Best Served

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Best Served
The one illusion that we all too often fall prey to is the illusion of victory. Such an ill-defined word—victory is the act of defeating an enemy; but by what metric do we measure something like victory, or defeat, or even enemies? Every combatant has their own arbitrary goals. Each player in the game plays by their own code, their own rules, and their own merits for what they consider fair, and unfair. You could call it a sense of personal honour, but, to put it none too finely, it’s simply our own personal prejudices.
In a single rumble of fire, the building’s front entrance exploded. The bomb blast vapourised the supporting pillars, and the top three floors of the bar caved in on the patrons beneath.
Stepping out of the small bathroom, I surveyed the carnage. Many of the bodies were buried, already Crimson stained the grey brick, and marble reliefs that fell. In a daze, I stumbled about like a wanderer in an apocalyptic wasteland.
I found him a short while later, his nose was leaking red ichor, and his eyes were vacant and glassy—obviously dead. Rubble and dust steadily fell down on the pile that had shattered his spine. Like the steady drips of a leaky pipe.’ I didn’t touch him. Didn’t move him even an inch. I just stared at the face I had seen every day for the past eighteen years of my life. The face belonging to the man who raised me.
I sat there, at the shiny, chrome-finished table, in the corner of a little Grease Pit, staring down at my cheap meal of pan-fried steak and chips. It’s greasy. True to its name then. Grease Pits are the worst of the worst dive joints in all of Human space. 
I purposefully avoided the window seats, just so I wouldn’t be too engrossed by those passing by to eat, and think. I did enough of the latter. Now was for the former. Picking up knife, and fork, I sliced into the meat. It was tough, and clearly overcooked, but it came apart easily. A small dribble of red seeped out from the centre, and I took my first bite.
Sympathisers weren’t human. Not to me. Sympathisers looked at the atrocities that the Innies committed and decided that they could be overlooked. Sympathisers deserved to be the ones buried under the rubble, not my father. Not any of the other hundred and fifty casualties of the latest bombing.
I had a knife in my pocket, and trailed the man into an alleyway. He stopped in front of an unmarked metal door, fished around in his pocket, and pulled a gold and red armband. Slipping it over his arm, I saw it bore the Insurrectionist Insignia.
I didn’t stop to think. Pulling the knife, I ran at him before he could knock on the door. The first stab missed his throat, but buried itself in the skin of his jaw. He screamed, so I slashed, and hacked, and stabbed away until he stopped moving
The thing about victory is that it’s too loose a word. Victory means you win, but it doesn’t specify the cost. A hundred thousand soldiers could fall trying to take one stronghold, but as long as ‘’one’’ sits on top of the point when the bell rings, it’s a victory. 
An empire could try to exterminate an entire species—burn world after world. As long as a viable population of that species still exists, that’s a victory. A hollow, phyrric victory.
I left the steaming meat be for the moment, and turned to the chips. They were the source of a lot of the grease. They didn’t appear particularly appetising, but, I paid for them. They were a part of my meal. I stabbed my fork through one of them, brought it to my lips, and savoured the sour taste of crusty, fried chip.
”I’ve seen better shit been scraped off the latrine, Boot!”
The drill sergeant yelled in my face, spittle flying from his lips. I trudged through the waist-high mud, straining against the viscous slurry even though my muscles screamed at me to stop.
“Sir, yes sir!” I managed to yell back, through the rain that pelted my face, and the yells of the others further up the course.
The drill sergeant kept pace just outside the mud trap, following my movements with long, practiced strides. “Do you wanna die, private?”
“Sir, no sir!” I shook my head.
“Coulda fooled me! The way you’re limpin’ along, you’re not only gonna die, but kill the rest of these useless maggots." Gesturing vaguely ahead, I followed his hand towards the rest of my unit. 
"Is that what you want, Boot?”
“Sir, no sir!” I yelled through gritted teeth.
“Then put some actual effort into it! Or so help me god you will all run the whole damn course again!”
I picked up my pace, somehow finding the energy inside me to continue on. “Sir, yes sir!”
The thing about Victory is that someone always has to suffer for it. On both sides. The enemy is obvious, every effort needs to be bent to defeat them. No one ever pays any real mind to the suffering the victorious army goes through. Oh, they’ll sympathise. Offer pity, talk about how bad the conditions were, and then? Then, they forget.
Even a personalised ruleset, by which someone plays a game, more often than not makes one suffer. I took my time with the chips. Even though I didn’t enjoy them, I had to get through them before tackling the rest of my meal. A necessary evil.
I cut another bite off of the steak now that the fries were taken care of. It didn't seep anymore. It didn't steam. It was cold, and it had lost some of the taste that made it good. But, to me, and my hunger, it still sang with a song as alluring as the deadliest siren.
I placed the cold meat between my lips, and lied to myself that it was still satisfying.
The mortar round exploded thirteen feet to my right. Two of my squad-mates were caught in the blast, and didn’t step out of the crater that formed where they used to be. I hunkered down, slid a fresh magazine into my MA3 assault rifle, and smiled. This was for every single one of the bodies buried under the rubble.
For every single bomb planted, every single soldier gunned down, every prisoner executed as a message. This was for the innocents. This was for my father. Most importantly of all, this was for me.
Someone always needs to suffer, even if that person is you. I played by my own set of honour, my own rules. I had my own win condition, my own metric for how I judged victory. My victory was in every single Insurrectionist I put down. My revenge in every shot that found its mark.
Standing up, I swiped my card and deposited the credits for the meal. Without another glance or word to anyone, I wrapped my coat around my waist, and stepped towards the door.
I got my victory. I had my meal. 
Best served cold.
Category:The Weekly
Category:SilverLastname