as their heads popped like overripe grapes and tumbled to the ground. Headless, they could still fire; they were an undying enemy, and yet he still fought on. Shadows, they were, but he was too far gone to realize he could not strike them-that they had in fact taken him down already.
He remembered the blinding, unbelievable pain at his right shoulder that made his eyes roll. The hand that gripped the sword tried to lurch forward, but instead of connecting with an enemy, it disconnected from his body, leaving only a bloody circle where his arm had formerly been. The bodiless arm flopped to the ground in a puddle of its own blood and others as well-amongst other body parts, carelessly lopped off. The Kacheek could do nothing more than stare blankly at his injury-from then on he was no longer a warrior, but a victim, paralyzed, unable to speak, barely able to breathe.
His body did not want to function anymore, having lost one of its extremities. His mind sent it messages to move, but his body refused them, becoming limp and unmoving, almost as if he were dead. The Kacheek could only submit, falling onto his back helplessly, leaving him open for attack. Around him, chaos ensued, seemingly oblivious to his presence. Perhaps they thought he was dead-maybe that's why they ignored him, treating him as just another nameless body. That was fine with him. It was better than living through this hell, the mindless bloodshed and murder around him.
/I do my best to synthesize the sounds of my emotions./
The Kacheek absentmindedly rubbed his right arm, over the artificial fur and skin that seemed so strangely realistic. Beneath it all was mostly metal-as he flexed his fingers he could feel the gears moving underneath his skin, making slight indentations in the fake skin. Those were not tendons on the back of his paw that grew as he moved his fingers. Looks could be so very deceiving.
There was something beside him that had not been noticed before, hiding behind a scrap of debris. He pulled it out, setting it on his lap. It was a case, shaped in the curvy, almost sexual manner that would contain an acoustic guitar. Flipping the silver clips upwards, he slowly opened the case, running his left hand's fingers over the smooth wood, varnished to perfection. With his right he did the same-but it mattered little, for no feeling could register on something so fake.
He picked up the guitar as if it were a sacred artifact, putting the case aside and balancing the wood frame on his knee. Touching his fingers to the frets with his left hand, he gave the guitar a strum with his right. The guitar, surprisingly enough, was perfectly in tune-of course, he had tuned it before he came there, but he had expected it to warp a little bit on the travel to the former battlefield. No matter. It just made his job easier. Closing his eyes, he began to play the songs trapped within his heart.
/This is where the Allies bombed the school; they say by mistake./
The sun sank gratefully under the horizon, no longer desiring to show its beaming face to the world. Darkness had begun to challenge it, and the sun had been fighting a losing battle-and now it surrendered, giving a long sigh as its scant rays of reddish-orange light melted into bluish-purple, stars sparkling in the sky, twinkling shyly into existence. The sun, one enormous star, had left only to be replaced by millions of others within the purplish night sky.
Inside of the bar, however, all the beauty of nighttime was lost on sentient beings, as it would be naturally; for those with minds are much more interested in their own creations rather than natural things as a rule. The haze of secondhand smoke filled the bar as usual, as well as the din of drunks on some pointless rant, waving waggling fingers through the air and then falling face first into their beer to be awaken the next day with blistering headaches. Nobody in that bar knew where they were-what used to stand where they sat, getting drunk out of their minds.
But the Kacheek knew. Sitting in the corner, residing among the shadows and slowly tending to a small shot of whiskey, he glared at their stupid faces, swimming around him in a most strange manner. He remembered the school that used to stand here, ironically, a place for learning, where happy little faces repeated letters and learned cursive. He remembered setting foot in it, thinking how generation after generation would be taught here-unfortunately, this had not been the case.
What appeared to be a hand grenade soared over the Kacheek's head from the stretcher, his blurred vision making it like a black comet streaking across the sky. Those holding up the stretcher watched as well, their attention drawn from walking for the time being-their mouths dropped open fit to catch flies. The school, where children's curious voices could still be heard, suddenly became utterly silent. The momentary lull of voices did not last long-for suddenly there was the roar of an explosion. Now, it seemed as if the sound came first, making the Kacheek close his eyes against the explosion. But he could already guess what had happened.
Children were screaming. Blood rained across his face. He wept.
/Here nobody takes me for a fool-just for a fake./
Sure, some of the Neopets in the bar were most likely former soldiers as well-in fact, he recognized some and verified that they were indeed. They handled their troubles differently-for he knew they all remembered the war just as clearly as he did. They, however, tried to fade those memories through their drinking, tried to make themselves happy through substance abuse. It seemed to work well enough-but the Kacheek wasn't like that. Needless to say, none of them remembered him much-and when he asked them to confront their problems, to talk to him, they would aim a punch and miss completely, their drunken eyes mixed with a passive hatred.
"Y'dun know whatcha talkin' `bout, buddy.yer jus' a fak'r.a damn'd HIPPIE!"
