Spearhead

The roar of the jet engines dims slowly, and the whirrs and rattles of the transport plane begin to wane. Standing up from the uncomfortable, green seat, Gwen secures her officers hat on her head and steps onto the tarmac. Waiting for her is a designated command APC painted with spotless green digicam. Behind it is a convoy of two supply trucks and another APC, filled with the new members of Spearhead Squadron. Ignoring the curious or downright angry gazes, she hops into the command vehicle, and it sets off, heading north along a pothole-ridden road, the convoy following behind. Gwen watches the scenery flash by for about ten minutes, before they pull into a large loading bay at the FOB.

*APC - Armoured Personnel Carrier. --ED.

Stepping out of the APC, Gwen takes a curious look around the unfamiliar base. Spotting a large hangar, and with a pang of hope, she makes her way there, deftly dodging Scavenger units that deliver the supplies from the trucks. Entering the hangar, she gazes in awe at the large, metallic behemoths that are the SP/DR’s. It’s been so long since she’s last seen one. But she’s looking for a specific dog. Suddenly, a young, chipper voice calls out next to her.

“Spi-do isn’t here,” the voice says. “They took him with them when they headed out.”

Gwen spins around, laying her eyes on a short, young teen who leans against the hangar wall with her arms crossed. She has black hair and wears a grubby, stained uniform typical of a maintenance Captain. Gwen then looks to the orange Scavenger unit lumbering past her, heading to the trucks to collect fresh supplies.

“So, he wasn’t a dog after all,” Gwen says, looking back to the maintenance captain.

“Stacy, right?” the captain says, her voice inquisitive. “Aren’t you under house arrest?”

“Well… yes…” Gwen says, awkwardly, rubbing her neck. “Technically. But the joke’s on them. Means I can visit the front lines without anyone stopping me.”

The captain then begins walking off, towards the rest of the FOB. Gwen follows. After her use of artillery to help Spearhead had been discovered, her commanding officers had placed her under house arrest while they decided how to deal with her. Naturally, that wasn’t going to stop her. She had immediately broken the rules and used the break from work to travel here. However, she had practically had to threaten the timid, kind-hearted personnel officer to let her on board.

“Along with the next group to be slaughtered?” Peni asks, slightly impressed with this Handler’s balls. That must have been one hell of an awkward plane ride. “I’ve heard about you. You really are a weirdo.”

“You’ve got no idea,” Gwen laughs, in spite of herself.

The captain jerks her chin in the direction of the barracks. “Go take a look if you want. They didn’t leave much behind, but there should be a bit of time before the new guys move in.” She looks to the new members of Spearhead who are lining up on the basketball court, being catalogued by an annoyed looking Republic officer.

“Thanks,” Gwen says, gratefully. “Sorry for intruding, by the way. I’m sure you’re pretty busy with the replacements.”

“Don’t sweat it.” The captain waves her off. “Us in maintenance have seen more kids than we can count go to their deaths, but an Alba coming to mourn them? That’s a first.”

Gwen studies the seemingly chipper captain. “You’re Maintenance Captain, Peni Parker, right?” she inquires, her voice slightly amused that Peni and Peter share the same last name.

“Sure am,” Peni states proudly. “Who told ya?”

“Miles.” Gwen immediately realises her mistake and swiftly corrects it. “Sorry, Captain Morales.”

Peni smiles, shrewdly. “Did he also tell you about his ability?”

“He did.”

“Ended up a pretty famous story all over the front. So much so that when he was first posted here, I, uh, ended up asking him about the fate of my aunt and friend… They were also Eighty-Six and were sent to the front.” Peni suddenly looks vulnerable and… sad. “Turns out they were assimilated into the Legion.”

“I’m so sorry,” Gwen says. “If there’s anything I can—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Peni waves her off again. “Nuff about me anyway. Go do whatever you have to do.”

“Thanks,” Gwen says, again, but it doesn’t feel like enough. “Thank you for your service and helping them to the end.”

For being there for them when I couldn’t…

Peni wordlessly nods.

After a moment, Gwen salutes Peni with respect.

Peni and the other Eighty-Six working in the hanger or milling about waiting for their photo to be taken, look at her in surprise. This Alba really was something different, and Peni has a small feeling that her story will spread far and wide soon enough. She returns the formality with curiosity.

With a nod and a warm smile, Gwen enters the barracks.

The place looks as though it’s been hastily cobbled together with scraps of wood, dominated by dreary shades of grey and brown. The plain, undecorated interior exudes a sense of neglect. The floor creaks under her boots, and the walls and boards are scuffed pale from years of dust embedding itself into the wood. When she touches the walls, the surface feels coarse and splintered.

The kitchen and dining area are stained with layers of oil and soot that no amount of cleaning could ever truly erase. It’s far from sanitary. The showers aren’t much better—damp, dim and unsettlingly reminiscent of gas chambers. Gwen notes the absence of basic amenities like a washing machine or vacuum cleaner. Instead, a broom and dustpan lean idly against the hallway wall, while a rough board and wash bin in the backyard seem to serve as crude replacements.

A wave of shame washes over Gwen. Nobody should be living in conditions like this. The state of the barracks feels disturbingly dystopian.

She continues through the building, heading towards the Processors’ quarters on the second floor. The staircase groans under her weight as she ascends. The small rooms are sparsely furnished with pipe-frame beds and simple closets, their colours faded from years of wear, dust and exposure to sunlight. Though the rooms are immaculately tidy, they lack any trace of personal touches or signs of previous inhabitants. The beds are made up with crisp, freshly laundered sheets, waiting silently for their next occupants.

