Combat Droid

See the man. He's sitting hunched down over the contents in a cheap factorymade bowl. A grimy mess of sticky brown pieces drenched in a sauce vomit-colored. He stabs the mess with his fork repeatedly. The man is of thin build in sickly white cleaned armor too big for his size. The plates are draped over his shoulders, the dog-tag of its previous owner still in the man's pockets. He was allowed to keep it if he wanted to. Outside the rain turned sand to mud and beyond trees turned dark with evening shadow harbor yet the last few men untamed. The rundown army base a cage filled with fools in the middle of a world that had no place left for the dreamers. He was a dreamer. And every night he dreamt of being a dreamer no more.

His mates they lie in drink, clench their guns and sing their mothers bedtime songs. The man crouches in his corner and watches them.

He had run away from home at fifteen. However his body moved against his mind as he had hoped to spend his life in farm-made county, till death would claim the sweat-faced man he had become. The shotgun shells buried inside his parents' skulls had ended his dream. The robbers came for gold but left with blood. They had arrived at dusk and clad in ragged linen cloth they were silent, their guns would do the talking. The rustling of the wheat fields and the windchimes outside his fathers self-made hut hid their presence till their knocking on the door made his father scramble from their kitchen table and as he opened the door to be staring down the barrel did he leave their question for gold unanswered. The high-pitched screams of his mother rang his ears from then till now. They didn't last that long. He, then a kid, had stood panting in the corner, knife in hand and dinner sausage still inside his mouth. They burned the house down and left him bound outfront alongside the faceless corpses of his parents, where he lay staring at the flames that licked the pink sky like lustful tongues. Huddled up besides the corpses did the neighbouring family find him in the dead of night.

A year later he found himself in ports that lead to greater cities. He walked there through the narrow alleyways amidst the stench of piss and drink and whores peeling out from deep blue curtains calling at his back like wanting souls. Under TL-lights from convenience stores and roach-infested street shops did he drink himself away to the point of senseless haze. He swore upon himself that he would be the bigger man and vindicate the mindless violators of mankind. So he would sleep amidst the filth in muddy streets by day and rouse himself by night to fight with the street rats of the port. Sailors, merchants and all the other men who broke the law in the man's eyes. A self-made vigilante. He would fight with fists, feet, bottles and knives. And like a beast from campfire tales he would disappear into the dawn each morning.

And so his days would rot away until he forgot the passage of time and all his mind would think of was to fight the lawless men from local county and lands yet unknown whose tongues the man still would not recognize. All races, all kinds. Men whose speech sounded like the scraping of stones or the grunting of apes. He would search for day wages and found under the burning summer sun and with the coin he made did he drink yet more and more.

On a certain day however, when the sun had traded its domain over the pale blue sky with the moon, had set itself behind the thin black horizon and the sky was a painter's palette filled with blue, sat the man on a terrace outside a grimy shop with white sticky tiles that looked cleaner than they were. Staring at the tv box loosely hanging from the ceiling, cables sprouting from it like leaves from willow trees. The man stared at the news reporter on the bright blue screen, at the circuits in his eyes, the smooth skin unaffected by age or mortal ailments. A human manufactured. The man saw the news reporter chattering, metal teeth in a plastered smile. Not an ounce of emotion in that face. Bad model. He stood up and was about to leave when he heard the words that would turn his life anew. He turned his head around. Manufactured panic on a face stared at him through the screen.

Dear citizens in all of our country, we are under attack. The armed forces have taken the capital… This is a military coup.

The President remains in His presidential palace, surrounded…

To everyone: remain calm but alert. Defend the gains of the people!

There was a strange silence on the terrace. One man took his hat and hurried off. Some followed. The rest was left gawking at the television screen until the shop owner shut off the tv, grabbed a broom with steady hand and kicked them out.

The man had heard about the insurgent military. Tall tales from greasy men around campfires in the dark. Alcohol dripping from their beards while they spat out stories about a lady against the lawless county that was our country. She was born a criminal and stayed a criminal in the eyes of other criminals. She sought for order, sought for peace. And for peace one needs to cleanse the world first, they said. And so this military lady took her chance with a self-raised army and vowed to kill the criminals that plagued this land until there were none left save her.

Presidents’ head is still on his neck, soon to be on a stake. People roar for end of violence, the military lady she will provide. In her newfound office, high above the clouds.

After the announcement came the billboards, the posters and the banners. A feminine face hidden behind cap and slogan that called for men to join her army. To kill those who resented order. The man took his chance and left the port in search of army posts.

