I take a step forward and my legs tremble, threaten to bend and break beneath me, but I push myself to keep moving. I push myself to get through the door, to get down the elevator, and to get out, onto the battlefield.
It doesn’t take long to get there.
There are hundreds of bodies in huddled, bloody masses on the ground, but there are hundreds more still standing; more alive than I could’ve hoped for. The news has spread more quickly than I thought it would. It’s almost as if they’ve known for a little while now that the battle was over. The surviving soldiers from Anderson’s ship are standing alongside our own, some still soaking wet, frozen to the bone in this icy weather. They must’ve found their way ashore and shared the news of our assault, of Anderson’s imminent demise. Everyone is looking around, staring at each other in shock, staring at their own hands or up into the sky. Others still are checking the mass of bodies for friends and family members, relief and fear apparent on their faces. Their worn bodies do not want to go on like this.
The doors to the barracks have burst open and the remaining civilians flood the grounds, running out to reunite with loved ones, and for a moment the scene is both so terribly bleak, and so terribly beautiful, that I don’t know whether to cry out in pain or joy.
I don’t cry at all.
I walk forward, forcing my limbs to move, begging my bones to stay steady, to carry me through the end of this day, and into the rest of my life.
I want to see my friends. I need to know they’re okay. I need visual confirmation that they’re okay.
But as soon as I walk into the crowd, the soldiers of Sector 45 lose control.
The bloodied and beaten on our battlefield are shouting and cheering despite the stain of death they stand in, saluting me as I pass. And as I look around I realize that they are my soldiers now. They trusted me, fought with
me and alongside me, and now I will trust them. I will fight for them. This is the first of many battles to come. There will be many more days like this. I’m covered in blood, my suit ripped and riddled with splintered wood and broken bits of metal. My hands are trembling so hard I don’t even
recognize them anymore. And yet I feel so calm. So unbelievably calm.
Like the depth of what just happened hasn’t managed to hit me yet.
It’s impossible not to brush against outstretched hands and arms as I cross the battlefield, and it’s strange to me, somehow, strange that I don’t flinch, strange that I don’t hide my hands, strange that I’m not worried I’ll injure them.
They can touch me if they like, and maybe it’ll hurt, but my skin won’t kill anyone anymore.
Because I’ll never let it get that far. Because I now know how to control it.
