The Terror
Samuel Hayden, or Samuel Hayden’s mind, housed in the sleek, angular, stark white science fiction contraption he called a body, walked down the hallway, expecting you to obediently follow.
As he walked, you thought about how much that body must have cost. Billions. Trillions. Every dollar of every drop of blood spilled to form the UAC piggybank, all to keep him alive. You’d seen your fellow soldiers without legs. Without arms. Without hope. Civilians. Families. People who weren’t considered either. All ruined because they couldn’t afford a pair of crutches.
Wordlessly, you raised the double-barreled shotgun and fired it directly at the back of Hayden’s head. The bullets had no effect at all, like they’d vanished, yet another thing teleported away by the UAC for someone else to deal with.
“Save your ammunition,” Hayden said.
A long time ago, when you'd been a soldier, it hadn't mattered that the top brass would pay anything to save the life of the man you'd beat into a pulp. A long time ago, when you'd been a soldier, it hadn't mattered that they had plasma rifles and you only had your fists.
You aren't a soldier anymore. But this is the same.