Demilitarization

5. I Was Confused By the Powers That Be

His arm got hot sometimes.  He couldn’t wear anything over it for long, especially if he was going to be using it.  He was always using it; it was his best weapon.  Though he never went on missions with just a metal arm to defend himself, he often returned from them that way.  It got cold, too.  If he was on a mission overnight, it was… unpleasant to wake up to.  He was not often permitted to sleep, even if the mission lasted a few days.  He could sleep when he was done.

            He was grateful to have it.  He knew, vaguely, that he had lost his real arm.  Other people did not have a metal arm; only he did.  He didn’t know what had happened to make him this way, but it didn’t matter.  It was a great asset in any combat situation, and those were the only situations he knew.  His speed, his training, made him a threat, but the arm made him unstoppable.  He had never failed a mission.

 

            He was waiting patiently in the back of the vehicle.  The men who had gone out on the mission with him were wounded or lost.  Two were picked up and put in the narrow space with him; one was driving.  The rest had been left behind.  There was blood on his left arm, on his clothes, maybe even on his face.  It had been a messy job.  He’d had to use several grenades, so there was dirt everywhere, too.  Still, he was successful, so he was passively anticipating getting back to base.

             Suddenly, a deafening noise struck his ears and he braced himself as the vehicle rolled.  The other men rolled with it and he dodged to avoid them.  When the movement had ceased, he held very still, listening.  Faintly, then growing louder, he could hear the unmistakable sound of boots marching closer.  He picked up a pistol from the wall, which was now the floor, at his feet and waited as patiently as he had been when they were driving.

            There were voices outside.  The language was familiar, but not one he understood.  Someone pulled the door to the vehicle open, and he held very still.  There were four figures standing in the light outside.  All were armed to the teeth and dressed in body armor.  They aimed their weapons, searching.  It was dark enough that they hadn’t seen him yet.  He moved fluidly and got off three shots before they could react.  All were down.  He pulled a grenade, his last one, from of his belt and tossed it out the door, covering his face with his metal arm as it went off.

            He walked out of the vehicle, stepping carefully what remained of the men who had been at the door.  A cursory glance informed him that they had hit a landmine.  It was surprising that the enemy had arrived at the distressed vehicle so quickly.  He looked around, but saw no one else.  They had been driving down a lonely path in the woods; the target had been remote.  He stood near the vehicle, prepared to take cover.  There wasn’t a sound.  He started walking.

 

            He was back at base.  The little man he knew, who gave him missions, was talking to another man.  The second man was in his mid-thirties, five foot ten, two hundred pounds.  He had sandy hair and was wearing a suit.  People did not usually wear suits here.  They seemed to be arguing.  The man he knew was very adamant about something.  He couldn’t hear, wasn’t listening to, what it was that caused the contention.  But the body language was clearly that of distress and he was beginning to wonder if he would be given a quick and easy mission right here.

            They walked over to him, the new man leading the way.  “He’s magnificent,” he said sincerely when they stopped in front of him.  “A bit dirty, but,” he smiled, shrugging.

            “He can be unpredictable.  He needs to be conditioned further,” the man in the lab coat insisted stubbornly.  He coughed, hacking, then frowned at the other man.