/Later at the hotel bar the journalists are waiting./
The Kacheek looked around the bar, scrutinizing each bar member. He remembered distinctly when all the young journalists, trying to jump-start their career, had flocked to a similar bar as this, in the midst of war and afterwards, trying to get the rare interview from a soldier or even better, a commander of some sort. (Not that there was really anything organized enough to have anyone be called a commander.) Their faces were bright and cheery to contrast the gloomy atmosphere-for a moment he had thought the illusion of war had vanished during those moments.
And then he had tried to reach for a drink sliding down the counter, only to find that his right arm wasn't there to catch it.
/I hurry back to my guitar while they're commiserating./
Taking a sip of the whiskey, he cringed at the bitter taste. He had never been particularly fond of alcohol, and he had only ordered a shot of something to make himself standout less at the bar table. Still, he sat alone, away from the others, which merited a few wayward, drunken looks, curiosity on some of the more sober one's faces. The only thing that accompanied him was his guitar inside of its guitar case, occupying a seat. It was almost an emblem to keep others away from him, to stop others from standing near him. He didn't care. Being alone suited him better-his guitar was all that he needed to console himself.
/And I'll be leaving soon. I'll be leaving soon./
"You gonna drink that or you just gonna look at it?" asked the bar tender mildly, wiping a mug clean of its alcoholic residue. It took the Kacheek a while to register that the bar tender had been talking to him, but when he did, he pushed the shot aside, reaching into his guitar case and pulling out a small amount of Neopoints, enough to pay for the drink. The bar tender snapped it up and shoved it away into his pocket, turning his attention back to the others at the bar, ones that wanted drinks or just plain wanted attention.
"I'll be gone soon anyway," he murmured to himself, sliding off of the high stool and picking up his guitar. With a certain solemnity absent in the bar, he left through the back door.
/Just as soon as we were on the ground, we're back in the jet./
The Kacheek liked the silence of the outside. It was much better than the chaos of company, of society. His guitar was his only constant companion, having long ago abandoned the companionship of his alleged owner. Indeed, any kind of union that the two had had been immediately broken off the minute his owner had discovered that he had been injured in this war, and that it was even occurring at all. The Kacheek assumed now that his former owner was now back on the human planet, finding solace and friendship in the warm glow of the television.
But even injured, he could not escape the horrors of war. Once his hit points had been restored by being forced to drink a horrible-tasting potion, the so-called medic merely bandaged up his arm and gave him another gun suitable for those who were less fortunate and who would be thrown into combat as more bait than actual soldiers. The Kacheek thought he would die, then-knew he should die, at least, as the helicopter lifted off once again, bringing them to another area that had been attacked. He was apathetic to whether he lived or died.
/Just another three-day foreign tour I'll never forget./
It seemed the war lasted forever, a permanent scar on his flesh that extended throughout his body, eternally marking him. Later, he would be told that it lasted only about a week; but it had seemed to last into the future. Even now it continue within his brain, replaying itself over and over again. The footage seemed to be taped through a scratchy, out-of-date camera, through fog and mist. Yet he knew what was happening, and needed no guide-the blood that had stained and matted his fur had been real enough.
/It's hard to sympathize with all this devastation-/
He knew something had to be done one day, however, the day which they say the Sakhmetian war ended, although he believed not a word they said. He had been hiding behind a large piece of former building, breathing heavily as he tried to survive against the constant gunfire pelting his makeshift shield. Every so often he would lift his head and fire around at an invisible enemy, and then hunker back down to refill and wait until their assault ended. Another was doing the same next to him-a hard-faced Chia who seemed accustomed to war despite being of a cutesy species used the debris as a shield as well.
"Where are you from?" he asked seemingly from nowhere as they both refilled their ammunition.
"A few miles away," replied the Kacheek absentmindedly.
"Nice wound ya got there. I was hopin' to get one myself-they say you get more Neopoints if you suffer an injury in war!" cried the Chia, an ecstatic look on his face. The Kacheek stared at him blankly. Neopoints? They would get paid for killing? So soldiers were really hit men, then, disguised as noble warriors.
"It's not nice," mumbled the Kacheek, but the Chia did not hear him. With his gun fully loaded, he strained his body upwards to start firing, an insane grin on his face. The Kacheek could tell that he loved the bloodshed- loved the work of killing. He was nothing more than a common murderer. This thought stayed in the Kacheek's mind as a sudden recoil of bullets flew at the Chia, penetrating his armor and hitting him over and over again. The Chia's body jerked about as if he were a marionette with its strings being tugged about in a comic dance. The bullets ceased, the suddenly the marionette's strings were cut, and the Chia collapsed in a bloody heap to the ground, the insane grin forever etched onto his face.
The Kacheek felt no emotion.
/Hopping `round from site to site like tourists on vacation./
How they were transported about! It was as if they were goods, being moved from one country to another, distributed about, some being left behind due to the fact that they had been slaughtered. They were a generic company, used for generic missions that extended forever, that never ended. To the commanders, they had no face, no emotion, no soul. The Kacheek was soulless to them, and the loss of his arm was nothing more than a minor setback to their perfect machine.
