Sergeant Thomas

Life is a lot like breathing, and right now, I feel like I’m taking the absolute worst breath of my existence.

I sat at the shore of a dusty, neglected lake, watching the muddy water ripple sluggishly against the bank. Somewhere deep inside, I was entirely lost. There was a massive, hollow gap in my chest, resembling the darkest storm cloud in the sky—the kind that hangs heavy with misery but never actually lets the rain fall to clear the air.

They say life is exceptionally hard for those who grow up without parents. My situation was slightly worse. I had parents; they just didn’t want me.

Fortunately, that pathetic little thought was about to become entirely useless. In exactly half an hour, my personal death count was scheduled to begin.

“Reporting, Sir!”

A sudden, sharp shout erupted from behind me. I jolted slightly but forced my muscles to remain completely rigid. I couldn’t afford to show a single shred of vulnerability to my men. After all, as useless as I felt, I was still their leader. I was their Sergeant. The man who had actually dragged me up the ranks and forced me into this position had died in our last major engagement. I often assumed my curses had actually worked; only a madman would take a hollow, lifeless soldier like me and make him a commander—a commander destined to try and die a countless number of times on this upcoming journey, likely dragging his squad down with him.

The man standing behind me was Sam. He was my right-hand man—or my left-hand man, whichever hand didn’t matter, considering I washed my hands of everything anyway. Seeing me remain completely motionless, Sam snapped into a second, crisper salute.

“Reporting, Sir! An army decree has arrived from command, along with a personal message for you.”

I turned slowly, adjusting my posture. “Good morning, Sam. Report the orders.”

“The Commander expects you in his briefing tent in exactly ten minutes, Sir,” Sam stated professionally. “And there is a private letter for you. From a lady named Ruby Ana Belsercosta.”

“Understood. Hand over the letter, then go prep my uniform and brew a fresh cup of coffee.”

Sam handed over the parchment and marched off. I broke the wax seal, unfolding the expensive paper, and began to read:

Dear Thomas, I sadly have to inform you that I am getting married. I know I promised you that I would wait for your return, but my parents are forcefully arranging the match. You are a truly wonderful man, Thomas. One day, a beautiful girl will find you and color your world—a joy that I, unfortunately, cannot give you.

Your once dear, Ruby.

I stared at the text. My hands didn’t shake. Not even a millimeter.

It was strange. I knew that if I had received this exact letter two weeks ago, I would have either been the happiest man alive or the most devastated. But now? I felt absolutely nothing. I was a cold, soulless bastard. I carefully folded the fancy, perfume-scented paper into a small paper boat and set it gently upon the muddy pond. It floated out a few feet until a curious fish took a sudden liking to it, dragging the little boat straight under the water. Maybe he wanted to show it to his wife.

My left hand clenched into a hard fist. The bitch actually thinks I’ll believe her.

My intelligence informers had already delivered the real story days ago. Ruby wasn’t being forced into anything; she was actively sprinting down the aisle for the man’s wealth. A gold-digging parasite.

Ruby had been my childhood friend, a bond that eventually morphed into a romance. When my parents cold-bloodedly kicked me out of the estate and dropped me at an orphanage, Ruby was the only person from my old life who stayed by my side. Now, the puzzle pieces finally clicked. She had only stuck around because she assumed I would eventually inherit my family’s massive fortune. But last week, when my parents legally signed every single piece of property over to my sister, Ana, Ruby’s true colors instantly bled through.

Who cared? I was heading into a meat grinder anyway. Fuck this life.

Time to meet the Commander one last time. I stood up, finished my morning routines in under five minutes, and walked toward the command tent.

The Commander was a sturdy man in his late forties, carrying a bit of extra weight around his belly, sitting with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. I stepped through the canvas flap and brought my hand to my brow. “Sergeant Thomas reporting, Sir.”

“Ah, Thomas. Sit.” The Commander looked up, his eyes grave. “Do you know what kind of operation you’ve been assigned to?”

“Yes, Sir. I am aware.”

“This is the most hazardous deployment we’ve sanctioned in years,” the Commander said, leaning forward. “Your team’s mortality projection is locked at eighty percent. If you or your men survive, you’ll be lucky to return with all your limbs attached. You’ve seen the blueprints, so I will summarize: you are to infiltrate a heavily fortified enemy fortress deep within hostile territory, map out their primary defensive layout, their attacking route and sabotage their artillery cannons. The target castle lies roughly two thousand kilometers east of our current position. You and your squad will disguise yourselves as civilians to cross the border undetected.”

