And so the book opens. A new page in the life of a dystopian future. For the wastelands we walk, the oncoming grief. For the past centuries, humans have resorted to point fingers at one another. War is down every corner, down every lane. And so he stands, at the top of the hill, gazing down at the landscape below. This was how the world was, how it is meant to remain.
He slides down the cliffside, kneeling before a fallen friend. The last veins of light streaking across his armor was beginning to flicker, as the life burned out of their eyes. The blue light coursed one final time down the body armor, before going dark all together. The screen displaying vitals before the soldier's face turned to static, and vanished, revealing the human underneath the fitted armor. He was too late. The battle was over. He stands up, the wind tossing his long, silver hair with it. Though he had just completed his training, and was destined for the Manipulators Branch, he had escaped to witness the unfolding battle.
But, alas, he had been to late. The Dictator's lowly chess-pieces were now slain, leaving the Bravery Branch at a loss of ten-percent of it's people. It had only been five years. Five years of bonding, five years of proud victories and saddening losses, five years of learning how to slaughter.