/And I'll be leaving soon. I'll be leaving soon./
The Kacheek gave another strum of his guitar, not really thinking of his music, but of the war. He could think of little else under the serene moonlight-it was supposed to be a peaceful place, but all he could see were the marks of war everywhere. The marks of hell. He couldn't stay here much longer. He had to leave soon. But not until they knew how he felt about the rumored Meridell war.
/I can't help anyone, 'cause everyone's so cold./
He remembered particularly the faces of the common citizens who had not participated in the war, as he and his fellow soldiers trailed between all of them after the war had finished. He remembered their applause, their beaming faces of admiration. But no, they did not understand. They were just as cold as the enemy had been, but wore masks to hide such things. They didn't care for their wounds-they cared for their own selfish things, things that they hadn't fought for, things that he and his fellow soldiers had been forced to fight for, willing or not. Anger had burned in his stomach, a loathe for these mindless people, for these puppets that did not know anything.
/Everyone's so skeptical of everything I've told./
Even though they denied it, they did not believe his stories of war. The crowds that surrounded him as he relayed the horror story of the loss of a limb did not believe his tales, thought him a fraud. He could tell by their sarcastic looks they shot when they thought he wasn't look, a slight roll of their eyes. They knew nothing of war, and yet wanted to participate in the next one for they had seen what 'benefits' the soldiers had reaped from the former one. They were all frauds themselves.
/And even I get sick of needing to be sold./
It was revolting how they didn't believe anything, thought that war couldn't possibly be such a horror. And the Kacheek grew sick and tired of having to tell all these unbelieving people his stories-a waste of his time and effort. They didn't understand nor consider a single thing he told. Even as his words were published in print, nobody would listen. His pleas would always fall in deaf ears, no matter how publicized it became.
/Though it's only half a month away, the media's gone./
They didn't care anymore, those damned people. Their confused and influenced heads saw pictures of gallant Lupes standing atop a pile of vanquished enemies, waving his sword above the air triumphantly. The media wasn't interested in hearing what war was really like-they wanted the stories of glory, of victory. None could truly be offered through that machine called war; the stories produced were all exaggerated, the blood, sweat and gore graciously edited out, the struggle and heartbreak. Nobody wanted to see a picture of a jaded, injured Kacheek looming over a torn and bloody enemy, no sense of triumph even slightly reflected in his eyes.
/An entertaining scandal broke today, but I can't move on./
The newspapers, the books, the authors.they all told of something that wasn't possible. And perhaps very well what he fought for in his own separate way was not possible-peace, worldwide pacifism. Maybe nobody could really talk to solve their problems-maybe we must always shed blood and many must die to resolve a conflict. Sacrifices may need to be made to accomplish anything; sacrifices made in blood. But maybe, through a glimmering shade of something called hope, it was not necessary. Maybe it was only a dish on the side. Maybe peace was truly a factor, a real possibility.
Yet then again, peace seemed as dead as the soldiers in its counterpart. To achieve peace, we must prepare for war.
/I'm haunted by a story and I do my best to tell it./
How could he express what he believed, what nobody wanted to hear? How could he tell the world what he wanted to say when they rejected all that he spoke? He strummed his guitar, closing his eyes slightly. A single tear rolled down his face, falling onto the side of his guitar. The water reflected in the moonlight, shining brightly. Was this quiet tranquility he experienced now the only true peace that sentient beings could ever manage, ever find within their grasps? Could we not find peace inside ourselves to extend to others, to find a way to love our enemies, those that we hate?
/Can't even give this stuff away, why would I sell it?/
It was not something that the people would get quickly, nor possibly anytime in the century. No matter how many books were written about it, how many songs were written to the tune of peace, not everyone could sing a perfect harmony soon. Although one might hear it repeatedly, they would never truly get it-even the Kacheek could not fully understand the concept of loving your enemy, of finding a shred of something in someone which we should not fight. Though the road may be long and perilous, it could still be achieved. War is a quick solution to problems-speech is just as effective, perhaps more, yet takes a long time. Is it always necessary to go for the quick fix?
/Everybody's laughing while at me they point a finger. A world that loves its irony must hate the protest singer./
Within the crowd lining up to register for the Meridell war, to register for hell, there sat a single figure on a stool, silent and unmoving. Within his gray arms was steadied an acoustic guitar, looking old and beaten. He seemed to blend into his own guitar, as he looked just as jaded, the sides of his mouth sagging and bags prominent under his eyes. As the crowd teemed around him, he slowly emerged from his subconscious daydreams, looking warily at the crowds around him. Gradually, his fingers slipped to the frets and the strings. He cleared his throat loudly, and for all those to hear, he began to sing songs of protest.
