[center][i][sub]Hector knew Troy will fall, while Achilles knew death was foretold,
Yet both warriors stepped into battle just as fearless and bold,
There was no escape, yet their courage only grew
True heroes they were, and we shall be too.[/sub][/i][/center]
#13 closed his Kindle, leaned his head against the wall, and basked in the glory of that stanza.

Humans were one thing, but their creations were another. #13 found it beautiful, that such war-like creatures could create such wonders. His brethren and himself, as well as all the art in the world. Was it divine inspiration that brought forth such works? Or was it the dual nature of destruction and creation that inspired such beauty and tragedy? There was nothing as boring as an artist with a pleasant life, after all. Content pigs were pleased merely with lying in the muck, and wars always pulled forth something new. The mother of invention was necessity, and necessity showed itself most when nations fought for survival.

What then, would arise from this conflict, devoid of heroes brandishing spear and shield, devoid of duels that shone with savage valor? Only despair and cruelty, tears shed amongst boundless tragedy, for that, #13 was certain.

The raven-haired youth let out a sigh, his inkstone eyes affixed upon the view beyond the windows. Smoke bloomed, fires licking the frozen blackness. There was more illumination than a winter night suggested, spoiled snow reflecting the crudeness of war’s present reality. Not a champion in sight, merely nameless, unrelated souls who sought to escape death behind rows of pseudo-mechs only to be set upon by missiles from the skies. The generals who he had claimed the heads of were not men of valor and wit. The machine-knights he had torn to shreds were without soul and passion. It was tragic. It was meaningless. The only thing that would come out of [i]this[/i] war would be some tearjerker memoirs, but that was mere surplus. If only the Russians could join the folds of the Church. That would be nice. Surrender would end all these meaningless casualties.

And then he could be sent somewhere else in the world, in search for a human like one in the myths. Maybe Japan would be good. A real life, modern-era samurai who could cut through steel with his relic of a katana might be something to enjoy. Or Somalia? He’d heard that there was a legendary mercenary there, a blind badass who operated in the dead of night, throwing poisoned darts with pinpoint accuracy to take down whole platoons. But it wasn’t in #13’s hands. And that was saddening.

More saddening was that his keeper’s generous offer to end this pointless conflict was rejected.

As she approached, he straightened, the smouldering rings in his eyes shifting slightly towards the military man further beyond. Slowly, #13 lifted up his index finger, before drawing a line against his throat and directing a questioning look at his keeper.

[i]Replace him?[/i]

No, didn’t seem like they were this time.

Without a word, he fell in step with her. Finland, was it? That was a new place. Nordic nations were pretty in the winter, weren’t they? Perk of the job, it was, to be so widely travelled at such a young age.

#13 slowed down his steps, enough that he was behind his keeper now. Surreptitiously, he opened his Kindle and began reading again.

Hm.

Not too much on Finnish mythology, was there.