I dedicate this fic to my grandparents, who were stripped of their riches and forced to flee to Hong Kong when the wars raged in China. I dedicate this to the men and women serving in Iraq, and to all those who died since this war started. I would like to give this to all the victims of the Iraq War. Thank you for your bravery.

This one's for everyone who was affected by wars both old and new. This is for the soldiers, their families, and the victims.

Let us honor them in our hearts. Forever.

The enemy was out there.

They have us surrounded. Completely surrounded. And they know it.

But perhaps what's worse is that we know it.

I look around the small cave. I look around at them all. The eight of us sat huddled together. We were tired, hungry, and, in my case, wounded.

As Joey had put it earlier, we were pretty much dead.

Eight. They whittled us down, one by one. From a whole unit, we've been reduced to eight men. We were all that's left. Some would call us the best of the best.

Me?

I call us the luckiest of the lucky, for what is skill without luck?

How long now before our luck, too, ran out, just like our companions who had fallen before us?

These seven men with me now, we have been through so much together. We'd witness countless deaths, and we each had seen more than most men see in a life time.

When I had recruited them, most had been mere boys. Five months at war had changed all that. You grow up when you lose the innocence of youth, regardless of age. You grow up when you see for yourself how quickly one's life can end. You grow up when you realize how dark the world truly is.

You grow up when you take a man's life, and realize that you may have just orphaned his children or widowed his wife.

These men had grown up far too quickly, and in the worst way possible.

Why? That is a question I had constantly asked myself after a battle, when I had lost one or more of the men under my command. Being a General isn't all glory, as some soldiers seem to think. Being a general means that you hold the fate of many lives in your hands. How you draw up the battle plan, how you position your men, will determine the fate of the ones under your commend. It will determine the fate of the ones you've trained with, eaten with, and slept with. The one's you've bonded with, and grown close to. You know their secrets, their fears, their dreams. Such a responsibility becomes overwhelming.

Why? Why must men fight their fellow men? For their country? Their honour? Their pride?

What honor is there in killing a human being? A man who might have a family, a job, friends, and dreams? What honor is there in ending the life of a person who was defending their home?

How great is a country which will call their men to kill others of a different country simply because their beliefs don't match?

How great is a country whose leader won't hesitate to call men to arms against fellow men, barely stopping to think about the sacrifices that would need to be made? War is not a game. When a battle is over, one side will celebrate, while the other mourns. When we win a battle, we will call it a victory. When we lose a battle, we will call it a massacre. When we see our enemy celebrating, we call them savages and uncivilized. But when we celebrate for a victory, we barely stop to think how the opponents must see us. We mourn for our lost friends, but how many soldiers will mourn for his enemy, who may have lost a brother?

I sigh. Why is it that men fight? What drives us forward to kill and end the lives of others who are doing exactly what we ourselves are doing?

Why do we fight?

I look at the men around me. Huddled next to me was Joey, a young teen whose eyes, which once burned with fierce determination and courage, were now dull as they stared into empty space. I could scarcely catch a spark of his old spirit in his hazel brown eyes. In our little group, Joey had been the courage, the one who rushed into battle, whose spirit and energy always gave a boost to his companions.

Why did Joey fight?

Why did this young man, who had so much awaiting him, join the military?

Joey had a younger sister. Their father was abusive, and drank far too often. Their mother worked all day, only to have her wages taken by her husband and spent on alcohol. Joey had told me once, that he needed the money for his family. He needed the money for his sister, whose eyes needed an expensive operation. He needed the money for his mother, whose body needed a rest. He needed the money for his father, whose debts needed to be paid. He needed the money to make his family whole.

I believe there's more to it then that. Joey also fought for all those other struggling families out there. He fought for the poorest of the poor, for those families who practically live on the streets. He fought the families that cherish every dime and cent. They were what made his spirit come alive.

Tristan sat next to Joey. Tristan, the tall young man who had almost been too late to sign up because he had been babysitting his nephew and his sister had come home late. Tristan was the strength to support Joey's determination. Why did Tristan fight? He had money enough for his needs, and he had a nice, supportive family. Why would he need to join the war?

I knew the answer. The middle class had been hit hard by the affects of this war. The government was taxing them to their limits. Layoffs were common, and finding a job was all but impossible. Tristan fought for the families who suffered economically under the war. He fought for the middle class, the working class, the ones who kept the economy alive. They gave strength to his body.

Seto was next. Cold, hard, Seto, whose eyes were as hard and blue as ice. He was the unwavering mountain, the backbone, the one who kept everyone else from falling. He could strategize with the best of them if he wanted to, but he tended to rely on pure power. Nobody knows him well, for he made great effort not to make friends. He had confessed to me once, however, that he had a little brother at home. They were orphans, abused under their adoptive father, and left with little money when their legal guardian died. Seto fought for his bother, so that the boy may lead a better life. He fought for the all the orphans out there who were mistreated like he had been. They gave him endurance, and made him harder than steel.