Faces began to turn towards the Kacheek, who had been ignored for the entire time, just seen as a mere obstacle in the pathway to the register counter. Murmurs started between Neopets, their eyebrows being lifted in the direction of the Kacheek, seemingly oblivious to all those around him. A giggle erupted from a small little Uni, pointing a hoof towards the Kacheek, the other hoof behind held by her owner. The owner's mouth turned into a mocking smile as well, and then she joined in with her deep laugh, stimulating the rest. The crowd's laughter drowned out his words, but he sang on.
Tears budded at the side of his eyes for those who would be killed in battle and were yet so excited now, finding his songs of pacifism ridiculous, totally ludicrous. He wept for them in his song, for those who laughed at him. They could not understand the concepts he sang about, and so they shunned him. They could not accept something so foreign as loving one's enemies, as not going to war, but instead using words. They could not understand anything.
They would all be dead in due time.
/And I'll be leaving soon. I'll be leaving soon. I'll be leaving soon. I'll be leaving soon./
Author's Note: I know this had absolutely no plot. That was kind of the point. XD It was just a segment to protest the Meridell war. I highly protest such a thing, even if it is nothing like I describe within this fic. Give peace a chance!
The sun seemed hesitant to rise from its shield of the horizon, edging ever so slowly over the rolling sand dunes of the Lost Desert. Finally, heaving upwards almost with a sigh, it spilled its reddened radiance over the sand, transforming the cooling grains to a warmer state. The light kept reaching out, over the barren land, until it rested upon the remains of a recovering city-the broken pieces of Sakhmet City, the remnants of the side of the town that had long been forgotten by the conventional public. Nobody had bothered to fix and repair this place, though it could be clearly seen from the city, an ugly blotch on the smooth surface of a booming city; for over it lurked a shadow, unseen, the shadows of those lost in battle.
Yet the usually abandoned broken piece now had a single occupant, sitting on one of the particularly large pieces of debris, hunched over in a stance that one might consider the figure was praying. But no, this solemn silhouette had no religious identity, and was here only to remember, as much as it hurt him so. Lifting up his head, the gray-coated Kacheek stared into the rising sun, a giant orange in the sky. Though his eyes glistened with tears, not a single one streaked his fur-they remained in their location, his black eyes, deeper than one might expect.
He remembered this place. Oh, did he remember it. For he once too had been a member of this glorious, bustling city, a Sakhmetian in his own right, even painted in the traditional Desert color. But no-that simple life had been interrupted at this very spot, in the middle of his prime, of his time he was most enjoying with his owner, a rather lazy inhabitant to say the least, he was carted off to something he was not prepared for, nor would any man or Neopet ever be prepared for: the perils and memories of combat, of cold-blooded war, life, death and rebirth. Excluding the last.
/This is where the children used to play./
The memory was all too sharp in his mind-it was like a splinter, digging deep into his flesh. His owner, in the ultimate act of sloth, had hurried the Kacheek outside, not wanting to be bothered, but rather to sit lazily on his couch, something the Kacheek had no intention of doing. The Kacheek, knowing this routine all too well, had proceeded to stumble over to the area where the other Neopets with similarly neglectful owners gathered-a place to play, to socialize, to find solace. His spirits rose just thinking of it; he really didn't want much from his owner. If he were to be a true companion to that dote, he would find himself immensely out of shape.
But no-his group of friends was not there, not residing in the sandbox, building towers only to smash them to pieces, running about playing tag or casually bobbing up and down on the seesaw. Instead of the usual banter, the familiar cry of his arrival, there was only the harsh noise of machinery-something not typical to Sakhmet City, although the Kacheek had heard and seen them in pictures before. He recognized this thing, the hulking beast before him that lived yet was not alive-they called it a helicopter, a chopper for short. He wondered what it was doing among his usual playgrounds, what it was doing intruding on such a sacred area. He approached it cautiously, not wanting to make it awaken, to perhaps have it strike out at him.
One of its darkened eyes retreated into its cold flesh and revealed a face he recognized: one of his friends, a Lupe. Upon his face was painted an expression of awe, a grin splitting his face nearly in half. "Hey!" he cried, and motioned for the Kacheek to come forward, towards the beast he was somehow within. "C'mon, or your going to miss all of the action!"
"Action?" questioned the Kacheek in a quiet voice, eyes puzzled.
"Yeah!" The side of the beast seemed to cave in, opening up a doorway to allow the Kacheek passage within. The Lupe's head still stuck out of its eye. "Didn'tcha hear? Sloth's army's attackin' Sakhmet, and we gots ta defend it!" he hollered. The Kacheek had never seen such an inspired look in the Lupe's face. He had heard the name Sloth before, used negatively, almost a curse word-a man to despise, a Hitler in his own right. But to think of him coming here, with his advanced army? It seemed a daydream, something unreal. But the Kacheek found it was very real, his feet plugging forward, as if they were programmed.
Within seconds he was inside of the beast, the hole closing, trapped amongst peers, armed to the teeth with a variety of different Battledome items, as well as attired in some of the flashiest armor he had ever seen. Items similar to those that all of his friends held were handed to him, and he dumbly equipped them to himself, as he had no owner to do those duties usual of one. He had little to no idea what was occurring, and instead of running decided to go along with it-besides, the beast was off of the ground, taking them to the designated area of the attack.