At the end of the hallway lies the largest room, reserved for the captain. The warped door creaks loudly as it swings open. Inside, the furnishings are slightly more elaborate—a pipe bed, a closet, a desk and a green fridge doubling as a makeshift bookshelf.

Gwen runs her pale fingers over the deep scratches etched into the desk, likely left by a combat knife. She imagines Miles sitting here, engraving the names of fallen Processors onto small pieces of scrap metal from their SP/DR insignias and feels a pang of sadness.

The fridge, packed with books, is joined by a crude shelf nailed unevenly to the wall. This plank is also stacked with books, likely salvaged and stored here to ensure they wouldn’t be discarded, left behind for future squad members.

As Gwen lingers, she almost thinks she can hear the echoes of young soldiers’ laughter. It’s as if they chose to live their lives to the fullest, leaving no physical reminders behind. Outside the window, the faint sounds of the new soldiers having their photos retaken drift into the room. Gwen sighs, the weight of the past heavy on her heart, and steps out of the captain’s room. She makes her way to the common room further down the hallway.

Entering the space, she takes it in wistfully. This was probably the room they spoke to her from the most. Smiling, Gwen walks further into the room, spotting a desk nestled in the corner. She moves towards it but stops halfway. A black kitten, with splashes of white, meows loudly and scratches at something sticking out of the desk’s top drawer.

“Huh,” Gwen smiles, approaching the kitten.

She opens the drawer to find a small toy. She holds it up for the kitten as it starts to paw at it playfully.

Gwen then inspects the remainder of the drawer’s contents. Two books stare back at her. One is titled ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’ whilst the other appears to be a sketchbook of some sort.

As Gwen lifts the books out of the drawer, folded pieces of paper slip out of the pages of ‘All Quiet on the Western Front’. She leans over to pick them up. The first is a picture: a group photo of dozens of figures standing in front of a building. She recognises the mural in the background; it’s this barracks. The maintenance crew stands to one side, dressed in overalls, next to twenty-four boys and girls in their mid to late teens.

She gasps softly.

These are the members of her Spearhead squadron, including Miles, Hobie, Ganke, Phin and Pav, along with everyone who’s passed away, probably taken on the day they were assigned here. To her disappointment, the photo is too blurry and small to make out any faces. Guess she’ll have to keep imagining what they look like…

Sighing softly to herself, Gwen inspects the other piece of paper that fell from the book. It’s a crude, derogatory drawing of what she assumes is her. A female pig wearing a Republic officer uniform with blonde hair and blue eyes and the words ‘Sixth Handler’ scribbled at the top. But it isn’t the image that catches her attention. It’s what’s written on it.

There are five hastily written messages.

If you actually went to the trouble of finding this, you’re crazy as hell, and I respect that. Peace.

It’s sighed Hobie at the bottom, and even though it doesn’t say who the message is addressed to, Gwen knows it’s written for her.

I can say the same about you, Hobie. You went to the trouble of writing this and putting it here on the off-chance I’d find it, she thinks to herself.

The message also has a list of names and arrows pointing to different people in the photo. A nice gesture to help her know who’s who. Below this, are four more messages:

I wrote down everyone’s names for you. I bet you’re crying your eyes out cause you can’t tell which of us is which. Sorry about the drawing, by the way. Ganke.

Take care of the cat. Might as well, if you’re gonna insist on being a saint. Phin.

We still haven’t decided on a name yet. Give it a super cute one, okay, Major? Pav.

Her hands tremble as she holds on to the paper. Feelings well up in her chest, threatening to burst.

Even though she never fought beside them, couldn’t save any of them and spouted powerless, idealistic crap, they went out of their way to leave her these mementos.

The final message is Miles’, written in his familiar tight, tidy handwriting with a single, curt message:

If you make it to our final destination one day, can you please leave flowers?

However, to her surprise, there’s another message hidden at the bottom.

Miles don’t know this, but I figured it out and wrote this after. He left you a present of sorts in the other book on the last page. Hopefully you didn’t open it first. Hobie.

With shaky hands, Gwen softly, caringly places the message sheet and drawing to the side. Then, with bated breath, she opens the sketchbook to the last page.

She gasps and feels tears well in her eyes, threatening to spill.

It’s a beautiful drawing of a female Republic officer, intimately capturing every detail, standing in a stunning field of sunflowers, hair blowing from a light breeze as she orders five SP/DR’s forwards with her hand outstretched.

Although faceless, Gwen immediately knows who it is.

It’s a drawing of her.

Miles drew her. He remembered… he showed her his art…

The tears in her eyes fall freely, rolling down her pale cheeks.

She looks… beautiful.

Is this- is this how Miles saw her?

Gwen smiles in spite of the sadness and loneliness flooding her heart.

Even to the very end, he believed in her.

Even after he said the Republic would fall.

Even though that might really be this country’s fate—maybe even tomorrow.

But that’s why she’ll keep fighting, even to the bitter end. She’ll honour those who fell before her. She’ll leave flowers at their final destination.

Determination surges through Gwen as she steps briskly out of the barracks, clutching the precious mementos. Passing the mural of Saint Atlantica, she heads towards the old train tracks running diagonally past the FOB.

The wind whips through her hair as she follows the tracks, the setting sun casting her in a golden glow.

The letter’s meaning is clear but layered. Miles and the others sought freedom—the freedom to keep going until death claimed them. And Gwen knows she’ll never reach their final destination unless she follows their path, their train tracks.

And of course…

She’ll carry them with her. Take up the responsibility handed to her by the Reaper.

And to the end…

“I won’t forget,” Gwen whispers.