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The soldier walks along,his fellow men around him, scouring the battlefield for any remnants of the enemy. Holding out his pistol, he fires one shot into the head of a man who moans quietly in pain. The rebel stops moving. Smirking to himself behind his combat visor, he send a mental command to the suit,and the visor slides up, exposing his face to the light of the dusk sun, as well as the smell of the carnage. Wrinkling his nose, he sighs and shakes his head a little. One of the officers walks up to him, his visor sliding up as well. The men didn't like to use the radio after the battle, it seemed unnecessary. Only the commander used his radio after battles. The officer, who recognizes the soldier immediately, smiles, "Hey, Steven, what's up?" Steven shakes his head, "It doesn't make any sense, these rebels. They know they don't possibly have a chance against the royal army, so why do it?" The officer shrugs and looks around, hearing a sliding sound. It's a rebel, trying to get his weapon as quietly as he can. The officer smirks and places the heel of his boot on the man's hand. He goes stiff and freezes, but only for a moment. In the next, he is screaming in torment and the officer grinds the man's hand into the rocky gravel, the sound of cracking bones emitting from the man's hand. His other hand darts at his weapon, all thoughts of secrecy gone, but Steven's knife is in his other hand the moment it starts moving, the blade attaching his hand to the ground. The soldier cries even more, "now gasping between cries, "Please, parlay, take me to your commander, I wish to bargain for military secrets!" Steven sighs and squats, or, what could be considered a squat, as his armor did little to allow him to do it. Using his free hand, he lifts to rebel's face towards his and says, "Rebel, you for fitted that right the moment you thought about rebelling against His Majesty Alicoor." With that, he removes his knife from the man's hand and quickly and cleanly slices the man's head off in one stoke. A mercy stroke. No pain, just instantaneous death.

The officer stands and frowns, "Oh, come on, Steven, you always kill them clean and quick. Why can't yo pleasure yourself sometime? After all, for being involved in the rebellion, they deserve no less then pain and suffering." Steven shrugs, "I'm a kind person. I don't like to see people in pain." The officer snorts, "Then why'd you join the army?", and walks away, his visor sliding back into place. Steven shakes his head and breathes in through his nose. Mistake. He gags on the smell of metal on blood, but controls it. That smell was better then breathing the stale, recycled air being circulated in the suit. He'd just have to breathe through his mouth. He did. That was just as bad. He could live with it. Walking away from the battlefield, he goes to the command center, temporary, of course, for the battle. It was in a drop ship. The ten automated turrets around the opening whirred at the movement, then seemed to watch him warily, only holding back the hail of bullets from the chip in his left arm, standard military procedure. Walking up to the place where he had been sitting, he had used this one to drop to the surface from orbit, he sits down and sighs, removing his helmet. Breathing in the sweet, fresh, filtered air of the cabin was way better then the outside air. It was like water to a dehydrated man in the desert. He always felt that way after a battle in the tight, compact armor. He couldn't wait to get back to orbit and try out some new fighting moves he had seen a rebel use. Looking at his helm, he lifts the visor up and down, making the hydraulics hiss with seeming annoyance as he manually operated the curved piece of one-way-glass. From the inside, you could look out and see everything around you in several filters of vision, from infrared, to heat, even to x-ray. But, from the outside, it was an impassive piece of golden metal that reflected the terrified looks of the soldier's victims. He had chosen this profession by choice, a rare thing indeed, as most of the royal army soldiers don't live to thirty, let alone twenty-five. He had joined when he turned twenty, by simply walking into the base in his home town. He asked to see a person of high rank, and he had to do a lot of red tape to see them. Eventually, he got his meeting. It was only for ten minutes, but he got what he wanted. He toled the general he wanted to join the Army. At first, the general cracked up, laughing his a** off. Then, he realized was being serious and was dumbstruck. "You... Want to join? Well, I'll be damned, hey, Jason, get in here!" A large man, nearly seven feet tall and strong enough to take on a gorilla, walks in, "Yes sir?", he says, saluting. "This kid wants to join! Willingly!" Jason's eyebrows arch, "Is he serious?" The General nods, "He is." "Well, then, sir, I know it's not my decision, but get him his draft papers." The general shrugs, "Very well, kid, welcome to the royal army.", and stamps his approval on a draft paper, blank, but waiting for Steven's information. He could write anything he wanted on that paper, he realized, and it woulh happen. He could get back at the person who had bugged him all his life, but he wouldn't do that. He would join. And he was proud to do it. None of the Drill Sergents took it on him easy just because he joined willingly. It's for that very reason that he could resign from the military anytime he wanted to. The Drill Sergents tried to make him want to quit, they worked him harder then anyone else, but it only helped to harden his resolve. Now, he was a lieutenant, in the chain of command, and loving his life. He sent his parents money every month,and a lot of it, so that they didn't have to work, and he didn't want to abandon them.

He began to remove his armor, placing the metal object aside. They were made of a polymer that could withstand artillery fire. Not so much for the internal organs, though, they would be pulped, but uncut by shrapnel. The inside lining of the armor was made up of a special kind of gel, it conducted electrical impulses, allowed the suits systems to communicate with each other, detected bodily harm and health, even softened blows from various objects, such as bullets and blades. Removing the armor was easier then it looked. After you got used to it. Each suit was customized to the soldier, and had to be remade if it got damaged, and the soldier would have to pay for the repairs. It didn't matter to him. While some of the men spent their money on women or drinks, Steven just stashed his away in a bank account and let it start to build up. Over the last ten years of his careers, he could technically be considered one of the richest men in the galaxy, but he didn't want that kind of attention. He send half his pay to his parents, well over 5000 credits, more then enough to pay the bills, get food, and then have tons to spare for luxury items. The rest of his pay each month went to his account. While thinking about it, he pulled up the touch screen by his seat and checked on his account. Yup, still there. He'd be payed in a few days again. He ordered a transaction to be held in a few days, on the day of his pay. The bank complied. He never told the bank he was a soldier. The would probably have rejected his application for an account. They didn't care anymore. If he died, and didn't make a will, all the money would go to the bank. He had made a will, though. If he died, everything he owned would go to his parents.





That's the beginning of a story in which I am working on. It's sci-fi, and is my fist attempt at a sci-fi. Please, all criticism is welcomed with open arms, both good and bad, because it will only improve my writing.