/This is only half a mile away from the attack./
The trip within the beast was not long-no, not at all. Soon, it descended to the ground, dust rising around it, the noise dulling to nothing. Yet noise was still all around them-sounds of clanking armor, of firing bullets. The ting-ting-ting of lead against metal could be heard on the beast-it gave a groan, and then stuttered to a halt completely. The cavity that had allowed the Kacheek passage before now opened once again. By the instructions of a rather hardened-looking Grarrl, the newly formed company plunged into the unknown, and were instantly submerged and nearly drown in combat.
/This is where my life changed in a day, and then it changed back./
He could not delve that far into the past, however, to exhume the memories that he had intended to bury forever. They would undoubtedly arise from their grave one time or another to maul him, but this moment needn't be now. He rose from where he sat, looking wistfully at the sun and then to his surroundings. The memories charged at him, not letting up a smidgen- they wanted to surround him, consume him. He allowed them in gradually, not wanting to submit to their assault but being forced to as they flooded over the crumbling dam he had created in his mind. He was suddenly in the heat of battle again, choking on dust and miniscule metal shrapnel.
/Buried in the din of rotor noise and close explosions,/
It seemed nearly everything had been lost in the confusion, in the spats of gunfire that shattered his eardrums and the dust that clogged his senses, dulling his understanding of all around him. He wondered for a moment whether it was truly dust or that gas some spoke of-nerve gas, a human creation, deadly, just as human beings were with intelligence. No, it was probably of the Battledome variety, but it affected him just the same, making him woozy and finding it hard to collect himself and find his foot. In fact, he found himself tripping over his own feet, unable to find the ground.
But he had to, as he rolled just out of the way of being crushed by a vehicle, moving at top speed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the driver and the passenger: two Mutant Grundos, each sporting a strap of ammo across their chests. Commanders. So it was true.
The image did not last long in the Kacheek's mind-for when the jeep was only about three yards away from the Kacheek, a black comet seemed to sail in between the passengers. There was a grunt of puzzlement from the both of them, and then a blinding flash where they formerly were, the jeep's skin seeming to balloon out in an obscene fashion from bright white light. The Kacheek watched in disbelief as the white turned to the burning red of flame, along with black smoke. An instant later the sound came, knocking him backwards into the dirt even more than the actual explosion. He flattened his ears and whined, being grabbed by the arm and pulled to his feet.
"Up, soldier!"
So he was a soldier now, with a generic name given to all. So this is what they faced, those soldiers he had heard about, in the great human wars- noises all about, screams of both organic and machine sources. A sharp pain seared through his cheek, and he yelped, alarmed. It burned momentarily and then gave way to full-fledged pain. He could feel the blood on his cheek, making its way down his fur like a crimson tear. Lifting his hand to his cheek, he pulled it away to find his fingers bathed in blood.
Fear washed through him at that moment-he had been struck. This was real; it was not a fantasy, not a nightmare. He suddenly became conscious of the weapons he possessed-something that resembled a gun (probably nothing more than a Rainbow Gun, but perhaps something more) and a sword. As he looked around at the Neopets mercilessly attacking the invading Mutant Grundos around him, something surged into his chest-an odd inspiration, a hatred, a lust for warfare, temporary as it was. With a animalistic cry that was more suited to a Tyrannian then a Sakhmetian, he charged forth into the heat of the battle, his finger grasping at the trigger of the gun, firing round after round at an unseen enemy until he had nothing left.
Tossing the useless weapon aside, not even thinking he could refill the ammunition, he grasped for the sword weapon and swung it like a samurai atop a mount-except for striking heads, he struck legs, arms, stomachs of enemies, perhaps even allies. He could not tell the difference-they all wore the same face, the same mask of indifference, just sitting there stupidly and firing, drool slowly rolling down their faces, replaced by blood, and then nothing at all as their heads popped like overripe grapes and tumbled to the ground. Headless, they could still fire; they were an undying enemy, and yet he still fought on. Shadows, they were, but he was too far gone to realize he could not strike them-that they had in fact taken him down already.
He remembered the blinding, unbelievable pain at his right shoulder that made his eyes roll. The hand that gripped the sword tried to lurch forward, but instead of connecting with an enemy, it disconnected from his body, leaving only a bloody circle where his arm had formerly been. The bodiless arm flopped to the ground in a puddle of its own blood and others as well-amongst other body parts, carelessly lopped off. The Kacheek could do nothing more than stare blankly at his injury-from then on he was no longer a warrior, but a victim, paralyzed, unable to speak, barely able to breathe.
His body did not want to function anymore, having lost one of its extremities. His mind sent it messages to move, but his body refused them, becoming limp and unmoving, almost as if he were dead. The Kacheek could only submit, falling onto his back helplessly, leaving him open for attack. Around him, chaos ensued, seemingly oblivious to his presence. Perhaps they thought he was dead-maybe that's why they ignored him, treating him as just another nameless body. That was fine with him. It was better than living through this hell, the mindless bloodshed and murder around him.
