Destruction's Aftermath: 3

SIX MONTHS LATER

"Black, this is Echo One."

Damon Black keyed the button on his walkie-talkie.

"Echo One, this is Black. Report."

"We have Destroyers and a large group of White Order infantry advancing on Position 1."

"Hold position, Echo One. Will dispatch M-22s."

Damon cursed. The White Order had brought the spider-like Destroyer battle walkers with them. Ever since the Destruction, the fanatic Eran White Order had declared a crusade. The large Eran Empire was ruled by the White Order, religious fanatics who believed in an alien-god named Seru. They believed that the man who began the Destruction was a messiah. Rumour had it that he had headed to Era to join them.

The Order had made territorial gains almost from the beginning of the war. Eran technology was superior in some ways to any tech in the Global Protection Initiative. Their artillery consisted of powerful yet relatively compact solar-focusing arrays with nearly unlimited range. Their regular infantry carried handheld plasma shields. They had the ability to open portals with their heavily armed and armoured Worldbreaker ships and send troops through them. However, they had their disadvantages too. Their artillery took around a minute to cool down after firing just once. Their infantry units mostly carried melee weapons, although these were enhanced and able to cut through thick armour, or close-range weapons. Their Worldbreaker ships were unwieldy and slow.

"Bravo Flight, this is Black. Requesting M-22 support at Position 1."

"Roger."

The Armorian M-22 was a repulsor-engine multi-purpose fighter. Shaped like a Y, it carried a large payload of anti-ground missiles. Right now, 4 of them were headed towards Position 1.

"Bravo 1, taking unknown triple-A fire."

"Black, this is Bravo Leader. Erans have brought unknown triple-A. We cannot engage until we know what it is. Request permission to withdraw."

"Damn. Bravo Leader, permission to withdraw granted."

Damn. The Armorian military was supposed to be the best in the Global Protection Initiative. Armoria was a small nation, divided into 3 parts, West, Central and East Armoria. Central Armoria, an island, sat in the middle of the only shipping route from the Northern Hemisphere to the Southern Hemisphere. West and East Armoria were territories on opposite sides of the Armorian Canals, to the West and East of Central Armoria. Occupying a major strategic location and shipping route, with jealous neighbours on both sides, Armoria needed a powerful military. Ever since its unification five hundred years ago, it had devoted itself into building an army, navy, air force and mage corps which would deter any potential attackers. In modern times, it produced all of its own weapons, and its "Citizen Soldier" programme ensured that all male citizens were ready to fight at any time, after the initial 2-year compulsory conscription. It had built its military up to the highest level it thought possible.

And now it was being humiliated.

"Fireteam Alpha, this is Black. You are clear to go."

"Black, this is Alpha 1. Acknowledged."

Dexter "Dax" Marin dropped his cigarette.

"Alpha, form up."

Fireteam Alpha returned from their posts. First to reach was Carnation, who had no real name. A slim, teenage girl with a perpetual shadow over her eyes, she was the most powerful of Alpha's members. She dressed in long, flowing robes, and wielded a dual-edged straight sword. Quietly, she landed.

The next one was Lucas Skye. He wore reddish-black armour, and wielded a large shield with 3 blades attached to the end on each hand. He bounded along with suprising agility, and stopped in front of Dax and saluted.

The final member of the team was Sara Caine. Her body was wrapped in a skintight, black suit, and she held a glaive launcher. She crawled down from a building wall and ran to Dax.

"Black, this is Alpha. Ready to move."

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Tracks

From the Commonwealth Essay topic "Tracks":

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We pass through life. We live, we die. And all we leave behind are our tracks.

Yes, our footprints in the sand, our legacy. We leave it all behind.

Like a dancer going through a performance, we move of our own will, interacting with the other cast and characters of that stage which is the world. We whirl about, occasionally colliding, occasionally spinning past the others, and as we dance, the tracks our shoes leave on the floor weave an intricate pattern, intertwined and entangled with others. Black marks are left on the stage, and others step over, on and around them.

The tracks of famous people cut across and stain the stage of the world with big, black footprints, followed by many smaller, curious tracks. Boots, wheels and treads leave their mark on the stage too, and many are compelled to follow these and search for the reason for their existence and the violence that often follows them.

Some tracks converge as people collide in the dance that is life, some moving in the same direction in a two-person dance. Some separate and diverge abruptly afterwards, moving off in opposite directions. Some weave ugly black lines through each other as they forcefully and purposely collide, over and over again, until one is forced off the stage in death. And some remain close to each other, moving in tandem for the rest of the dance.

Some tracks are deliberately made darker, as if to make them more noticeable. These are often the tracks of those who jump and make noise, as if that would get them more attention. Such jumping may leave its mark on the stage, and the tracks may be noticed at that moment. However, many such trails still fade into obscurity, leaving not a mark.

Then there are those of the successful. Big, confident strides, crossing other trails as they go. At first, they don’t always leave a mark, except when they cross others. There, then, they become noticeably darker, and make themselves known. Taking from the darkness of the tracks of others, they themselves grow blacker and more obvious, and the more they cross others, the darker they become. Some, dark enough, may even leave a mark upon the stage.

And some tracks are near-unnoticeable. Small, faint prints, scrawling unnoticeably through the maze. These are the tracks of people who do not make an impression. These people choose the path of least resistance, ambling leisurely through life and never going too far in any direction. A scribble across the stage. Not leaving much of an impression and avoiding the others, these tracks are the most common. Walk, walk, walk, in the dance of life. Though never amounting to anything, these tracks are still there, to be noticed only by those who would still take care to look at them.

We are dancers, doing the dance that is life. We go through the motions, and play our chosen roles in life. Some are famous, some are successful. Some are attention-seeking, some strive to be ignored. This dance, OUR dance, is beautiful. Yet, when our time is up and we leave the stage, what do others see of us?

Not our dance, not our beauty, not us.

Just our tracks.

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