He disembarks aboard a sailboat. The boat is going to the capital. But the man is not a creature of the tide so he stands by the rails and vomits, stuck in the salt-filled wind. He cages his eyes to the sky in hope of land amidst the clouds. Flights of seabirds above the grey swells. A pilgrim among others, men who he will never ask what brings them to the tide. Under the smell of gutted fish and screams of fishermen does the man leave the sailboat in search of an army post hidden inside the urban jungle men call their capital. The yellow-blue coastline disappears behind the grey spires.

It was the summer of the year twentytwo and seventysix when the army welcomed him with open arms as he reached the end of the line, filled with skirmish men and women, with his unquenchable thirst for killing criminals. A self-made vigilante, now with cap and armor.

White lights, red lights, blue lights, green lights all around his head. The man is swimming in a haze. Gun in hand marching, marching through the streets where people look at him from balconies or shattered windows. He marches through filth, with filth. He is filth. But he doesn't see it so. The military lady will enforce her order and cleanse the earth with fire. So the man takes his orders with relief and marches on. Marches on through doors and into houses. Marches his bullets into heads. Blood splatters on the walls, neighbours scream for mercy. He drags the bodies outside and poses them high for all to see. A warning to all ye sinners.

He has no compassion for the criminals, those deemed enemies of the state. Those deemed unworthy of their filthy little lives. Men, women, fathers, mothers, children. Guilty folk will face their judgement. He cleanses the world, he tames them. Call the world a circus, he is the handler.

Months pass as the army spreads themself like dogs through rainy nights. Knocking on doors, barging in doors. They try to squirm away but they get to rattle in their cages. The squares of settlements far and wide were full each day and all who wanted would see the killings until the army had none left to kill. The man did his duty and he did it diligently. The man thought he had tamed them all, no criminal left in the world. He had punched the last one until his face had caved in like dough beneath the kneading hand, under a pink sky and orange sun. The blood and dust itched in his eyes as he saw the body fall.

And now he was there, sitting with the rest of his army mates in that rundown army base, blood still on his gloves, stabbing away in the dredge soldiers call their meal.

A commander whom the man had never met before suddenly peeked around the corner.

Attention please, shouted the commander.

All the soldiers in the room drunkenly stood up and saluted to the commander, the man included. The plate of food fell off of his lap when he stood up. It clattered on the ground.

You going to clean that up, private?

Yes Sir. The man dropped down to his knees and began trying to scrape the grimy mess on the floor back into its plate.

I never said you had to clean that up now. Are you stupid or something?

No Sir. The man stood up again.

Didn't hear ya private.

No Sir, his voice louder now.

Then why do you act like it? Now clean that mess up. The commander pointed to the floor while he shouted spit in the man's face.

The man dropped down again and once again tried to scrape the mess from the floor.

Anyway privates, the commander turned to the other soldiers, you all have done good work here. Cleaning up all those… vagabonds. The commander sighed. But to our disappointment our cleansing isn't done yet. People in the capital have began… protesting, shouting, screaming. They want us gone they say. They want the old ways, they say. And I say no to that. And our mighty leader says no to those… people as well.

As his voice rose, more spit flew out of his mouth. His cheeks turned red from disgust and anger and his tongue made the words trying to leave his mouth trip and stumble.

And to help us has our leader given us a little present. Combat droids…

The man looked up from his scraping. The others looked puzzled at the commander. The man had heard of combat droids, sleek war-machines bred for combat, built for combat. A war crime in a coat of steel. But they were never used. Too expensive. And most droids rather stuck to economic jobs. Keep the money with the metal, keep the war with flesh and blood.

The best of the best. The twelve of them are waiting in the hangar. You'll take your leave tomorrow at dawn. Oh and all you drunks, clean up before I beat the shit out of you myself.

The commander left as sudden as he had arrived. His spit marked the spot where he had stood.

Need any help with that? A soldier pointed at the mess still lying on the floor. Her face contorted in a pre-vomit expression.

Nah, it's fine. The man kept scraping.

They sat in rows at the back of trucks driving through mud roads. They drove past palm trees planted in rows, slighly swaying in the breeze. They drove past rice fields stretching out into eternity, farmers up to their knees in murky waters, and past lamp posts in the night, moths swarming around the lights. They rode past an ivy-covered church standing sentinel amidst a field. The solitary house of God. With no paths leading to and fro. Truly a house only meant for Him.