/I do my best to synthesize the sounds of my emotions./
The Kacheek absentmindedly rubbed his right arm, over the artificial fur and skin that seemed so strangely realistic. Beneath it all was mostly metal-as he flexed his fingers he could feel the gears moving underneath his skin, making slight indentations in the fake skin. Those were not tendons on the back of his paw that grew as he moved his fingers. Looks could be so very deceiving.
There was something beside him that had not been noticed before, hiding behind a scrap of debris. He pulled it out, setting it on his lap. It was a case, shaped in the curvy, almost sexual manner that would contain an acoustic guitar. Flipping the silver clips upwards, he slowly opened the case, running his left hand's fingers over the smooth wood, varnished to perfection. With his right he did the same-but it mattered little, for no feeling could register on something so fake.
He picked up the guitar as if it were a sacred artifact, putting the case aside and balancing the wood frame on his knee. Touching his fingers to the frets with his left hand, he gave the guitar a strum with his right. The guitar, surprisingly enough, was perfectly in tune-of course, he had tuned it before he came there, but he had expected it to warp a little bit on the travel to the former battlefield. No matter. It just made his job easier. Closing his eyes, he began to play the songs trapped within his heart.
/This is where the Allies bombed the school; they say by mistake./
The sun sank gratefully under the horizon, no longer desiring to show its beaming face to the world. Darkness had begun to challenge it, and the sun had been fighting a losing battle-and now it surrendered, giving a long sigh as its scant rays of reddish-orange light melted into bluish-purple, stars sparkling in the sky, twinkling shyly into existence. The sun, one enormous star, had left only to be replaced by millions of others within the purplish night sky.
Inside of the bar, however, all the beauty of nighttime was lost on sentient beings, as it would be naturally; for those with minds are much more interested in their own creations rather than natural things as a rule. The haze of secondhand smoke filled the bar as usual, as well as the din of drunks on some pointless rant, waving waggling fingers through the air and then falling face first into their beer to be awaken the next day with blistering headaches. Nobody in that bar knew where they were-what used to stand where they sat, getting drunk out of their minds.
But the Kacheek knew. Sitting in the corner, residing among the shadows and slowly tending to a small shot of whiskey, he glared at their stupid faces, swimming around him in a most strange manner. He remembered the school that used to stand here, ironically, a place for learning, where happy little faces repeated letters and learned cursive. He remembered setting foot in it, thinking how generation after generation would be taught here-unfortunately, this had not been the case.
What appeared to be a hand grenade soared over the Kacheek's head from the stretcher, his blurred vision making it like a black comet streaking across the sky. Those holding up the stretcher watched as well, their attention drawn from walking for the time being-their mouths dropped open fit to catch flies. The school, where children's curious voices could still be heard, suddenly became utterly silent. The momentary lull of voices did not last long-for suddenly there was the roar of an explosion. Now, it seemed as if the sound came first, making the Kacheek close his eyes against the explosion. But he could already guess what had happened.
Children were screaming. Blood rained across his face. He wept.
/Here nobody takes me for a fool-just for a fake./
Sure, some of the Neopets in the bar were most likely former soldiers as well-in fact, he recognized some and verified that they were indeed. They handled their troubles differently-for he knew they all remembered the war just as clearly as he did. They, however, tried to fade those memories through their drinking, tried to make themselves happy through substance abuse. It seemed to work well enough-but the Kacheek wasn't like that. Needless to say, none of them remembered him much-and when he asked them to confront their problems, to talk to him, they would aim a punch and miss completely, their drunken eyes mixed with a passive hatred.
"Y'dun know whatcha talkin' `bout, buddy.yer jus' a fak'r.a damn'd HIPPIE!"
/Later at the hotel bar the journalists are waiting./
The Kacheek looked around the bar, scrutinizing each bar member. He remembered distinctly when all the young journalists, trying to jump-start their career, had flocked to a similar bar as this, in the midst of war and afterwards, trying to get the rare interview from a soldier or even better, a commander of some sort. (Not that there was really anything organized enough to have anyone be called a commander.) Their faces were bright and cheery to contrast the gloomy atmosphere-for a moment he had thought the illusion of war had vanished during those moments.
And then he had tried to reach for a drink sliding down the counter, only to find that his right arm wasn't there to catch it.
/I hurry back to my guitar while they're commiserating./
Taking a sip of the whiskey, he cringed at the bitter taste. He had never been particularly fond of alcohol, and he had only ordered a shot of something to make himself standout less at the bar table. Still, he sat alone, away from the others, which merited a few wayward, drunken looks, curiosity on some of the more sober one's faces. The only thing that accompanied him was his guitar inside of its guitar case, occupying a seat. It was almost an emblem to keep others away from him, to stop others from standing near him. He didn't care. Being alone suited him better-his guitar was all that he needed to console himself.
