Reporting for Duty

"This isn't what I signed up for."

"Oh, but it is. You signed a contract outlining what we can and can't do. This is something we can do with or without your permission. But this isn't something we want to push on you. It's something you can do to give back to your country."

"Haven't I given enough?" One tear shed.

Simon's arms and legs were gone. The bandages were stained red. Blind in one eye, he turned in his hospital bed and looked out the window. It was painful.

There was a dark overcast. The wind moved through the leaves on the tree outside his room. He remembered his father telling him how to tell when it was about to rain; the leaves tell the tale. If you see the underside of the leaves, it's going to rain. He thought that was the reflection of his soul. Hearing his ultimatum, it was about to rain. The overcast of his life came to this: the decisions he made, the life he once had, will be washed away.

He wondered if he could ever feel again. He would never feel the grass running through his toes when he mowed the lawn. He would never shake another man's hand again. That part of his life was over. Now, he has the military. The military that made him the way he is now asks more.

The feel of a woman's embrace was out of the question. No woman would dare touch the monster he is. He is a symbol of war. He is the epitome of hate. If he doesn't do this, they will pick someone else who is less. Maybe someone who couldn't handle it. The pain he went through, the anguish of loss. Upper management, the men in charge, the politicians, they never understood the consequences. They were oblivious. He thought they always were. They were whores for donors for their own re-eleciton. Their own survival was handshakes and kissing babies, he thought. They were clowns.

"Why me?"

"Sergeant!"

A man in a green uniform wearing a beret came forward. He waited in the back, in the dark crevice of the room, but approached slowly, walking like a machine. The chevrons, bars, and stars were all blacked out, but the man had many. He was decorated like a general, but impossible to decipher. Did he see war, or was this just more smoke and mirrors? Another trick. Like a machine, he recalled in great detail Simon's history in the armed forces, like a man reciting a grocery list.

"1st Battalion, 66th Armor Regiment, nicknamed the armored knights. 4th Infantry Brigade - 220 confirmed kills."

Simon replied repugnantly, "I don't know what you're talking about."

The Sergeant continues, "You were then moved to the MEF, Marine Recon 3rd division - 200 confirmed kills. Special forces Air force, specialized in personnel combat and recovery, the red division TS/TSS, nicknamed Red Valor."

"You have me confused with someone else. Even if I were a person who committed those atrocities, I couldn't confirm or deny anything."

The man in charge, the man who once spoke about Simon's choice, turned to the sergeant, relieving him of his current speaking duties with a nod. A sigh of stress blows out as the sergeant slowly returns to his post, bending and leaning like a man breaking in his new foreign legs.

The man in charge was dressed in a black suit, black tie, and black shoes. He even wore a black dress shirt. He looks Simon up and down, reflecting on his own life and history with the military. He wanted to hug him, but the cold, harsh man he became wouldn't let that happen. He remembered his post as a symbol of the armed forces, tensing up in attention.

"Simon, I know this is a hard decision for you..."

Simon interjects, "What do you want with a freak like me?"

"We can fix you, Simon. That's what this is. The military sees you as an asset, and WE can fix you. Your experience is essential and impossible to duplicate. Let us help you."

"You helped enough..I'm not talking about my body. I'm talking about my soul. I've seen and done things that twisted and distorted not only my body but also tarnished my soul. My spirit is black. My life, I don't care about, you can have it. But, what about my soul? Can you fix that?"

"Technology hasn't gotten that far yet."

"Yet!...yet, he says. Which means you're probably working on it, you fucking monsters." He turns back the tree blowing in the wind. The wind grew fiercer since the last time he looked.

The man in black leaned in as close as he could to Simon, "We can fix you." Simon looked deep into his eyes. The man didn't blink. He didn't move. He glared at Simon, almost dead inside, then a red reflection in the back of his eyes shone through. In a moment, Simon realized he wasn't looking at a man; he was looking at a machine that held a man.

The man in black's eyes turned back to normal, to the green iris it once was.

In the blink of an eye, the man in black grabbed the metal railing next to Simon. It was quicker than anything Simon had ever seen a man do. He looked down to see the man in black's hand crush the strong metal bar like the railing was a loaf of bread between his fingers.

He whispered, "We can make you better, Simon. Everything else, the introspection of your soul, as you put it, can be fixed if you let us, but we can give you a body. Make it perfect. We have that ability. Join my division, Simon. I can make you whole again. I can make you perfect, like me."

Simon was astounded by what he saw and replied, "What do I have to do?"

The man in black leans back into attention, smirks, then sheds a tear for the newly fallen Simon. "Don't go into the light, we'll find you."

In a split second, he throws one hand on Simon's mouth and another, squeezing his nostrils shut. The sergeant slams the door shut.