The man sat next to one of the combat droids. No armor needed, just pure steel and wires. Combat Droid J-012 branded into the metal at his chest. The man looked at it.

That your name?

J-012 nodded.

How come they ain't give you a real name?

Thought it wasn't necessary. I don't need a name while fighting.

J-012 turned his head towards the man. No eyes. A sleek black visage with sensors underneath.

Your name?

Forgot it. The man chuckled.

Not needed for fighting.

Nah.

How do your mates call you then?

Nothing.

Flattering.

A bird flew overhead, screeching. A soldier grabbed it from mid-air, held it tight, then snapped its neck. His friends chanted the word dinner as he did so.

Going to kill some rebels, said the man.

Exciting.

J-012 suddenly went quiet and the black visage one could call his face beeped the words Sleep Mode in bright blue letters. The morning sun turned from blue to yellow.

The rain had been coming down in torrents but still the people marched through the streets. Banners in hand and slogans out of mouth. The army had gotten the assignment to stop the protests, by force if necessary. The man stood there in the blockade, soaked completely, raindrops dripping down his face. He held his shield in front of him as if it was a wall. He heard the marching stop, the shouting grew louder. A piece of rotten fruit smashed upon his shield. And before he could react, ran the combat droids already forward. J-012 included. A haze of mechanical frenzy and the last thing the man remembered from the fight was J-012 ramming his shield in someone's neck. His instructions told the droid him later that day.

Since that day the protests grew louder, grew bigger. The man threw teargas, smoke bombs or scared the people off with warning shots. He saw them running. And as he saw them running, like ants to their holes, did this foreign feeling nestle itself inside him. One could call it mercy. These people were no killers, no sinners. Just fools fighting for the wrong ideals. Nevertheless, they didn't deserve this violence. Order was it. Now look upon yeself, ye sinner.

Two weeks later, a police officer was killed. The commander called it the start of a revolution. And they were called upon this earth to shut those riots down. The guilty woman had hidden herself inside a measly house inside a slum. A concrete block of misery. They barged through the door and as the man and J-012 walked inside, guns forward, they saw her standing there. Husband and child behind her and a grenade in her hand. The safety pin on the floor.

Dogs. I just wanted to protect my family.

Sweat-faced turned with wrath, she dropped the grenade in front of J-012. The man grabbed the droid with all his might and hurled him away. Shockwaves sent him crashing in the wall, bleeding from his head.

When he stood up he heard the husband wailing. The wife lay at his feet. She had no legs no more.

We did not want to kill that man. That officer. We loved order. Love order.

The man stared at him, hair sweaty, mouth open from the pain.

We did nothing wrong. We're just civilians.

The man saw the tears streaming down the husband's face. He grabbed his handgun and limped over towards the crying man. As soon as he approached the husband dropped to his knees and began hugging his child. Still a baby. Too young to even see the gender.

We did not kill that officer. She. She did.

The husband pointed at his wife's corpse. Arm shaking in the air.

The man placed his gun against the head of the husband.

Just pull the trigger, man. Just a criminal.

He couldn't. This man did nothing. A fool, yes, not a killer.

The husband grabbed the gun of the man while in the man's moment of weakness. The man got pushed against the wall. Gritted teeth stared him in the eyes as he felt his gun being pointed towards him. He shouted as he tried to kick the attacker away. Arms failing, he won't budge.

A dust-covered metal demon tore the attacker's jaw clean off. Muscle strands loose, blood dripping. Lungs screaming. A bullet did the rest.

Saved my ass J-012. The man sighed and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

Same as you, I suppose.

What happens to the baby?

Ain't for me to decide.

Try and keep it alive, please.

Not in my instructions.

Was saving me in your instructions?

J-012 remained silent then shot the man's corpse one more time.

The baby was killed. To make an example, said the commander. The man couldn't take it and deserted. On a spring night in the year of twentytwo and seventyseven ran the man away from the army post, clad no more in cap and armor. He refused to kill more innocents. He had vowed to only kill the criminals in this world, the vermin that made the earth their paradise of filth. Yet these people were not part of them. So why then were they killed is the question that haunted his dreams from that day on.

The man took a train in search of refuge. He slept in stone cold beds, under sheepskin blankets. He travelled from town to town. From mosquito infested woods to deserts where the sweat evaporated from your forehead.

And two years later, in a damp, salty cantina, on the edge of a sea-side cliff did the man hear a knocking on his table. He looked up, sleep still in his eyes.

Commander told me to come get ya.

Instructions?

Instructions.

Don't see no gun though.