Malik was next. He was a young one, who had lied about his age in order to join the military. He was an experienced street fighter, one of the hardened veterans who learned from an early age how cruel life could be. He fought with a passion that made from bitter hatred which somehow fueled his comrades. He represented their hate, their anger at the world. He had an older sister who did her best for him but was away very often, and an older half-brother who had been killed in a street fight while protecting him. Malik fought for the ones who hated everyone, the ones who live for the thrill of drawing blood because they didn't know better. He fought for his brother, who gave his life for him. He fought for his sister, who tried her best, which never seemed to be enough. They gave him all the more reason to hate this unforgiving and unfair world on which we live.

Bakura. I've known him for quite a while. Three whole years, in fact. He joined the military way before the war, like me. I have quite a bit of respect for him. He is a great solider. If only he had compassion for the men under him, perhaps he would've been made general and not me. Bakura was the ruthless one, and cool and collected fighter who would not hesitate to kill anyone who got in his way. He was another veteran of the allies and dark streets of the night. He could strategize well, but his plans always spared no-one, comrade or enemy. He fought for the ones who grew up in the streets, whose hearts had been hardened from youth. That ones who needed to steal to survive, who were shunned from society. Bakura fought for the ones who had on-one but themselves. He fought because he could.

Shy, quiet, Ryou, a sixteen-year-old whom the army thought was nineteen. Ryou was the calm one, the one who tamed the battle auras after a fight. He was the pacifier, who stopped fights among his comrades. Ryou had a younger sister who had died when the enemy attacked their neighborhood, which was in the heart of a busy city. His mother had died long ago, and the attack left his father in a coma. Ryou joined the military mostly to pay the hospital bills, but partly for revenge. He didn't seem the type who could kill, but seeing his sister die must have taken his innocence. Ryou fought for the bystanders, the families who lost loved ones when the enemy bombed their homes.

And Yugi. Yugi was no doubt the hope, the joy, the laughter, and the bond that drew them all together. Seeing Yugi lose his childhood innocence in the war had broken my heart. He eyes had shone with such pure innocence that I hadn't want to send him into battle. So pure a soul should not be tainted by the brutality of war. How he kept from going mad is beyond me. Through it all, he continued to be the optimism, the one we look to for comfort when we were feeling down and defeated. Through the worst of it his eyes still sparkled with his childlike knowledge that everything will be alright in the end. Yugi…Yugi fought for hope. He fought for those who couldn't fight for themselves, and for those who needed to see a light in this dark world. They kept him from complete growing up. They were his inspiration.

And I?

What did I, the general, fight for?

I …

I could not answer myself.

I look up, and suddenly met Yugi's violet eyes. And I saw myself as he saw me.

I saw a tired soldier whose eyes held experience and wisdom far beyond his age. Who had gone through so much more than anyone else in that cave. His shoulder was bleeding from a bullet he had taken for one of the men under his command.

He came from a poor family, the youngest of seven boys. He had joined the military at the age of twelve, force by his father to fake his age in order to make money for the family. The uniform he had received had been a bit big, but they were the first new clothes he had ever worn. His older brothers, too, had been forced to join. They had all been killed, every single one of them. They were the ones who had raised him, who taught him the basics of surviving on the streets. He had learned to fight form a young age, and often had been asked to steal for the family, being the smallest one. People were less likely to punish a five-year-old than a ten-year-old.

Why did he fight?

He fought for innocence. For the ones who had grown up too fast. He fought for the children who had no childhood to speak of. He fought to preserve this innocence, so that every child will be able to experience what he himself never did: a carefree childhood, filled with happiness and joy.

That was why he fought.

And then he saw.

And then I saw.

I saw a way to get them out alive.

It was so simple, and yet, to some people it was unheard of.

One of my brothers had once told me: sometimes, the simplest decisions are the most difficult ones to make. When working in a group, you have to think for the group, and not for yourself. You have to be able to forget what is for your own good, and make decisions for the good of everyone. That is the secret of a good team. Don't you ever forget that, little Yami.

It was the only way.

"Alright men, listen up."

My voice was not loud, but it was loud enough, and it was firm. What was left of my group turned as one to look at me.

"Yes, o great general? Have you finally come to the conclusion that we've all reached?" Bakura asked mockingly.

"And what conclusion is that, lieutenant?" I asked quietly.

"What do you think? We're sunk!" the lieutenant snapped.

I sighed. "No, Bakura, that's no true."

"What do you mean, idiot? What more can any of us do?"

"You're right. None of us, individually, can do anything to get out alive."

"So why did you tell me it wasn't true, fool?!"

"Because we aren't individuals, Bakura." I said, keeping my voice down. "We're a group, whether you want us to be or not. We're a team. We are one. And we will have to work and think as one."

"What are you saying? Do you have a plan?" Joey asked.

"Yes. When in a group, you must think as part of the group. Remember that. You have to make decisions that will benefit the group, regardless of what that decision may do to yourself."

"And?" Seto murmured.

"And sometimes, it's necessary to make sacrifices. If losing one of your arms means that you will be able to escape alive, you will certainly cut it off, would you not? It is the same in a group. It matters not that an individual is lost, if it guarantees that the rest will live."