He pointed to a marked coordinate on the map. “On your way through the vector, you need to extract a local artist from a village called Capehum East. Furthermore, the head engineer is currently trapped inside the fortress itself; you are to locate her, force her to sabotage the main battery cannons, and extract without leaving a single trace of espionage. The primary complication is the security protocol—the castle guards only permit entry to high nobility, verified knights, special tactical units, the White Army, and the Princess herself, who holds the deed to the fortress. You have exactly two months to execute the parameters. If you fail, we will not extract you. We will deny your existence, and we will strip you of your citizenship. Is that entirely clear?”

“Yes, Sir. If that is all, I should return to my unit and prepare for departure.”

“Wait, Thomas.” The Commander sighed, his rigid posture softening slightly. “I know you only accepted this deployment because it’s a suicide run. I knew your father, and I know damn well that you want to die. But do not make irrational, reckless decisions out there. You have a responsibility to keep those men alive, whether you like it or not.”

I stood in silence for a brief moment, offered a hollow nod, and exited the tent.

As I walked back through the dirt paths of the encampment, a bitter thought crossed my mind. Does that old fool truly think I’m so incompetent that I’d let my team die? Never. I was a hopeless, disposable piece of trash without a family to return to, but my squad wasn’t like me. They had dreams. They had people waiting for them. If I was going to find a grave out here, I would ensure I didn’t drag them down into the dirt with me. They were fully capable of completing the mission without their broken Sergeant.

Actually, why bother starting the mission at all? If I died right here, high command would simply assign them a new, highly competent sergeant. Problem solved.

I veered off the main path, walking toward a high, secluded ridge. This spot was perfect—secluded from the main camp, with an absolutely breathtaking view. To the east lay the towering, jagged peaks of the Tealon Empire, the very kingdom we were ordered to breach. To the north sat the Fallsofth Republic, its borders protected by massive, automated gyro-turrets that completely locked down the northern trade routes, making international commerce so expensive that our kingdom didn’t even bother negotiating with them.

I reached down to my hip and drew my service weapon—a heavy .33 caliber revolver featuring a unique three-bullet cylinder. It was a customized piece of Fallsofth engineering, traditionally bestowed upon active sergeants and majors for the duration of their deployment. The grip was wrapped in genuine ox hide, radiating a strange, comforting warmth against my palm, while my other hand brushed against the chilly, brushed steel of the barrel. The craftsmanship was immaculate, sharp, and perfectly balanced. It made me bitter; why couldn’t our kingdom manufacture fine machinery like this instead of wasting our entire economy producing tobacco and fine alcohol just to please the bloated nobility? What a waste.

The morning sun glazed off the icy mountain peaks, turning the valley into a beautiful, shimmering horizon.

This place is perfect, I thought. A beautiful backdrop to die, just like Arthur Morgan at the end of Red Dead Redemption 2.

I shifted the revolver from my right hand to my left, pressing the cold metal of the muzzle directly against my forehead. The dark abyss of the barrel gave me a brief minute to reflect on my life before I pulled the trigger. The funny part about facing the end is that when you try to recall your best memories, the only faces that appear are my teammates. I couldn’t summon a single happy memory involving my actual family.

Whatever. They wouldn’t care anyway.

I slid my finger off the guard and rested it firmly against the heavy metal trigger. It was the absolute first rule they beat into your skull at the military academy: Never put your finger on the trigger unless you are absolutely, one hundred percent certain you intend to destroy whatever the barrel is pointing at.

I was certain.

I pulled the trigger.

Click.

Nothing happened. A dry fire.

I frowned, squeezing the trigger a second time. Click.

A third time. Click.

“What the absolute hell?” I muttered, swinging the cylinder open.

It was completely empty. I slapped my tactical pouch, searching for the ammunition loops, but found nothing but hollow fabric. I let out a long, furious groan of pure frustration.

“Civik! Civik, you lazy piece of shit, I am going to murder you!”

I had given the idiot a simple, singular task last night: pack my deployment gear, organize my ammunition pouches, and prep my rucksack. The fool had done absolutely nothing. No bullets, no medical bandages, not even my emergency C-32 chemical enhancer injections.

My plans for a dramatic death had to be officially postponed. What a massive pain in my father’s ass—and considering the old man suffered from severe hemorrhoids, he was likely in a great deal of agony right now. That thought, at least, made me slightly happy.

Defeated, I turned back toward the camp.