[FEB CONTEST] All's Quiet

[kaninchen]

You reach over and rummage through your pack, pulling out one of your C-Rations. An olive-colored tin, stamped and painted with various identifiers and numbers. You tear off the key soldered to the bottom of the can, attach it to the opening strip, and start to twist, slowly and laboriously. This could very well be your last meal, and by Tam is going to taste mediocre. Finally, the top of the can comes off, and you dump out the contents. Biscuits in wax paper, a smaller tin of jellied meat, a vacuum-sealed packet of powdered coffee, a stick of chewing gum, a box of waterproof matches, and three small cigarettes.

You toss the cigs to the side -- you never liked the taste nor the smell, and your mama always complained that the smoke would stain the good sheets. You unwrap the biscuits, however -- you never minded the fact that they were a little tough, and you even had a little fondness for the salty crunch with the slight undertones of buttermilk. Nibbling on one, you open your journal, and write.

For once, you write not about the situation, but about yourself.

Your name is Abery Brimwater.

You are twenty-two years of age.

Your favorite color is purple, because you always loved sitting next to your grandpa as he painted, gazing out over fields of lavender as the the summer sun tickled your skin. You recall those days, watching your grandpa expertly capture the calming scene, dabbing paint onto canvas, starting simple and abstract but finishing with minute details that you always envied. He'd paint a little dollop of red and tiny black spots, as you'd ask him what it was for, and he'd point to a ladybug that you previously hadn't noticed. It wasn't long until you started noticing things as well, helping him paint, occasionally spotting a slight shadow on a cloud, or a bird's nest, and he'd chuckle and add it to the painting, ruffling your hair. Your brother would come up in his wheelchair, holding two cones of peach ice cream, handing one to you, and the three of you would watch the sun set, grandpa would finish his painting and let it dry, and the ice cream would dribble down your fingers and set the hairs on the back of your hand on end.

You think it was those days in your youth that made you a shoe-in for the Noble Clan 11th Expeditionary Forces, spotting those little details that everyone else would miss. Those bygone days, where the threat of war wasn't really in the back of your mind, when soldiers went cheerily marching to the front lines, assured that the war would be quick. Then, it dragged on, and you grew older, and the lavender fields were paved over to make room for a factory to make bullets, and you enlisted.

You think back about the soldier you saw torn to shreds by the Manchatii. Your stomach churns, but you feel no pity for that man. The Silver Covenant rose to power on evil, cruel ideas. Town after town fell under their jackbooted heel, feeding the population lies about supremacy and nationalism. "Humans Only", they'd chant on the streets, rioting and overthrowing governments. No longer a political movement, they became a military power, and began annexing land from Noble Clan.

Your neighbors, the Nakamuras, were kind and gentle cat-folk. Their customs were a little alien to you at first, but they were a part of the community, and your family was always invited over to dinner on their special holidays. You even began to learn a little of their language, and you and your brother would often play with Tama, their daughter. But then Covenant ideals began to spread, the town became less welcoming, and one day, they packed up and left. You were too young to understand why. But now you know.

Those demons up above, full of cruelty and chaos, reveling in violence and caring not for who or what they destroy... how are they any different from the Covenant forces not far from here? Whether with inky-black carapaces and sharpened claws, or with pressed uniforms and bolt-action rifles, they both represent a fanatical lust for destruction that you detest. You calling an artillery strike will be a small victory in this war against peace, order, union, and acceptance. You hope, one day, this war will be over, the Nakamuras will move back, and your town can recuperate.

Your name is Abery Brimwater. You fight because others cannot. You fight because there are those that threaten the bonds of peace that keep communities together.

Your pencil becomes a nub, allowing you only a few dozen words more to write. So you do.

"To Remy, to Mama, to Grandpa. To Nana and Dad, may their memories be a blessing. To the Nakamuras, whom I hope are living well back in Miyatama. To the genuine friends and families with whom I grew up alongside, out in Dunshire-upon-Avon. To Missus Timms, my old schoolteacher, who always said I was the best in her class. To all of you:

I fight for you. I love you all.

Signed, Abery Brimwater."

