One Good Man

[Bath Salts Addict]

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." - Edmund Burke

 

Chuh-click, chuh-click, chuh-click, chuh-click.

The repetitious stomping of the exosuit tore through the otherwise quiet landscape of white. Heavy metal footfalls made their mark in the otherwise-untarnished snow, leaving large prints that would soon be covered up by the brisk cold wind in but a few hour's time. The otherwise beautiful environment was periodically disturbed by the occasional sharp crack of a distant gunshot, but they were few and far between. No, the worst had already happened, and what was left was the cleanup; something the exosuit and it's pilot were not apart of. Not anymore, anyways. Lurching forward, little heed was paid to the general origin of the gunshots: the town that was currently still save for said shots and trails of black smoke rising atop it's ramshackle houses like a fire that had gone out but a few moments before. The buildings could be considered primitive at best; mere one-story dwellings of wood and stone. The colony was in it's early years of settlement, and an easy target for the likes of trained raiders and opportunistic bandits. The resistance posed had been laughable, at best. Whatever militia the colonists could muster was under-equipped, undermanned and insufficiently trained. Those who hadn't surrendered were quickly gunned down in the ensuing skirmish and made examples of for the rest of the populace as their new leadership came marching into town. The gunshots occasionally picked up by the mech's sensors were for the non-compliant colonists.

Coming to a halt, the Durand military-purpose exosuit began to slowly turn to survey the environment around it with apathetic movements, mounted armaments half-raised at a forty degree angle. Inside, it's pilot was just as apathetic about his situation. A young man in his early-to-mid twenties sat in the mech's cockpit, blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the cameras acting as his window into the world beyond. Inside his metal shell, his home, he was oblivious to much of the outside world. He had long since shed the insulated longcoat, letting it rest snugly between his back and the padded seating that he had proudly installed himself. The armored confines of what had quickly become his weaponized-home-on-legs from the moment he was assigned to it protected him from the cold as well as it protected him from enemy fire.

Just another search and destroy, he thought to himself with a resigned sigh as he glanced up at the camera feed connecting him to the outside world, one hand letting go of one of the levers to adjust his short blonde hair, something he found himself constantly doing to make a good impression on his betters. Every-so-often, words would trail along under the screen, reading: 'REMINDER: OBEDIENCE IS THE HALLMARK OF GOOD MEN', something he found himself taught almost religiously early all his life.

"Verdammt colonists," he grumbled to himself. "Running away and making my job all the more harder." He dismissed the surrounding field of blanketed snow and corrected his exosuit's course. A forest was laid out before it, treetops stretching high. The time of day was just right for deep shadows to be cast within the forest's canopy. However, as the exosuit began to lurch forward, the monitor feed that served as the pilot's window to the outside world began to flicker and emit static, eliciting an annoyed grunt as he attempted to get it back online by tapping the screen with his finger, for all the good it would do him.

"Have to replace that camera," he muttered. "Whatever. I'll fix it later." Squinting and keeping his attention peeled to the flickering screen. As the exosuit neared the forest's edge, more gunshots could be picked up from it's audio sensors, closer and louder this time. It wasn't until he heard that familiar ping of bullets bouncing off armor plating did the pilot realize it was he who was being shot at this time. Leaning forward in the cockpit, his first instinct was to immediately halt the Durand's movements, reaching up to practically slam his thumb against a few buttons. The exosuit began to halt and lower itself on it's hydraulics, mounted machine gun swiveling upward, raised in the perceived origin of the shots. Zooming in on the monitor, the pilot of the exosuit could just barely make out a figure at the edge of the woods, arms upraised and an automatic rifle in his hands, but the details were unclear thanks to his faulty cameras.

"Hast du, Hündin," he growled under his breath as the targeting reticle settled in place over the blurry figure. Just as he was about to fire, a stray shot pinged off the camera, scratching the reinforced glass. However, that shot was all that was needed for the camera feed to disconnect completely. Still picking up the sounds of gunshots periodically pinging off his exosuit's armor and cursing under his breath, the pilot sat up in his cockpit to pull at a panel above him. Cover pried off, a colorful mass of wires bulged out from above like a boil, followed by a few sparks created by what must have been the cause of the camera feed issue. Reaching up and rifling through the wires, he quickly found the problem: an incomplete wire connection, which was remedied by blindly following the line with his hands and giving the wire a good push, followed by an application of a soldering iron from his belt to seal up what issues were visible from where he was sitting. Without bothering to place the panel back on, he dropped himself back into his chair as the monitor came flickering to life. Hand eagerly gripping the lever, his gaze trailed up towards the monitor that had not only been repaired, but produced a now-crystal clear image of his surroundings and his assailant, who in a display of ignorance hadn't budged an inch from his spot as he continued to fire shots off one round at a time. Finally given a clear view of the person he had been assigned to eliminate, and what the orders failed to tell him.

