The loss of innocence.

Rain spat down from the heavens, turning the dirt beneath Kagame Kuros ill-fitting boots into a thick, grimy sludge. 

It had been raining for weeks by now, and yet Kuro was used to it, it wasn’t as if he had any choice but to endure the recent torrents of rain. Freedom as he knew it had been stripped from him the second he and his sister had been dragged from their home, given thin sleeping bags and uniforms before being shipped off into one of the most active fronts in the war against anti-royalist rebels.

He had been lined up outside a makeshift camp, wearing a weathered, dark grey uniform, now slowly turning black due to the rain. It was a common routine for him by now, wake up at 4 AM sharp, quietly step over his sleeping sister, get his uniform on and then immediately line up in the flat dirt field outside the gathering of tents. He glanced around, taking in the other miserable people lined up alongside him before quickly standing back to attention.

His field commanders raspy voice suddenly sliced through the morning rain. “The weather won’t stop just because you want it to, you’ll work, you’ll fight, you’ll die. Such is the way of war; I don’t get paid enough to babysit cowards”

His voice was rough, as if his throat had been ground down by sandpaper; each word was uttered with an underlying menace. Kuro could feel the weight of the commander’s eye passing over the line of shivering soldiers before stopping and making eye-contact after reaching him.

His frame was lean for that of a 14-year-old and his hollow face was filled with a sort of hardness which didn’t suit his youth. His matted black hair almost covered his eyes, whilst his light blue eyes pierced through the morning grey. Furthermore, he stood with an air of defiance, unfitting of a person of such condition.

Kuro quickly swallowed down the spark of anger that the commander had instilled in him, lest he lash out and receive a punishment, or even worse, if one of his fellow soldiers were to receive a punishment in his steed.

He had recently learnt that anger was a luxury. 

Something to be enjoyed during peacetime, there was none of that in his current life.

There was only one thing that mattered.

Survival.

The commander continued. “We have another mission today”

He paced along the dirt field. “Fortify the northern route, we’ve received information that rebels plan to advance at 2000 hours. Hunt the idiots down or, well, you’ll die like the failures that you are.”

Kuros face remained motionless, insults like that meant nothing to him. He had begun thinking less and less recently, it was as if his body had turned on an autopilot to shield his fragile, adolescent mind from such a hostile environment.

Slowly, the herd of soldiers shouldered their weapons and trudged through the thick mud to a makeshift garage.

It was a large structure, made of a combination of felled trees and metal rebar topped by a large tarp made of some weathered material. The ground consisted of nothing more than hastily poured concrete, mixed in with chunks of mud; the only thing that served as an entrance was a steep wooden staircase leading onto the platform.

It was clear the empire had not invested much of their efforts into these small units, after all, they consisted mostly of orphans such as Kuro. He had lost both his parents due to tuberculosis the day of his 14th birthday.

Child soldiers had become common in the Imperial army after Emperor Yoshinobu Arima died suddenly. He had been beloved by the people, especially the poor, due to his many reforms aimed at helping the growing population crisis. However, after his power-hungry son seized the throne with little to no opposition, he quickly reversed the reforms that had helped the poor.

Kuro sighed. He still vividly remembered the day Emperor Yoshinobu died. It was 5 years ago. He had been at home, sandwiched in between his sniffling mother and his solemn father, unaware of the gravity of the event. They had just put his little sister to sleep. The mumbling voice of the reporter was giving details on his funeral date and the next in line…

“KURO!”

His commanders voice snapped him out of his daydream like a splash of cold water against your face in the morning.

“Stop dawdling and get a move on!”

Kuro immediately picked up his pace and stepped onto the platform of the garage, his foot finally contacting a solid surface for the first time that day. As he gazed up, he couldn’t help but marvel at these feats of engineering.

Massive bipedal machines stood in rows, their bulky forms gleaming even in the dim light of the morning sun. These humanoid machines were each outfitted with an arsenal of guns, blade and explosives along with a couple inches of armour. The machines all had different numbers crudely spray painted on with a stencil and they all showed signs of wear.

They were called “revenants”, a new type of weapon developed by the main defence contractor of the country, Neos incorporated. Built at the request of the new emperor, they served as the main backbone of the defence against rebel forces.

Kuro quickly shook off his feelings of awe as he felt the commanders gaze burn into the back of his head. The now gentle pitter patters of the rain against the tarp were slowly being replaced by a mechanical whirring as his other squad mates began to start up their machines.

“The Type RT 2”

Kuro whispered to himself as he climbed the ladder into the machine.

“One of the first models of revenants mass produced by Neos.”

He had always enjoyed engineering. Ever since he could remember, he had been tinkering with radios, dismantling his toys and then rebuilding them into some sort of amalgamation of parts.

His passion had clearly carried forward, as he was able to memorise most of the parts of these war machines and was well versed in the history of their creation.

He settled in the cockpit, the familiar hum of the revenant booting up surrounding his senses. The panels to the front, left and right of him lit up, displaying the dilapidated garage where he was parked. A little picture of his sister was stuck below the control panel, a reminder of the only family he had left. 

As he was looking at the image, the radio in the cockpit crackled to life and a familiar, raspy voice came blaring through.

"Operation commence."