You close the journal, tuck it into your bag, and chew slowly on the biscuit. You close your eyes. Save for the gentle crunching, everything is still. Your mind is at peace. Your heart beats gently.

All's quiet.

---

Another three blasts of the whistle, and the Paragon arrives. Several specialists wave their hands, showing the way down the packed-earth road, towards a large clearing.

Two wyverns, large, scaled, and resplendent, are outfitted with heavy harnesses and various military-style bags and pouches. They are attached to a metal yoke, which tugs along a massive howitzer, easily the size of an entire house. Wyvern handlers in protective gear guide the beasts, their uniforms emblazoned with the colors of the 1st Paragon Gunnery Crew, the most prestigious artillery regiment in all the land. The wheels that carry the artillery leave deep grooves in the dirt, and the talons of the wyverns carve trenches behind. Upon the barrel of the howitzer, the word "PARAGON" is embossed in large letters.

Over the din of the beasts pulling the artillery, a song can be heard. Back in the gunnery encampment, a record plays. In the rush to retreat down to the bunkers, one of the soldiers left it on. The crackling tune wafts through the air.

They were summoned from the hillside,
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men

Markos watches the Paragon get into position, pulling into the clearing. The specialists, holding maps and charts and measuring equipment, begin calling out numbers, degrees, coordinates. With careful, guiding hands, the handlers encourage the wyverns to turn in the correct direction. Then, the artillery crew begins spinning large wheels, which rotates the gun ever-so-slightly upon its housing. Each spin of the wheel is equivalent to half of a half of a degree of rotation, allowing for precision adjustments.

Let no tears add to their hardships
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking,
Make it sing this cheery song:

The crew continues to adjust the rotation of the gun, then begins angling the barrel to the right height. Sector twenty-two, a specialist calls out, followed by a string of incredibly precise latitude and longitude coordinates. More spinning of wheels, more adjustments: the Paragon must be aimed perfectly, for the hellfire it brings down is akin to the world's largest hammer striking the world's smallest nail. One minor miscalculation, and they could miss entirely.

Keep the Home Fires Burning,
While your hearts are yearning.
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.

Four soldiers trudge along, carrying a massive howitzer shell on a cart. Etched into the cylindrical casing are dozens and dozens of Tam's scriptures. Nearly all are about the folly of war, and how conflict is only a 'necessary evil' to those who delude themselves into thinking it is just. "There is no end to War so long as Man exists," says the final scripture carved into the shell. "Only at the end of Man will there be an end of War. But despair not, for it is also within the hearts of Man to find the kindness necessary to end War as well. At that point, Man will stop being Man, and start being One. Sermon 45."

There's a silver lining
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out
Till the boys come home.

The shell is inserted into the breech of the Paragon. It is closed with a heavy, dull clunk. The specialists go over everything one last time, ensuring the pinpoint precision of this artillery.

"Folks often say 'godspeed'," mutters Markos under his breath. "I know not the speed of the gods, but if there is one thing I am assured of... the second-fastest thing is certainly the swiftness at which our foes will die to this righteous fire. And so to the unlucky bastards we're aiming at now... godspeed, for any slower death would be torture."

"HELMETS OFF!" the artillery crew head yells. Every soldier dutifully removes their helmet, placing it on the ground. The shockwave of the blast is enough that the dome-shaped helmets can amplify the pressure, causing serious headaches at best, or immediate unconsciousness, brain hemorrhaging, and death at worst.

"PLUGS IN!" the soldier yells. Everyone pulls out a pair of hard rubber ear plugs, stuffing them into their ears.

"BRACE!"

The soldiers brace.

Overseas there came a pleading,
"Help a nation in distress."
And we gave our glorious laddies—
Honour made us do no less

Markos kneels down, facing away from the Paragon, covering his ears and tucking his head down. It feels like an eternity passes. He can feel his heart pounding -- even for a grizzled veteran like him, this was terrifying and exciting all at once. Through earplugs and fingers, the gentle song still manages to be heard, a beautiful voice singing the last few lines...

For no gallant son of Freedom
To a tyrant's yoke should bend,
And a noble heart must answer
To the sacred call of "Friend".

