Enemy, Soldier

So. I like ranting a lot. Ranting is fun and cathartic, good for stress-relief and letting out pent-in anger. Cathartic is good, yeah? So I've really enjoyed this week on perspectives (yay for writing everything but third-omniscient), even though I probably should've contributed more to class discussions. Also, looking through the rest of the calendar, I am SADDENED that we aren't reading "The Pugilist at Rest," its pretty amazing. And Sea Oak, because everything about it is HILARIOUS. AND FABULOUS. Male strippers, yay! As for this week, Silver Water was great, I envy those metaphors. Some seriously fantastic images in there. And even though we talked a lot about Communist today... I don't know, it just doesn't ring with me.

Also, I really wanted to post lines from Sea Oak, but I'm pretty sure the lines I want to post aren't exactly the most appropriate lines, so I will restrain myself and tell you guys to read it for the fabulousness. Bernie, why so win?

Anyways, decided to continue doing the enemy perspective thing. I think I have a severe case of anti-protagonism. Because, damnit, I need to get this out of my system so I can go back to killing generic enemy mooks. Because when you think of all the generic enemy mooks you kill in ANY video game...

He was but a simple man, one of many who suffered during the Federation’s oppression. From the vast slums of the Empire, he wandered, one of the many “metalscrappers” – wandering vagrants searching for coin, for food, for shelter where there were none. The world crumbled at its seams, people disappeared, died, vanished. Cities became nothing more than monochrome, browned slums of deepest filth, dumps where one could occasionally find a scrap, perhaps even a morsel of food before being mauled for it.

That was when the Emperor arose. When the man who claimed to be their savior stood and led an insurrection, seizing mines, seizing farms from the Federation with the few believers, while others had scoffed in cynic detachment. In days, food, water, resources began flowing into the Empire. And the Empire knew life, knew of the future worth living.

When the Emperor sounded the call to arms once more, he did not hesitate. And along with his fellow citizens of the Empire, he enlisted. No longer did he bear the shame of being a metalscrapper. No longer did he have to suffer the ignoble life of servitude, of a life oppressed. No, he was a proud soldier of the Empire, a crusader for his fellow people, an instrument of the Emperor’s vision.

The Federation spread lies and slander about the Emperor, but he knew better. ‘Where were these esteemed people,’ he wonders, ‘when we were starving and dying? Where were these wise scholars and noble donators when my family died of starvation because they could not drag themselves out of the dump we lived in?’

And as spring turned to summer and summer turned to autumn, the flag of the Empire rose proudly over the now conquered and humbled Federation. He stood with his fellow countrymen, proud of effort he had contributed to the rebuilding of life, the rebuilding of his nation under the vision of the Emperor.

Winter came. He went back to the cities, now no longer grimy slums but beautiful, industrial cities filled with passionate young men who dreamed of glory on the frontlines. He went back to the cities, where misery had turned to hope, and he blessed the Emperor in his heart.

The wheels of time turned once more. He had found love, the young ambitious man who left for war and came back a patriot, now grounded by his newfound family. He bought a house, a beautiful small little white house on the outskirts of town, standing proudly beside his beautiful wife as he stared at the vast cropland that was his. ‘This… is prosperity. The Emperor has not failed us.’

Assured of his Emperor’s wisdom, of his Emperor’s benevolence, he scoffed at the rumors of a rebellion in the Federation. ‘Fools,’ he thinks, ‘to deny the wisdom of the Emperor’s rule.’

But rumors turn to news, and news turns to reality. And as autumn turns to winter that year, he finds himself once again adorned in the simple black armor of the Empire, hands gripping the familiar blade that spilled arrogant Federation blood two years ago. He and several other veterans of that glorious crusade stand upon the snow-covered hill overlooking the city, where earth touched sky and white bled brown. Behind them lays the prosperity granted by his Emperor, the family he vowed to protect. When they come over the ridge, he does not falter, does not care that they are teenagers, all too young to know true suffering. He swings with the practiced stance of a veteran, and dashes forward to meet their leader, blade fueled by naught but fierce devotion and loyalty.

“Dog of the Empire! I’m going to make you all pay for what you’ve done! This is justice!”

Had he not been fiercely dodging the myriad attacks that came his way, desperately trying to shield his inexperienced compatriots, he would snarled a response, his angry retort. ‘How naïve you brats are to claim that this is justice!’ he wanted to scream, to shout.

But he kept on weaving, slashing, blocking, fighting. And despite his determination, his fellow men fell, one by one, until it was only him, his proud armor now adorned with gaping holes and blemishing scars. He despaired, for his simple steel blade could not match the ornate majestic blade wielded by his antagonist, could not match the godlike magic utilized by a mage, could not fend off two, let alone five blades of undoubtedly magical origins.

“You can’t match our determination! Know judgment, Empire dog!”

He snapped. Like the raging current empowered by lightning checked only by a flimsy dam, he exploded forward, legs propelled by nothing but rage. He heard a shriek, he felt the arrow that impaled his shoulder, but he switched his blade to his off hand and charged. There was something resembling surprised terror in the eyes of his foe, but he ignored it, and cleaved his foe in twain.

Or he would have, had the world not exploded into flame, a burst of flame immolating him completely, causing him to scream in agony and drop his blade. Through the pain, he reached, he yearned, he tried to grasp the handle of his sword. But... it was so close... yet so far...

‘I can’t… fall here! The town…!’

And as his world turned to crimson, he murmured one last apology to his beautiful wife, his beautiful children, his Empire, his Emperor. And then, there was naught but oblivion.

I feel like almost every game would be better if you could also play as the antagonists. Even... Pokemon. Playing as Team Rocket and mugging people for their pokemon? XD