Deep Space Odysse Volume 1

Chapter 10 The Fourth Possibility

In a dimly lit corner of another bar down the street, Reynolds and Stark sat together, sharing drinks and conversation. Perhaps due to Stark's imposing size, no one dared to trouble them this time.

"After leaving the ship, a few of us were sent to the Terek barracks for some rest. Honestly, the place was awful," Stark grumbled, downing his drink like it was water. Despite his heavy drinking, he never seemed to get drunk.

Reynolds raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What was so bad about it? From what I've heard, the accommodations and meals there are decent."

Stark waved a massive hand dismissively. "Sure, the scenery's nice. There's a grove of redwoods near where I stayed, swaying like a crimson sea in the breeze. But the people? Not so great." His voice rose in a bear-like roar, gesturing broadly.

Reynolds understood at once. Soldiers from the mecha battalion were all naturally aggressive. For them, fighting was more than just a duty—it was entertainment.

Their usual pastime was brawling—bare-knuckle, with weapons, or inside their mechs—however they could make it exciting. But Earth wasn't their battlefield.

In the barracks, Stark hadn't found a single worthy opponent. As an elite soldier from the Aphrodite, a flagship vessel, Stark had never been bested by anyone except for Tychus and Reynolds. When he arrived, hoping for a few good sparring matches to kill the boredom, he was sorely disappointed to find himself surrounded by sheep.

The feeling of a tiger among lambs left Stark more disheartened than exhilarated. The barracks turned out to be a depressing retreat, so when he heard that Earth's bars were good places to start a brawl, he couldn't resist coming here. That's where he met Reynolds.

"Earth isn't a battlefield, Stark," Reynolds said with a laugh, shaking his head. "You need to learn to relax, to let go. Not every day has to be a fight. Sometimes, taking a quiet walk and admiring the beauty around you is just as fulfilling. That requires feeling with your heart, not your fists."

Stark looked at him earnestly. "It's been a long time since I've felt anything with my heart. We don't have that luxury."

Reynolds froze. "What do you mean?"

"We don't have the luxury to feel," Stark replied gravely. "We're soldiers, Reynolds. We live and die on the battlefield. It's not loyalty to the Federation or the desire to come home that drives us. It's blood and adrenaline."

"Blood and adrenaline," Reynolds repeated thoughtfully, nodding slightly.

Indeed, it wasn't just loyalty that made soldiers fearless in the face of death. It was that primal, burning zeal. That unshakable sense of purpose that allowed them to fight, forget their fear, and disregard their mortality.

Experiencing life? That wasn't for soldiers. On the battlefield, taking time to reflect meant trembling before the roar of artillery, retreating, and ultimately losing the courage to fight.

That was why the most valiant soldiers were often the troublemakers off duty, always itching for a fight. It was their combative spirit that made them exceptional warriors. You could never expect a mild-mannered soldier to turn into a savage beast on the battlefield. A person's nature didn't change—it remained steadfast.

Stark was such a man. His world was simple—painted in two colors: red for blood and fire, and black for the void and death.

"Soldier's philosophy," Reynolds murmured. "Thank you, Stark. You've taught me something."

Stark laughed heartily. "Honestly, I envy you, sir. You can switch between calm and rage with such ease. That's a remarkable skill. I could never manage it. You know, even three days after leaving the starship, I could still hear the explosions in my head every time I closed my eyes. I'm trapped in that nightmare of battle, unable to escape."