A man stood in a field, holding a shield. His armor was heavy. It wasn’t a nice field. In fact, it was a terrible field. One of the worst he’d ever seen. He dropped the shield. The armor was uncomfortable, and he undid the clasps that held it together. The field was white, not long ago. It had been white with snow, beautiful white snow. Now it was filled with death, dyeing the red snow red and brown and black with all the bad things that people leave behind when they die. 

 

The man was a little disoriented and took some steps forward, over corpses and swords and dying men, and heard the sounds of battle. He heard distant shouting and the clashing of steel. He heard crying and someone running at him. The armor had been new and uncomfortable, but this he knew. He made an effort to let his body think for him, drew his sword in one swift movement, and his muscle memory took over. 

 

A boy, no older than sixteen, wearing only an old, blue, tattered gambeson -- it had probably been his father’s, or his grandfather’s, the man thought -- and some trousers. His feet were wrapped in cloth that fell apart at the seams. The man looked at him with pity as his body parried the first blow. He couldn’t help but wonder if the boy’s feet hurt from the cold, or if his fear and adrenaline had made him impervious to it. The boys lips were blue, and they were frozen with snot and tears. Another awkward overhead strike. The man sidestepped him and his automated reflexes gently shoved the tip of his sword through the boy’s larynx.

 

With a wet gurgle, the boy fell down. The ‘hero’ dropped his sword next to the dying boy and walked on while a dying boy lay in the snow and tried to crawl towards help, or home, or both. He would never reach either, of course. 

 

The man reached a hill and looked over the valley below. Men in blue fighting men in red in a fight that was never going to end until he stopped it. That’s how it always went, that’s how it always was, but the man was just tired. He heard a huffing behind him and he turned around slowly. A man in red approached him and knelt in front of him.

 

“My lord, the battle… we need you. We won’t win without you.”

 

The man looked at him with weary, old eyes in a young face, and approached the messenger.

 

“I know.”

 

The messenger stood up.

 

“I lost my weapon. Your dagger.”

 

The man spoke in short bursts. He was tired, cold, and sad. The messenger did as he was asked. He probably expected his hero to perform feats of incredible martial prowess with only a short blade. He probably didn’t expect the man to slam the dagger into his own heart with practiced efficiency.

 

As the man sank to the snow, he wondered very briefly how the battle would go without him, and then realized that he truly, deeply did not care.

 

“Please,” he said. “Come on.”

 

---

 

A man stood in a darkened room, looking out of a window. Neon lights, pinks and blue, flickered over his face. His eyes picked up colours that no human’s could as they whirred and clicked and focused. The long coat wore heavy on his shoulders, but at least it was warm. At least it was comfortable. 

 

“Honey, what wrong? You’ve been staring out that window for…”

 

He felt a soft touch on his shoulder. A small hand, from someone shorter than him. He turned to a woman with long blonde hair, partial shaved. The tattoos on her scalp formed intricate patterns of wiring and machinery, and some flashed when data passed through it. He sighed as he looked at her. She reminded him of someone from a very long time ago, but he did not remember her name and he hated himself for it. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

 

“It’s work again, isn’t it?”

 

He didn’t say anything. The blue and purple flashing across her face accented her beautiful facial structure. Her jacket had a mixture of Chinese and… some other alphabet, something he didn’t recognise. Its synthetic fabric seemed to ripple as she moved. It looked like something cheap trying to look expensive. He looked across the dark apartment, the way the occasional car humming by illuminated its grimy interior.

 

“You can let this one go, Dex. They’ll get you for this one and I’ll be alone again. Just when we found each other.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but an alarm in his head had gone off and he’d already lost focus. Three floors down, men in tactical gear and high powered weapons were running up the stair. He could hear their heartbeat, he felt the signal in their ears as they communicated through the comnet. He walked to the door and stood next to it, counting down as his heads-up display showed him how much more time he had. 

 

Three. One more flight of stairs. He felt his belt. He wasn’t armed, for a change.

 

Two. A deep breath, and a look at the woman told her she needed to find cover.

 

One. The door exploded inwards as the metal crumpled like paper from the concussive grenade and a man wearing a mask with glowing green eyes entered the room. 

 

The ‘detective’ stepped forward and let muscle memory take over. His enhanced musculature shot forward and pushed the barrel of the man’s weapon to the ceiling. The bark of the gun echoed through the apartment and his ears muted themselves to prevent hearing damage. His hand reached forward and grabbed the attacker’s pistol from its holster. It was heavy, with a thick barrel. It looked like it could be used as a meat tenderizer. A weapon for someone with something to prove, for a child trying to look cool. He hated the weight in his hand and how natural it felt to swing it upward while releasing the safety. 

