Another explosion nearby shook Kyle to alertness. The others in his battalion had all decided that the mission they had been sent on was suicide, but Commander Reynolds had gone with it anyway. He had said that it was important to the goals. Whatever that meant.

Another explosion. In his trench, Kyle quickly looked around to see who was still alive. Ben was. Caleb was. Ted was… wait, Ted was just killed in the last bomb. He was one of the best, Kyle thought, someone who knew was to do. He nodded to Ben and Caleb, who nodded back at him.

Another explosion. A scream from behind. Kyle turned to see that one of the other battalions had been wiped out. Poor souls. They didn’t even want to be here. No one did. Ben had been a writer and journalist. Caleb had been a historian. Kyle couldn’t remember what he had wanted to be.

Kyle set down his gun. He was about to sit down when a sharp pain coursed through his neck. His body quickly grabbed the gun, put it to his shoulder, and fired a few times in the enemy’s direction. He hit the cannoneer, and another rifleman. The pain vanished, and he could set down the gun again. He turned and saw Ben and Caleb stiffen, stand up, and fire as well. The pain returned, and his arms grabbed the gun and fired some more.

A nearby explosion knocked dirt into his face. He closed his eyes and kept firing. He knew it didn’t matter if he couldn’t see, as long as They could see. He had found that out in his first week. How long ago had that been?

He began to drift to sleep, and dreams of his old life began to flow through his mind. The voices of his mother and father, the faces of his friends. The day the two men in suits beat him up, struck the chip in his back, and shipped him to the front. The sorrow he had seen in the others when he came, ,the look that said, “I’m sorry.”

He woke up on the ground, his gun sitting next to him. He was on his bunk. Guess I’ve been asleep for awhile, Kyle thought. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his neck was still there, telling him that his body needed to rest. He tried to fight it, but the pain grew and he couldn’t bear it, like an iron to the face, burning it…

He knew it was a dream when he found himself standing next to the lake. It was the same lake from his home, the one that he had played in since he was a boy. He heard something behind him, giggling or laughing he couldn’t decide, the words had lost their meaning. He slowly tried to turn, testing to see if the dream him was one that had the chip. It wasn’t, so he quickly turned, to see Sarah, his girlfriend from school. She was the one giggling/laughing, Kyle concluded.

“Kyle, are you okay?” Sarah asked. Yes, Kyle thought, I’m fine, I’m so happy to see you. But he couldn’t move his mouth, couldn’t talk. He’d forgotten how.

“Kyle?” She asked, “What’s wrong?” Kyle was gripped by the fear that he couldn’t talk to her. He managed to open his mouth, but all he could do was moan and gurgle.

“What have they done to you?” Sarah asked. They killed me, and sent my body to war, Kyle wanted to say. But he couldn’t. They wouldn’t let him.

Sarah cried, and began to fade. Kyle ran to her, but as he reached out to her she turned into a plate full of meal. In his hand was a spoon. He recoiled, and the world with the lake melted into the mess hall. The pain returned, and his arm took another spoonful of meal and shoved it into his mouth.

Anger flowed though Kyle. The pain in his neck got worse. Memories of the world that was, his life, began to flow. His dream of being the President. His time spent studying politics, the great leaders of America. His girlfriend’s constant support, his parents’ love…

The pain got worse than ever. He dropped his spoon, and his body jumped up. He then remembered the story that he had read two weeks before he had been taken. A simple story that he had only read. But it told how the government was taking away those who resisted, and sending them to the war that didn’t exist.

The pain grew so bad, there was nothing left. Kyle tried to cling to the memory of revolution, the idea of breaking free of the isolationist West. He would take his family, and Sarah, and run for the East. It had to be better than living a lie. But the pain, the pain! It overrode his mind, his thoughts, until all that remained were the thoughts of a small boy cowering in the corner from his angry father.

“No!” Kyle screamed. But it was too late. The thoughts, the ideas, they were all gone. Whatever they had been, Kyle couldn’t remember. The old thoughts returned, the new ones withering away. The pain died. Around him, the room was staring at him. Why are they looking at me? What did I do?

He sat down, and picked up his spoon. He didn’t really feel like eating, but a dull pain in his neck moved his hand from the bowl to his mouth, over and over. He slowly fell asleep, his body still eating, and he dreamed of the day when the lake near his home that he used to play in was burned, his private place that no one but he had touched had been destroyed. He would have cried, but a jolt stopped his brain from forming tears.