Art Of Noise - The Army Now
June 25th, 1778
...
Talk about dehumanization. Such a big word, isn't it?
It was all a vision coming from miles away from us. It seemed unreachable, like two islands apart. They're all seen as heroes, prized as ones with medals, but they aren't. We are the ones about to die and what they do is to step over our corpses after our battle is over. 'Today they stand under luxuries, but maybe tomorrow we'll both share the same ground'; that's what my brother says.
'Drooling over a Moogle's leg, ain't you?' It was just a silly joke, I know. To talk about that friendly sympathetic creature in this manner... Bart said nothing, but the look on his skinny face clearly said a nice 'shut up' loud and clear, a thing his mouth didn't.
Bart, Bart... Comme à tout, the things he does, sometimes, he's so cool. Quiet like the thunder, always willing to avoid some blunder; when it comes to luck, all he needs is a bit of pluck. He has no sense of humor for these things. In fact, he's another rookie. He pretends to be that intelligent being, but he's too quiet, and always had before daddy died, he has had plenty of this quiet attitude.
Maybe he didn't even cry when he was born, but instead he only breathed and learned to do so. Heck, even his first word said was 'oglop'. Just like his son, my nephew, who had been born shaken from the same disease. Jack's almost the same as father, and his father is almost the same as ours. To think Lenneth is also within that child, even though she kind of abandoned him. At least, Bart was there with Jack times away before we went to the fields. I wish the best for that child, and Lenneth as well, to resist through such dark times for all Burmecia.
From a distant glare, I see the high command. Veteran units under glowing lights illuminated their small settlement, tents and clothes made of better resistant material than ours. Leather has the tendency to get flaccid wherever it rains, unlike copper or brass, and comparing our shelter halves with those pyramids is the same as comparing a dog house with a royal palace. Outside the tents, Chocobos kept aligned with ropes on their feets and images of a parade of euphoria and surplus instantly caught my eyes. Yesch, Yesch...
General Sigurd is about to pronounce something for our Highness, brother of the king of Burmecia, Gabriel, of the Kain bloodline. Suspicions of mine aside, if this wasn't the 18th century his brother... He was already dead. Born in a gold cradle, having servants clean his butt... Aurea mediocritas, I assure you. He even brought Sigurd, his 'uncle' – a nice way to say 'servant', which's a pleasant denomination for 'slave', which means 'us' as well, in other words, 'shit' –, and he's about to pronounce something futile, of no importance whatsoever, in the name of our highness.
We do everything for our highness, even kill ourselves. Daddy died to protect Burmecia, but in the name of who? The king firstly, of course.
Not that he didn't die for other things, such as mom, my siblings, and me, but the king is the prime jewel to be secured, a gold nugget in the middle of bauxite. You think: If I protect the King, then the king will protect us. In practice, yes. In Bart's mind, as well. You thought this for way too long, in the wrong way. Only fools set the rules over this miserable world of ours, can't you see? Even Bart agrees with me to this point. Poisoning, assassination, corruption, insomnia, paranoia, paranoimia...
For centuries, Kings have controlled whatever they want. Our food, our taxes, our lives... They even control the fate of people. A brother kills a brother, a father kills a brother, another brother kills the father, the son kills the parents... And so, the story goes on. This old principle of guaranteeing us of not killing each other is just a facade so they can do whatever they want under the titles of 'Noble', 'Leader', 'Regent', 'Prince', 'Emperor' and 'King'. We are just canned food, flesh in armor, awaiting to be feeded for the Alexandrian Bandersnatchers.
Even our current king, the noble Edgar, is about to assassinate his own brother, the next in succession, without touching him with his own hands. A perfect plan to sustain his reign for long, since he has been diagnosed with the gout, been kept under treatment, resting on his bed. Or so do boats from my neighbors say. Poor Gabriel. Even knowing he's about to die tomorrow or after – or lose a leg in battle, or by amputation, if he's lucky –, he thinks those people around him are his friends, trustworthy as childhood friends, but they are there to ask something for him. In fact, he had no friends when he was a kid. Only Sigurd, since his father left to fight in the fields, and his mother passed away after she gave birth to him. His brothers didn't care about him, either. It's funny how many things you could learn from daddy, am I right? He was also a friend of little Gabriel, not a friend as 'Sigurd', but sometimes he was there, and other times, he fought alongside Gabriel's father.
Daddy, unlike those people, never asked anything for his King, only one thing: that he could protect Burmecia and its people. And so he did his duty and now rests in peace, unlike us. I have a good sight, unlike commander Komakino, who's blind like a knife. Look at him, that rickety crook... speaking with that dead sociolect of his, with that morbid face of an undead raised from the ashes, pale like his skin and hair. For me, he has been dead since then.
Heck, he can't even lift a spear with one hand, can't he? He may be asking for some new dentures, so he can eat the Zaghnol meat below him. Yes, the feast... Like a wedding feast, the sound of bells rang into my ears. Komakino's jaw felt from his muzzle under piles of lizard tails greased into reddish cherry syrup; Marbles of salt being caressed by Sigurd's long tongue, engulfed with barley; Garlands of cabbages eaten by our highness for later ammunition; All benefits – and more – for those members of the high command and the King's brother intimates.
That's the army, then and now. Alrightch...