He was looking at a child, no older than fifteen. Bundled up in a coat that was far too large for him and wielding an automatic rifle just as large in frostbitten hands, the boy's expression was a combination of pure grief and rage. Tears were streaming down his face in wet streaks, threatening to freeze to his face thanks to the cold wind, but they were paid little heed. His eyes were locked on what must have been the Devil himself with the intentions of seeing him smote. It took the pilot to realize that target was, in fact, him. This realization left a heavy feeling in his stomach, and his resolve weakened while his grip on the lever slackened. More metallic pings resounded through the cockpit, forcing him to look away from the monitor for a moment. With a hand hovered over the lever that would finish his assignment, he found himself reluctantly staring back at the monitor. Back into the grieving eyes of the child that wished death, possibly worse, upon him. It was a gaze that made him feel sick, but those same words of attempted indoctrination began rolling across the monitor, more sinister now than ever.

"OBEDIENCE IS THE HALLMARK OF GOOD MEN," the monitor threatened. The pings of the bullets became more hollow, and the pilot suddenly became aware of the sound of his own breathing. For him, time seemed to slow down as his hand slowly descended for the lever.

Run, he found himself thinking. Still, the boy continued to stand defiantly against the armored exosuit. His hand continued to descend.

What are you doing? Run. his thoughts continued to echo while his hand found the lever. The automated systems of the Durand recalibrated the targeting reticle, fixating themselves across the target's chest.

"OBEDIENCE IS THE HALLMARK OF GOOD MEN," the monitor seemed to shout at him, forcing his throat to contract and promptly swallow as he contemplated what refusing his mission might entail. His thoughts fumbled over one another as he attempted to recall whether or not the feed was recorded twenty-four seven, or if it was a lie put in place in order to instill complete compliance one hundred percent of the time. Still, the boy did not move.

RUN! his conscience screamed, making him unsure whether or not it was meant for the child or for him. Still, there was no turning back. In a quick, decisive motion, his hand clamped around the trigger. The exosuit's mounted machine gun roared to life and belched fire, releasing three 5.56 millimeter rounds in quick succession. Immediately, the pilot's chest was stabbed with the unfamiliar pang of regret, a pale reciprocation of what happened to the boy.

He was too late to undo what he had done. The bullets found their mark. The three rounds tore through the child's chest, caving in bone and ripping apart internal organs as he was sent sprawling back a few feet in a spray of his own blood. He didn't get up. Sitting back in the cockpit, the pilot reluctantly tapped at a few buttons and pushed the twin levers forward, causing the exosuit to stand back up from it's little squat and slowly lurch forward. Without the metallic pings, the silence was deafening, and he began to hate the feeling of it. Not even the familiar chuh-click of the Durand was enough to ease his mind. The naive part of him wished the child was okay, or was just pretending to have been hit, but in reality he knew just what he had done.

The child's movements became evident as the exosuit approached, but any hopes of his being alright were crushed. Once-white snow was stained crimson and a thick pool was steadily forming from beneath the boy as he gasped to draw breath from collapsed lungs that no longer worked. Gone was the rage and grief that had filled his eyes. Instead, in their place was futile desperation as he squirmed about, crimson slipping between his fingers. Eventually, the once-youthful and strong body of the child seized up and fell limp, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he was finally granted reprieve. The exosuit's pilot could not help but think on how in his last moments, he was staring down the expressionless metal giant that had gunned him down seemingly without regard. Part of him was glad that the child never got to see his face, but another part of him was ashamed for that fact.

Feeling a tight pressure in his chest and the feeling of bile welling up in his throat, the mech's pilot quickly popped off the latches and pushed open the hatch of the exosuit into the cold, biting wind, scrambling out and doing his best not to give the lifeless body another glance as he rounded the side of the mech. One arm leaning against it for support, he found himself doubled over as he began to vomit while replaying the grim scene over and over in his mind, each lost flicker of life fueling his vile convulsions. Eventually, he had nothing left but stomach acid to give, and the vomiting stopped. As he straightened himself out and took a breath of cold air that bit at his throat. It seemed to do him some good. His moment of recovery was interrupted by the familiar static of the radio in the exosuit coming to life. Raising one hand to shield his peripheral vision of the dead child, he walked over to the front of the exosuit and leaned into it through the open hatch.

"Hammerstein come in," the radio crackled. "What is your status on the mission, over?" Steeling himself, Adolph allowed himself one more look at the body lying in the snow before turning back to the radio and keying the receiver, leaning in to speak.

"...Mission completed, sir," he quietly spoke. His own voice sounded unfamiliar to him, as if it was reprimanding him for what he had done. "Target eliminated."

"Damn fine work," the gruff voice spoke jovially, blissfully ignorant or just uncaring towards what happened. "Head on back. The rest are cleaning up and we'll be off this frozen wasteland with the labor and the Potentials."

"Jawohl, sir," he muttered, releasing the radio's receiver and clambering back into the exosuit. Pulling the hatch back down, he was given one last glance at the lifeless body before Adolph Hammerstein was once again sealed off from the world outside. Sealed off, but not quite ignorant anymore, he couldn't help but note.

"OBEDIENCE IS THE HALLMARK OF GOOD MEN," the familiar words blared out at him as the monitor reinitialized, eliciting a surge of anger that rose through his chest like a firework before dying down once again. Leaning back in the cockpit, his face fell into a well-practiced expression of apathy, although there was little hiding the haunted look in his eyes. Pulling on the twin levers, the Durand wheeled itself around and once again trudged through the snow, this time headed back towards the down that had ceased to emit black plumes of smoke. Once more, all was still and silent, save for the exosuit's repetitious stomping.

Chuh-click, chuh-click, chuh-click.