/And I'll be leaving soon. I'll be leaving soon./
"You gonna drink that or you just gonna look at it?" asked the bar tender mildly, wiping a mug clean of its alcoholic residue. It took the Kacheek a while to register that the bar tender had been talking to him, but when he did, he pushed the shot aside, reaching into his guitar case and pulling out a small amount of Neopoints, enough to pay for the drink. The bar tender snapped it up and shoved it away into his pocket, turning his attention back to the others at the bar, ones that wanted drinks or just plain wanted attention.
"I'll be gone soon anyway," he murmured to himself, sliding off of the high stool and picking up his guitar. With a certain solemnity absent in the bar, he left through the back door.
/Just as soon as we were on the ground, we're back in the jet./
The Kacheek liked the silence of the outside. It was much better than the chaos of company, of society. His guitar was his only constant companion, having long ago abandoned the companionship of his alleged owner. Indeed, any kind of union that the two had had been immediately broken off the minute his owner had discovered that he had been injured in this war, and that it was even occurring at all. The Kacheek assumed now that his former owner was now back on the human planet, finding solace and friendship in the warm glow of the television.
But even injured, he could not escape the horrors of war. Once his hit points had been restored by being forced to drink a horrible-tasting potion, the so-called medic merely bandaged up his arm and gave him another gun suitable for those who were less fortunate and who would be thrown into combat as more bait than actual soldiers. The Kacheek thought he would die, then-knew he should die, at least, as the helicopter lifted off once again, bringing them to another area that had been attacked. He was apathetic to whether he lived or died.
/Just another three-day foreign tour I'll never forget./
It seemed the war lasted forever, a permanent scar on his flesh that extended throughout his body, eternally marking him. Later, he would be told that it lasted only about a week; but it had seemed to last into the future. Even now it continue within his brain, replaying itself over and over again. The footage seemed to be taped through a scratchy, out-of-date camera, through fog and mist. Yet he knew what was happening, and needed no guide-the blood that had stained and matted his fur had been real enough.
/It's hard to sympathize with all this devastation-/
He knew something had to be done one day, however, the day which they say the Sakhmetian war ended, although he believed not a word they said. He had been hiding behind a large piece of former building, breathing heavily as he tried to survive against the constant gunfire pelting his makeshift shield. Every so often he would lift his head and fire around at an invisible enemy, and then hunker back down to refill and wait until their assault ended. Another was doing the same next to him-a hard-faced Chia who seemed accustomed to war despite being of a cutesy species used the debris as a shield as well.
"Where are you from?" he asked seemingly from nowhere as they both refilled their ammunition.
"A few miles away," replied the Kacheek absentmindedly.
"Nice wound ya got there. I was hopin' to get one myself-they say you get more Neopoints if you suffer an injury in war!" cried the Chia, an ecstatic look on his face. The Kacheek stared at him blankly. Neopoints? They would get paid for killing? So soldiers were really hit men, then, disguised as noble warriors.
"It's not nice," mumbled the Kacheek, but the Chia did not hear him. With his gun fully loaded, he strained his body upwards to start firing, an insane grin on his face. The Kacheek could tell that he loved the bloodshed- loved the work of killing. He was nothing more than a common murderer. This thought stayed in the Kacheek's mind as a sudden recoil of bullets flew at the Chia, penetrating his armor and hitting him over and over again. The Chia's body jerked about as if he were a marionette with its strings being tugged about in a comic dance. The bullets ceased, the suddenly the marionette's strings were cut, and the Chia collapsed in a bloody heap to the ground, the insane grin forever etched onto his face.
The Kacheek felt no emotion.
/Hopping `round from site to site like tourists on vacation./
How they were transported about! It was as if they were goods, being moved from one country to another, distributed about, some being left behind due to the fact that they had been slaughtered. They were a generic company, used for generic missions that extended forever, that never ended. To the commanders, they had no face, no emotion, no soul. The Kacheek was soulless to them, and the loss of his arm was nothing more than a minor setback to their perfect machine.
/And I'll be leaving soon. I'll be leaving soon./
The Kacheek gave another strum of his guitar, not really thinking of his music, but of the war. He could think of little else under the serene moonlight-it was supposed to be a peaceful place, but all he could see were the marks of war everywhere. The marks of hell. He couldn't stay here much longer. He had to leave soon. But not until they knew how he felt about the rumored Meridell war.
/I can't help anyone, 'cause everyone's so cold./
He remembered particularly the faces of the common citizens who had not participated in the war, as he and his fellow soldiers trailed between all of them after the war had finished. He remembered their applause, their beaming faces of admiration. But no, they did not understand. They were just as cold as the enemy had been, but wore masks to hide such things. They didn't care for their wounds-they cared for their own selfish things, things that they hadn't fought for, things that he and his fellow soldiers had been forced to fight for, willing or not. Anger had burned in his stomach, a loathe for these mindless people, for these puppets that did not know anything.
