"Opposing forces, 150 yards!"

The lookout's cry came belated, the commander's eyes had been trained to that spot for hours. He raised one arm high, and a hundred eyes fixed to the gleam of his armor plated fist as it jerked downwards, signaling to enter battles stances.

Countless bodies shifted into a balanced, slightly crouching posture and every mouth in the countless rows of Fire Nation soldiers drew into an unseen snarl, tense and knowing. For them, battle was no game. And while the newest trainees had joked nervously, nudging each-other, they now stood still and silent.

Fighting is like running, in a way—at first you pay complete and total attention to it, to the burn and the pull and the pounding, but soon you fall into your own thoughts. For many of the people there, they were already there, withdrawn into foggy memories, knowing that some would not return.

Despite what might be shouted in Earth Nation town squares by rebels, these men and women did not enjoy the mindless slaughter they engaged in, but instead felt that they owed their honor and their kingdom their support. After all, if they didn't fight for the Fire Nation, who would?

"Draw arms!" yelled the general.

Look closely. Drift through the rigidly organized rows and columns—slip past their military efficiency, lift up their hard white masks and look these people in the eye. In battle, they are treated as just bodies—fighters.

They are people. People with their own lives, thoughts, and tragedies.

People who twirled their blades, letting loose a raw battle yell, people who seemed so bloodthirsty.

However, many were wed, with small children who they laughed and played with. Many more would hesitate to kill a woman. And seldom would they willingly kill a child. Most knocked the children out to imitate death.

They had morals. Morals which plagued many, resulting in the high suicide count of Fire Nation soldiers.

Death was feared, but also embraced. Death was synonymous with honor. Honor was—honor is—a Fire Nation citizen's life.

One man with a crippling leg injury knew he probably would not make it out of battle. But the forces were short-staffed—an ambush a few days back had taken its toll. So he chose to stand and fight.

A woman two rows behind him fidgeted, blinking back tears. The man's daughter. She resisted the urge to run to him, envelope him in her arms, and draw him away from his death. Instead, she stood stiffly, not breaking formation.

The commander?

He was as just as most were. Nothing exceptionally special, but kind under his tough act.

Perhaps they were evil. Maybe they were all like that imagined nightmare Fire Nation soldier, the one who would smirk in the first row as he burned alive fleeing children, or enjoyed raping young women, watching terror in their eyes as he slowly advanced, slowly undressing them—first with his eyes, then with fire.

That's doubtful, though. If one sifted through court-martial documents, official notations of friendly fire, ask any soldier about the man who was jumped by his own platoon.

"Murderer," they snarled, for he had killed a man, before, they, in turn, killed him.

Fire Nation is that sense of fractured law we feel there.

They may seem like they are the most atrocious scum to crawl the earth, but then the valiant burn through and shine.

Were they double-standardholding hypocrites? Oh, undoubtedly. But they, the men andwomen who chose to fight for their nation, for their honor, they were something to be held as super-naturally just.

There is no life without death. A lesson to be remembered.