So there were those video games:
"War... war never changes."
Great voiceover -- deep, warm, just a hint of gravel. Then there was that weirdo-genius-auteur who riffed on it:
"War has changed."
That voiceover was way raspier. It was still great, just really different from the first. My grandma wasn't in the military. She was a gamer. Apparently she was on some video game sports team back before the VR revolution finally hit -- you know, like, the sixth time they swore it would. She was super passionate about it, right up until the end, and she made sure I got history lessons. Please don't ask how she died. I just can't right now. I'm having a bad day.
I've been having a lot of bad days recently.
That second line turned out to be way more accurate, by the way, but context is key. The weirdo wasn't nearly weird enough to predict any of this. I'm so tired. I am so profoundly, spiritually, existentially sick of all of this shit.
War hasn't just changed. It's gotten butt-fuck stupid.
Reyes can sense it in the prep room: it's another bad day for yours truly. The kid used to idolize me. I broke her heart. I taught her a lot before the bad days started outnumbering the good, though. She's solid. She does her homework every single night and morning.
I'm glancing at the tablet and focusing on the keywords. Hindi, Han, English. Fine. We'll do Hindi. Reyes and I are both fluent and certified. I try not to roll my eyes at the rest of the keywords while I sip my shitty, lukewarm synth-coffee. They just keep getting dumber and dumber.
"You want me to take lead, Major?" she asks. She's sticking with English. Even on a bad day, I can make the inference: I missed something.
A year ago, I would've known why we were sticking with English. I would've given her a pop quiz. Six months ago, I would've challenged her without actually knowing the answer myself -- pure Costanza. Today, I just skim and sip. I catch the occasional clue. It helps me cover my own ass a little better.
"Yeah, Reyes," I reply, in English. "I'll blue up, though. Only fair." With that, I hit up the bio-locked medical cabinet. I register, get my pill, and pop it. It'll work almost instantly, and keep me hard for hours. There's a counteragent I can take if we finish up quickly.
Reyes would if she could, but she's cis. She's just past her twentieth birthday, already O-2, and refuses to believe me when I tell her how solid that ceiling is above Major -- well, if she stays here, anyway. Interrogation got an MOS. It promises rapid advancement for anyone with real talent. Then, suddenly, you're too valuable to promote. Then, suddenly, you've spent too much time at what amounts to an honorary rank -- one that was supposed to have had broad managerial responsibilities all along, but didn't -- so bumping you up would be 'imprudent.'
Also, it's wartime, because it's always wartime. You have to keep doing what you're good at. When somebody upstairs finally dies -- because those fucking pervs never retire, and don't have to, because it's always wartime -- then, finally, reluctantly, you get reviewed. That's when they figure out that there's something seriously wrong with you -- a 'deficiency' or 'flag.' Time to bring in some fresh blood from outside to supervise. Wow, what a coincidence, it's somebody who was good at
figuratively
sucking cock somewhere else, or who was born shiny.
I guess
"Military politics... military politics never changes"
didn't have the same ring to it.
"Do you even wanna know?" Reyes asks as we get our gear sorted.
"Well, I know now anyway," I say with a sigh. "He is such a fucking perv."
Reyes laughs, but she doesn't get it -- not really. We're all fucking pervs, right? Why mention it?
We get in the room, and Carl is there. I'm not using his last name, or his official title. He doesn't deserve it. He's hot, because pretty much every civilian is these days, and monitors are technically civilians. I'm told the selection process is rigorous. I'm sure it is for everybody without connections -- you know, for all the saps who don't actually get the jobs.
Carl sucks. He really does. You spend five minutes with the guy, and it doesn't matter that he's hot. He's creepy. Back in the green zones, people are fucking in the streets. They'd still look askance at Carl. He's too into it. He's not torturing small animals. He's not starting fires. That's what it
feels
like he's doing, though, as he's doing his job. He's getting that same sick satisfaction. There's something wrong with him. I honestly can't tell you if it would be better or worse for Carl to be in one of the big rooms, watching all the drones and larger UAVs endlessly mecha-rape each other. I'd love for him to pull ground confirmation duty. A few of those guys actually die. The demerits fly whenever it happens, of course. Would I give up Alaska to know that Carl got fragged in a desert somewhere? That is a hard question. I'll get back to you.
We fix our tablets to the wall and do all the bullshit: names, dates, ranks, IDs, times, I don't even know what else. It's autopilot. Carl clinically notes that my fat, ten-inch cock is practically busting out of my pants. He'd perv on Reyes, too, if he could find any excuse at all. Her strap-on is in a bio-locked wall cubby. We do everything by the book.
"Okay," I say, fulfilling the duties of rank, "bring in prisoner three-three-four-seven dash eight-seven. First Lieutenant Reyes, per the directly associated login sheet, timestamp thirteen-oh-nine, day and date, is lead."
By the book, like I said. Why merely utter a single word when a multiplicity of redundant words will achieve roughly the same outcome, albeit with severe diminishing returns? That's a little joke, right there. Here in the outhouse -- you know, shit-adjacent, but comparatively much nicer -- your sense of humor is one of the last things to die. It just gets really, really sick.
The airlock opens, and the grunts haul him in. He's not bad-looking, except for all the hair that's been temporarily attached to his body. I'm not shitting on the techs; they do good work. They quite literally laid it on thick, and they did it fast. Arguably, it makes more sense for it to look unnatural and ugly. On top of that, the prisoner's dressed in century-old athletic clothes, like he's going to play some weird old sport at some weird old club. You know what I mean. It's the one that looked like motion-control and VR before those were even a thing.
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir," Reyes begins. "And may I say, what a fine male specimen you are. I can see why they chose you for field work. You're a real man. You look like you could kick some ass at racquetball right now."
Right, right, racquetball.
"Sissy is wise," the prisoner replies. "Sissy will not break. Sissy will serve as sissies do, but never betray the bloc."