/Everyone's so skeptical of everything I've told./
Even though they denied it, they did not believe his stories of war. The crowds that surrounded him as he relayed the horror story of the loss of a limb did not believe his tales, thought him a fraud. He could tell by their sarcastic looks they shot when they thought he wasn't look, a slight roll of their eyes. They knew nothing of war, and yet wanted to participate in the next one for they had seen what 'benefits' the soldiers had reaped from the former one. They were all frauds themselves.
/And even I get sick of needing to be sold./
It was revolting how they didn't believe anything, thought that war couldn't possibly be such a horror. And the Kacheek grew sick and tired of having to tell all these unbelieving people his stories-a waste of his time and effort. They didn't understand nor consider a single thing he told. Even as his words were published in print, nobody would listen. His pleas would always fall in deaf ears, no matter how publicized it became.
/Though it's only half a month away, the media's gone./
They didn't care anymore, those damned people. Their confused and influenced heads saw pictures of gallant Lupes standing atop a pile of vanquished enemies, waving his sword above the air triumphantly. The media wasn't interested in hearing what war was really like-they wanted the stories of glory, of victory. None could truly be offered through that machine called war; the stories produced were all exaggerated, the blood, sweat and gore graciously edited out, the struggle and heartbreak. Nobody wanted to see a picture of a jaded, injured Kacheek looming over a torn and bloody enemy, no sense of triumph even slightly reflected in his eyes.
/An entertaining scandal broke today, but I can't move on./
The newspapers, the books, the authors.they all told of something that wasn't possible. And perhaps very well what he fought for in his own separate way was not possible-peace, worldwide pacifism. Maybe nobody could really talk to solve their problems-maybe we must always shed blood and many must die to resolve a conflict. Sacrifices may need to be made to accomplish anything; sacrifices made in blood. But maybe, through a glimmering shade of something called hope, it was not necessary. Maybe it was only a dish on the side. Maybe peace was truly a factor, a real possibility.
Yet then again, peace seemed as dead as the soldiers in its counterpart. To achieve peace, we must prepare for war.
/I'm haunted by a story and I do my best to tell it./
How could he express what he believed, what nobody wanted to hear? How could he tell the world what he wanted to say when they rejected all that he spoke? He strummed his guitar, closing his eyes slightly. A single tear rolled down his face, falling onto the side of his guitar. The water reflected in the moonlight, shining brightly. Was this quiet tranquility he experienced now the only true peace that sentient beings could ever manage, ever find within their grasps? Could we not find peace inside ourselves to extend to others, to find a way to love our enemies, those that we hate?
/Can't even give this stuff away, why would I sell it?/
It was not something that the people would get quickly, nor possibly anytime in the century. No matter how many books were written about it, how many songs were written to the tune of peace, not everyone could sing a perfect harmony soon. Although one might hear it repeatedly, they would never truly get it-even the Kacheek could not fully understand the concept of loving your enemy, of finding a shred of something in someone which we should not fight. Though the road may be long and perilous, it could still be achieved. War is a quick solution to problems-speech is just as effective, perhaps more, yet takes a long time. Is it always necessary to go for the quick fix?
/Everybody's laughing while at me they point a finger. A world that loves its irony must hate the protest singer./
Within the crowd lining up to register for the Meridell war, to register for hell, there sat a single figure on a stool, silent and unmoving. Within his gray arms was steadied an acoustic guitar, looking old and beaten. He seemed to blend into his own guitar, as he looked just as jaded, the sides of his mouth sagging and bags prominent under his eyes. As the crowd teemed around him, he slowly emerged from his subconscious daydreams, looking warily at the crowds around him. Gradually, his fingers slipped to the frets and the strings. He cleared his throat loudly, and for all those to hear, he began to sing songs of protest.
Faces began to turn towards the Kacheek, who had been ignored for the entire time, just seen as a mere obstacle in the pathway to the register counter. Murmurs started between Neopets, their eyebrows being lifted in the direction of the Kacheek, seemingly oblivious to all those around him. A giggle erupted from a small little Uni, pointing a hoof towards the Kacheek, the other hoof behind held by her owner. The owner's mouth turned into a mocking smile as well, and then she joined in with her deep laugh, stimulating the rest. The crowd's laughter drowned out his words, but he sang on.
Tears budded at the side of his eyes for those who would be killed in battle and were yet so excited now, finding his songs of pacifism ridiculous, totally ludicrous. He wept for them in his song, for those who laughed at him. They could not understand the concepts he sang about, and so they shunned him. They could not accept something so foreign as loving one's enemies, as not going to war, but instead using words. They could not understand anything.
They would all be dead in due time.
/And I'll be leaving soon. I'll be leaving soon. I'll be leaving soon. I'll be leaving soon./
Author's Note: I know this had absolutely no plot. That was kind of the point. XD It was just a segment to protest the Meridell war. I highly protest such a thing, even if it is nothing like I describe within this fic. Give peace a chance!