 

Two gunshots like thunderclaps boomed, and he felt the shockwave in his gut as the first attacker stumbled backwards, wondering what had happened. A single shot to the head and the mercenary stopped thinking altogether. The second one tried to dodge the falling body of his colleague, but he wasn’t fast enough not to stumble, and then his brain was turned to paste by a three-round burst of hot metal. The third got his gun off, at least, but only managed to dent the armor of the dead man in front of him.

 

The heavy gun was raised one more time and the trigger was pulled until the thunderous applause from the barrel ceased and the dark apartment was silent again, the silent clink of cartridges hitting the ground like a musical note to end a symphony. It thudded on the heavy faux-oaken floor. 

 

The man stepped over the first corpse and picked the pistol from the second man’s belt. It was identical to the first, except that it had been marked. Notches on the handle told the story of a man proud to end lives, of a gun that had taken many. One more, then. He turned to the woman who emerged from the bedroom. 

 

“Is it over?” she asked. She seemed shaken, but not as much as one might expect from a display of violence like that. She was used to this. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, one last time, and closed his eyes. 

 

“Come on,” he said, put the weapon to his temple, and he fired as the woman screamed and the world became a kaleidoscope of darkening colours and he died again.

 

---

 

A man stood on a hill overlooking a battle full of dragons and monsters and magic. He felt magical power coursing through his veins and knew that he could go down there and turn the tide of the battle one way or another and this world would be his. He could do whatever he wanted and he could live out any fantasy he’d ever had. He could do whatever he wanted.

 

He didn’t remember his own name, and didn’t care. His name was as lost to time as his memories of a thousand lives. He could go down to the battle and do what he wanted, but he wouldn’t because he didn’t want to. 

 

He had been the hero, before. And the villain. 

 

He sat down on the sun-kissed hill and let the warm light warm his old bones and closed his eyes for a moment. He was very tired, but his body ached to do battle, so he sat and refused it. He looked at his strong hands, the tattoos on the back that allowed him to do feats of magic that could make a grown man shit himself in fear. 

 

He cried. 

 

A dragon landed before him, a creature of red and gold with ancient scales and older eyes. Its wings blasted the air in every direction and the man covered his face to protect himself from the dust kicked up by the giant creature’s approach. He stood up too and felt his body crackle with energy, the power in his fingertips, ready to kill with a gesture. He refused to make the gesture as he approached the dragon.

It raised up its head but only looked at him curiously. It seemed to be unsure of what to do about this human who approached it without fear or hostility. The ancient malice in its eyes flickered and it chuckled in amusement, a sound like stones hitting steel plates, and it leveled its head with the man. The man looked back into its eyes without a hint of fear. His cheeks were wet, but his eyes were dry. The dragon opened its maw and the man felt the heat rise from within, like standing in front of a furnace, and his tears began to dry. 

 

“Please,” he said. 

 

The dragon laughed again. “Very well,” it said, and then his cheeks were instantly dry and his hair burned to a crisp and the heat became his world and just like that he was gone and a charred corpse fell on a hill overlooking a battle full of dragons and magic and monsters.

 

---

 

In a room, on the second floor of a house in the suburbs, the bed sheets were pulled away. A figure got up and walked to the window. It opened the blinds, and looked out. The suburbs continued as far as the eyes could see. Dawn rose over the houses. Red and black rooftops dotted the landscape for a while, until it gave way to closer-set houses and streets. In the distance, a city was silhouetted against the morning sun. 

 

The red walls reflected the orange morning sun around the room and bathed it in warm light. There were noises coming from downstairs. There was running. The soft morning light illuminated the heavy oak door and the doorknob began to turn. 

 

Very slowly, the door began to open and the large closet would not provide enough cover in case of a fight. Muscle memory failed. This would be over quickly one way or another. The eyes peering into the room squinted as they adjusted to the morning light. 

 

Then, with a giggle, a little girl ran into the bedroom, climbed onto the bed and jumped up and down and then let herself fall down, giggling to herself still.

 

Another child ran into the bedroom, a boy with golden curls, and approached the window too. This one was a little older and tried to mimic an adult’s way of walking and talking the way only children can. He turned his head. 

 

“Are you okay, Mom?”

 

The woman looked down at him and smiled, tears streaming down her face.

 

“I’m okay, sweetie,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m here.”

 

She knelt down next to him and pulled him into a warm hug. As her children hugged her, asking what was wrong, not understanding why Mom was crying, she raised her head and whispered in a voice that only she could hear.

 

“Thank you,” she said.

The woman sat in her bedroom with her two children and she cried and she was finally home.