Stardust Rifles [ Third Drafts ]

Chapter I - Some Jobs Are Left Undone

Gunshots can be the arrival of heroes - or the sounds of them being slain.

He had many heroes, and here he observed them lay dead.

His body screamed for him to run away. The lumps of sorrow in his throat and the swelling of rage in his eyes brought together an explosive mix that was fueled by adrenaline. It was too much for him.
In the end, these emotions concluded with a blank expression. What else to do but to move on? Where else to run, but into death? Those drill instructors hammered it into him: never get attached to people. To learn such sentiments at his tender age of sixteen aged him ten times faster than life ever could.

But he was here to do a job. After the artillery knocked down their enemies' great walls and hammered these enemies' faces into the ground, they needed to be finished. His job was to move forwards carrying the scythes, the bayonets of death.
Being the small expeditionary force that they were - supposed noble warriors from a far-off land - they had no space nor resources to care for these wounded enemies. They could not show grace.

His instructions were to stab: ammunition is low. Straight through the trachea, right below the Adam's apple.
It was harder when his prey had no Adam's apple. They seemed like elegant, beautiful women whom he'd court with if they met on any other field than here.

But he had a job nonetheless. A horrifying job - was this even allowed by the conventions?

It was almost the allotted time for dinner. One last enemy, he thought. It should not differ from the dozens he's stabbed throughout the morning. He turned this one over and searched for her neck.

His last victim was holding a photo so close to her chest - might as well see what it's about.

A child, dressed in blue PJs, and a goofy-looking middle-aged man. That's what the photo was about.

This dying ember, in the harsh winds of the battlefield, still tried to blaze, tried to kindle itself in a little flame of hope. Her heart yearned to see that little boy dressed in blue once again.

His hands shook. His eyes dilated. The bayonet moved away from her neck. Touki Springfield was his name, and he missed his mother.

Why did he do it? Why, when no one was watching him, judging his performance? When some senior rank told him with vague instructions to go kill - why did he kill?
He wasn't evil. He was raised by good parents, in a good environment. So, why?

He won't kill more. Not today.

He ran away.

Military Police hauled away some senior looking officer. Touki watched their figures contrast against the orange sunset - he could do nothing but shake his head.

One old sergeant nearby scoffed and spit - he knew it. Touki knew it. The chef handing out hot food knew it. But nobody dared say it.
The Military Police guys kicked that officer around a little, shoving him here and there. He deserved it.

"You bastard," rambled one of the MP guys, "you're gonna make our country look bad with the first dang war crimes."

Noble chaps, weren't they? These MPs were out there arresting war criminals and trying them for horrendous deeds.
The old sergeant spit again. He nudged Touki's elbow -

"Just you look, private. Wait and see."

The officer took out a bit of that green paper - just a little - and the MPs pranced around it, clasping their hands together and grinning like rabid dogs.
"Sorry, sir," said the same MP from before. "No war crimes were committed. You're free to go."

The old sergeant spit and scoffed again. Everyone in the surrounding sighed, shaking their heads.

But no one dared say it.

Touki picked up his things when the old sergeant stopped him.

"Hold. You're Springfield, right? I hear your company was wiped in the landings?"

"Sir!"

"Very well. I'm passing down an order, you're to join the Ninth Rifles. They're at the second guard post."

"The Ninth who?"

"Those Stardust boys. Good luck."

Touki crunched on leaves here and there, but he couldn't see them in this darkness. In the distance was the shimmer of a little fire, and glittering shards of glass all over the grass.

"Goodness," said Touki. No particular idea why he said that out loud.

The brushes revealed a truck, burning, blown up. Everyone inside was dead. Yet the fires of the truck felt so . . . warm.
The dead gave him warmth in the dead of the night. The dark sky, with no moon nor stars - all blotted out by the terrible smoke.

Again... Why? Nothing compelled him to feel that way, to feel happiness from the dead. These Marines didn't die solely for him to feel warm in the night. Why was he using such a sad scenario for his own benefit?
Ah... Maybe it's simply because of the sheer bitter cold. The cold drives us to unethical choices.

Touki continued onwards. "Just the second guard post..."

Something bounced through the darkness. Touki scrambled for his flashlight, the flashlight which was horrible and flickered and switched off.
He caught glimpses of a dainty figure before something latched onto his arm.

"Shhh!" said the small enigma. Her voice was hoarse, yet endearing, like a rugged puppy.

"Wh-who are you?!" Touki scrambled and stepped on his own boots, dropping his flashlight.

"I'm Mimi! Turn off all lights, or you'll get shot at - you're on the front line!"

"How do I see?!"

"You'll develop some sort of night vision naturally. Just don't look at any lights, unless it's an emergency."

Touki picked up his flashlight and tucked it away.
"Well thanks, um, ma'am Mimi. But I'm looking for the Ninth?"

Mimi stretched out her arm and flaunted a peace sign.
"You're looking at it!"

Touki squinted his eyes, but as his pupils widened, the more he could peer into the night. And indeed, behind her was a busy but silent bunch of troops, all working hard at this hour.

"You're like, the newbie, right?" asked Mimi. "Lance Corporal Lance told us about you!"

"Lance Corporal, huh?"

"His name's Lance, and he is a Lance Corporal. Funny, huh? Anyway, I'll get you to meet him."

Mimi tugged him along, rushing past troops on wiring duty, stepping over sleeping bags, and knocking over a chef's pots and pans.

"Mimi!" said the chef, "watch your bloody steps!"

"Sorry, but I've got a new friend 'ere!"

A friend?

Mimi stopped and dragged her limbs around as she panted.
"We're here!"

Could he really be a friend, after what he's done?

In front of them was Lance, an old-ish looking guy. Maybe in his late twenties? It was hard to tell things in the dark.
"Private Springfield?" said Lance.

"Sir!"

"No don't call me sir, I'm just Lance."

Mimi, still panting, chimed in. "Your name is Springfield? That's pretty."

Lance shook his head as he folded away some letters he was looking at.
"Nope. His name's Touki."

An electric jolt of excitement burst through Mimi. "Your name is Touki?! That's like super cute! Touki, Touki!"

Touki didn't look amused. He didn't.

"Say, Touki, want me to show you around, Touki?!"

"Good idea, Mimi," said Lance.

Mimi dragged him around again. No time to sleep, then...