Clyne’s gaze drifted to Commander Thuso’s dirty armour covered in a thin, moist scarlet. Cracks and dents were more apparent in evening dusk. His blade was unsheathed and was grasped in Thuso’s quivering pale hands, he walked dragging his left leg behind him with his foot beginning to curve inwards. 

 

“Hailings Sir!” Clyne snapped like a trained dog, when his leader approached. After all it was the proper way to address him. “At ease soldier.” Thuso murmured, neither bothering to make eye contact or look in Clyne’s general direction. Following the leader was his flock of doves; each one rapped in drab cloaks of hazel and olive. Beneath that deep whites of armour plates. 

 

Jak and Talos had the decencies to greet Clyne, he tipped his dusty burgundy hat in response, bringing his dampened rifle closer to his chest. Clyne remembered the beginning, how they were heroes of Paladi, those heroes they now resented. 

 

The People’s Provisional Military: glory to those who protect the peace.. 

 

Those foul, foul words. How they turned sour and corrosive in Clyne’s mouth. To him and many other survivors, they were like acid. At first he received a great satisfaction from helping the civilians in crisis, now he was just left with a bitter taste. Although he hated SMITE with a burning passion, he also hated the Terror Counter Force and The Provisionals and The Paladi Government. It was clever of them to draft in former military and police men as it would cost less for training. The equipment they were given were lack lustre with most men repainting stolen Paragon armour as it was far superior to recycled MAD equipment.

 

 According to the Mako, Commander Thuso ordered a charge at a spawn of the mutation, laying fifty men to rest. A heavy toll for certain. We had cut down most of the Krozox Mutations in the area ready to sent up a new encampment for survivors though the more Clyne dwelled on the thought he seemed less fond of it.

 

He moved towards the bonfire that roared out

 

amongst the orange-pink twilight. Jak, Talos, Mako, Thuso and Clarkson sat around it making comments about one of are fallen comrades who fell to the infection. Clarkson squealed out in shrill laughter “and that’s why you don’t fight a mutant with a knife. You all saw him! A limbless red mess!” Only Mako had the nerve to give a light chuckle, though he was the most pleasant out of the bunch, we nicknamed him Vulture. He had a full set of TCF combat armour, a intact cloak, a fully functioning weapon. Like Clarkson he also had an unbroken helm, a rare luxury here. Clyne strolled over to Clarkson snatching a half empty bottle from his clammy pale hands, and tipped it into his mouth. Out of character, he began to speak not in a whisper but a shout. “Settle down for the night, for tomorrow we wage a new war for the people!” He howled as streaks of flame rose in front of him violently. Most men gave a slight nod or smile though he could feel the cold glare that attacked his soul from his commander. Clarkson declined onto the dusty red blankets that surrounded the beacon of light, his dull green robes rustled and groaned as he did. A silence washed throughout the camp, the only noises were the cackle of fire. The dead are solemn now unlike those living. A declaration of war rang out in the distance, not long from now blood would be spilt.