My abhorrent arrival to the planet Antheia began with leaving cryostasis late because some incompetent buffon forgot to release me. This caused me to miss my convoy, meaning I had to hitch a ride with another that was conveniently passing through; unfortunately for me, their outpost was closer than my own, meaning I had to jog the last klick to reach my intended destination. It would have been fine had the storm not kicked in, making the already damp "swamp" even harder to traverse.
I whistled and waved to the current guards at the time, holed up in their towers, protecting the bunker outpost dug into the mountain. One asked for my name and rank.
"Sagittarius. E-1 Private," I answered, attempting to yell over the thunder that cackled over my trivial voice.
They reminded me I was late to arrive in a casual manor, as if these are ordinary occurrences. The bright spotlights stationed on each post are pointed at a gate in the chain link fence that covers the area around the base entrance.
I clattered my teeth and spoke out to tell them of my predicament, and that I was out of my control. I hadn't realized it then, but the spasmic chills in my freezing spine were onsetting hypothermia, a blessing I have come to appreciate deeply.
A drunken soldier had taken his time in climbing down the tower ladder before stumbling the last couple steps. He landed hard on the ground, but he blissfully laughed it off.
He slurred his words when speaking as he pulled himself to his feet. The other was urgent to return to their game, being very vocal about it also. They were back and forth while I was escorted to the bunker's main gate, but the drunk said something that often pops in my head: "Which chips?"
His friend and I had a decent laugh about his concern and stupidity, but I still desire to go back to a time in which those were my troubles; when reality was far from my concern.
The gates opened, and before me stood a Humvee, occupied by a combat ready fireteam. The humm of the idle engine defiantly drowned out the pounding rain. I never discovered what came of their mission, or what it even was, but I seldom believe it was successful.
I stepped out of their way and they drove forward, speeding off into the distance. The drunk abandoned me at the gate. Thankfully I was greeted by the Sergeant who would become my superior. He asked if I was lost and I explained my situation to him, and how the faults were not in minds hands.
He shrugged it off, and asked for my name and rank. I told him my name and that I was a clone of an achieved marksman. At first he hadn't believed me, which was fair; after all, he had just been told that the creature standing before him wasn't natural, at least in our human comprehension of the term.
One of his men backed me up, explaining that what I told him was true, and that many more were to be shipped out into armed forces that occupy the other colonized planets. Like any other man who has trouble with unraveling the intricacies of the truth and comprehending little of it's complete contents, he became destructive. He begun to gamble with his men large sums that his own man would beat me in the shooting range.
For reasons beyond me, some bet in my favor. The beginning of the competition was in good sport, as both myself and the other designated marksman remained at roughly similar scores throughout most of the exercise. It was the final stretch of our game where sickening vistas of actuality revealed themselves.
My opponent had just taken his shot; it found its mark in the center of the "target". This put him a mere singular point ahead of me, though this was our last round. If I didn't hit a perfect shot, I would lose the competition.
I foolishly believed I had to prove myself, as if it would make any difference. Still, I aimed my shot, intent on nailing the precise center.
I held my breath; I remained still. I listened; I felt the cold air on my skin. I stared at the target dead in the eye. And for a moment, just one singular moment…
It stared back.