"FIRING!" The artillery crew head yanks the firing cord. A literal earth-shaking explosion occurs, accompanied by a shockwave that kicks up dust and dirt, rustling nearby trees. Every soldier feels the blast deep within their bones, and all of them are momentarily rattled by the blast. The wyverns remain at attention, unfazed by the noise. A few seconds pass, then everyone slowly uncovers their ears and stands up once more, putting their helmets back on. The kickback of the shot was so strong that the wheels carrying the Paragon have dug deeper into the dirt, and several soldiers begin grabbing shovels to help clear it away.

The breech of the Paragon is opened, letting the massive, smoking shell casing tumble out onto the ground. Markos squints. He swears he can actually see the shell arcing through the air, so large that it's visible to the naked eye.

And then, miles away, another explosion. A dull thud, causing the earth the shake a little, and the boughs of nearby trees let loose a few more leaves. Markos lets out a long sigh of relief.

The Paragon is pulled out of the clearing, the soldiers return to their posts. Markos stays for a few minutes, however, staring off into the distance.

Fluffy clouds lazily meander overhead. A light wind passes by. The needle of the record player comes to a crackling stop. The deed is done.

All's quiet.

---

It would be one week before you are dug out from the basement, nearly unconscious from dehydration.

The search teams that immediately scoured the area just after the Paragon's shell landed would find evidence of something far worse than what you initially thought. Below the town square, a Manchatii hive, which had been producing dozens upon dozens of disgusting larvae just under everyone's noses. The shelling, however, was powerful enough to penetrate the earth and destroy it completely, leaving barely any traces of demonic corruption behind. Crews of soldiers, priests, magi, and demon hunters would confirm this over the next few days, finding more and more evidence of a serious infestation. Had it not been nipped in the bud, the swarm would have overrun the front lines, slaughtering thousands, before making its way to the unprotected villages and towns beyond.

Ted and Alice, your fellow scouts, insisted that the search teams attempt to find you, swearing that you had survived. Their pleas were initially ignored, until finally Markos himself decided to allow a search party. His reasoning, of course, was that "Any bastard dumb enough to set off a red flare either knows they're going to live, or knows they're going to die. Might as well figure out if they're as lucky as they are dumb."

You are lucky, somewhat. Your barely-conscious form is tucked into the corner, nearly crushed by rubble. You still had use of one of your arms, and you managed to open the last of your rations to keep yourself alive over the next few days. You are dug out, rushed to the nearest military hospital, and cared for over several months.

It takes some time, but you regain the use of your legs and arm, your wounds heal, and the soreness leaves. The bad news is that you are permanently scarred, and there is a stiffness in your lower body that won't ever go away. A military tribunal oversees your case, determining your sentence. After all, only authorized personnel are allowed to use the red flare, and you are anything but authorized. But the evidence is stacked in your favor, even if it was a bit of dumb luck that you got a Manchatii hive shelled into oblivion. You are promoted to Staff Sergeant and granted the Crown's Cross, the third-highest honor a soldier can receive for brave service out in the field. Unfortunately, because of your condition, you are no longer fit for combat, and you are subsequently discharged with full honors.

Another few months pass, and you are back at home. Your mother constantly dotes over you, terrified that "her baby" got so injured, but you swear that you're fine. You can still walk, and although your left arm is a little shaky, you can still hold a spoon and tie your laces. Your brother almost never leaves your side.

It was through your brave action, and a hell of a lot of dumb luck, that you stopped what could have been a horrible tragedy. You saved a lot of lives, and lived to tell the tale.

You sit in your chair out on the porch, and open your battered journal. You have a fresh pencil in hand, and you begin to write.

"14th, Month of Bloom, 331, Age of Exploration."

Your gaze passes over to the small garden. You've taken to gardening to keep your limbs nimble -- all the standing up and crouching down, digging, pulling weeds... it's good exercise, and your doctor says it'll keep the stiffness at bay. Among the various fruits and vegetables, you see several lavender flowers poking their heads out of the dirt. You smile, and return your pencil to paper.

"All's Quiet."

---

THE END