Why, why indeed? I took my seat and sat in silence for the whole trip back to the Marsec Building. Thorpe and the others strapped Nat into one of the vacant padded flight couches. I watched them disinterestedly and wondered who was really flying this thing--my body. The problem was this--is this: I shot Nat with the grapple and didn't feel one bit guilty or disturbed over the matter. Sure, her eyes went spectacularly huge with the shock--not the electricity--of my true nature being revealed to her. She yelped like a kicked dog for the five seconds and a half before she slept; she screamed and reached for me. And I kept on squeezing that trigger. I stared straight ahead and didn't speak one word when we set down. I was a robot--"Watch your head," "Through this door," "Your pistol please." I was a robot, and I obeyed. I didn't ask questions, because I felt no need. Everything would be explained in due time. What of my friends? Wolf, Hap, Nat, Casey--all were paraded before me and then pulled back, out of sight. We served our purposes and then were removed from the board or hidden, waiting for the next thrust and feint. None of us were responsible for anything; we were all marionettes, all pawns in a grand duel between masters, giants hidden in the darkness, hidden from even the corners of our eyes. Marionettes, pawns, bullshit. The time for answers comes; I am going to Mars. I am trading one blood-soaked planet for another, where the stains of war may be dried, but where they still mar the land. Mars. Am I going there because I want answers? No. I am going there because I have been called there, beckoned by the puppet master. I shall meet him and have my head filled with the soft gravel of his truthes. I shall be mended and armed again, readied for the brewing storm. War is coming and soldiers are needed. Infantry. Cannon fodder. Pawns. I too, have killed; and I too, shall kill again. 5/26/98 Whoa. I reread some of the earlier portions of this Arc. They were, as some readers have noted, hardcore pessimistic 1984-style stuff. Then things got happier. I promise you this; in the following Arc (or two) things will get worse than they were at the beginning. The situation will become so painfully rough that Mr. Williams will inevitably attempt to do the only honorable thing . . . Oh, and I might actually write about XCOM! END TRANSMISSION. BEGIN SHAMELESS THANK-YOUS. First off, thanks all to you readers who put up with my shit. Y'all kick ass! (No--not a Pantera fan. Really.) Thanks goes out to Mike and Rowan and that girl that I haven't found yet but I suspect is named Kelli--if this is more than a touch autobiographical, then certain characters are more than a touch based upon you. Zach, you too. Best driver I know. Thornley and Matzke, thanks for not entirely killing my love of writing with incredibly large essays. And most of all, thanks goes out to Fernando and Rakki and Leo--the guys who took me out behind the barn and said, "Listen up punk--you can't compete with our shit. Find another way."
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