"That's not true!" Yugi gasped. "We are all important! We make up the group! If one of us falls, we will no longer be one!"

I chuckled. "Very true, Yugi. But think, for example, of the human body. While each organ is important in its own way, there are certain major organs one can live without. Thus it is with a group."

"So you're telling us that you have a plan to get one of us killed while sparing the others?" Malik scowled. "Forgive me, but that doesn't seem fair."

I met his eyes for a moment, and proceeded to lock eyes with each of my remaining men. "Listen carefully. We have been here for a long time. Days. They will have expected most of us to be dead. They need to kill us. Every single one of us. If we run, they will expect us to run as a group."

"I can't see your point." Tristan said.

"One of us is going to be the decoy. He will have to run like hell, trying to get out and through enemy lines. No doubt they will think he's all that's left. They will give chase. And when they are gone, the others can leave."

"Oh, is that it?" Bakura snapped. "Who's going to be the decoy? Who are you going to send to his death?"

I sighed, and stood up. "Listen well, all of you. Make sure the enemy is gone before you go anywhere. And…"

I paused, glancing them over one more time. "Hang on to your dreams. When this is over, leave. Leave this army. Because it's not worth it. It's not worth your dreams, your hopes, your future. It's not worth your innocence. Hold on to what you fight for, and continue to believe. But… do your fighting elsewhere. In the real world, not in this hell. Because you never know. You'll never know if the person you kill has the same dreams as you."

I placed my guns on the floor of the cave. They all stared at me, with wide eyes.

I gave a small smile. "Do your fighting in the real world, where it counts. Fight for all that you believe in. Fight with the passion that comes from all that you fight for. You can do great things with your lives."

I walked towards the mouth of the cave. I hesitated, and glanced back. "…all of you. I'm glad I got to know you all…and I want to thank you, for teaching me so much."

I walked out that cave and towards where I knew the enemy was waiting to take me down. I walked, and never looked back.

General Yami Atmeu died that day. He lured the waiting enemy for almost half a mile before being shot in the head. His comrades all survived, thanks to him. His body was recovered by Lieutenant Bakura that same night. A funeral was held a week later. His seven comrades came. But no one who claimed to be his family was present.

Seto Kaiba quit the military that day. He went home to an overjoyed Mokuba, and eventually managed to find a job working at a nearby business. He was eventually able to graduate from college with a master's degree in business using loans and scholarships, and became the CEO of Kaiba Corp. Nine years after he left the war zone, Seto became the richest man in his country. He built several high-quality orphanages and founded an organization to offer help to abused and neglected children.

Joey Wheeler left the army and found a low-paying job at a gym. He was able to allow his mother to work part-time, and paid off his father's debts with his wages from his months serving the military. Paying for his sister's operation seemed an impossible dream, until he one day received a check from his former comrade, Seto Kaiba. It came on the seventh anniversary of their former general's death. The check contained more than enough money for his sister's operation. Joey eventually helped to start a group which provided support for the families of severe alcoholics.

Tristan Taylor stayed with the army until the end of the war. He became close friends with Joey and Yugi. After the war's end, the middle class and the economy started to recover. Tristan graduated from college, married, and started a small business.

Malik Ishtar stayed in the military until the war's end. He became a lieutenant. He gave most of his wages to his sister, and used the rest to help settle himself in his own apartment. He found a job, and was able to attend and graduate from college. He became an active advocate for funds to help street kids, and, over the course of his life, was able to give thousands and homeless children a good home, education, and future.

Ryou Kumon left the army two days later. His wages were almost enough to pay off the huge hospital bill. He was able to find a minimum-wage job working for a small book store and pay off the rest, while a distant relative provided him with a small apartment. With scholarships and loans, Ryou was able the complete college and get a degree in human psychology. He started a care group to help the victims of war and terrorist attacks.

Yugi Mouto immediately quit the army. He spread light and hope to thousands from that day until the day he died. No more need be said.

And last.

Bakura Ryu. He was offered the chance to become general after Yami's death. And though he at first wanted to refuse, he quickly changed his mind. He vowed to teach others what Yami had taught him. Honoring his former general's wish, he left the army shortly after the war. He created a memorial for all who died in fighting that war, and he dedicated it to - who else? – General Yami Atemu. The seven survivors of his old unit were present when the memorial opened. Bakura joined Malik in helping homeless kids living on the streets.

These seven kept in touch with each other for the rest of their lives. Though years may pass between hearing from each other, they shared a bond that could never be broken.

Yami…

In the end, his name will not be remembered by history. In the eyes of the world, he will forever remain a nameless soldier, one of many that died fighting in a bloody hell. But he will live on in the memories of his friends, the ones for whom he gave his life. He will live on in the tales they tell their children. He will live on in their hearts, and perhaps in the hearts of those who heard his story. Forever and always.

I hope you liked it. I worked hard on it.

This is my view of wars. I understand that it may not necessarily match yours. However, I am not about to apologize. Why should I be sorry for telling you the truth? Flame me if you wish, though I think it rather pointless. My view and opinions will still stand.

Review if you want to. If you do, then thank you.