Vector, that's the name of a young boy who was thrust headfirst into misery. The name wasn't given to him by birth, but rather one he chose for himself.

He had no parents, support, or love. The boy held nothing within his heart, except his own desires, dreams, and childish whims.

The only sense of identity he truly had was the simple number given to him at birth. This number was inked upon his arm, as he entered the corrupt and lost orphanage system, less than a year old.

"Magically" dropped off at their doorstep, as the crazy nuns often said to me. Describing the chaotic events of the night that day, how the moon seemed almost fake with its radiance,

Although, in the boy's mind it was little more than bullshit. He was just like all the other kids, numbering in the hundreds of millions, who were stuck in the system.

However, unlike most kids he grew up around, who were addicted to drugs or homeless. He succeeded in school, realizing he was fairly bright and if he worked hard enough people, or rather, someone would notice him or give a damn.

He graduated high school, earned a diploma, and joined the military, as it was the most promising place for opportunities in the present times of today. Why?

Well, why not?

It had benefits, a small amount of money that they treated as a "bonus", but most importantly, it gave him the freedom to escape a place he had been his whole life, consisting solely of trauma and cruelty.

That environment had hardened him beyond measure, and so by age four he understood his place in the world and the brutality humanity gave. Thus, he was naturally cold, not giving a fuck about anyone else, because... no one gave a fuck about him.

He was not evil, cruel, or naturally ruthless even though he could be. In his mind he was neutral, respect was treated with respect, and if someone crossed him, he would cross them tenfold. He was spiteful and vengeful.

He knew that and recognized that.

Though, doesn't everyone feel these emotions?

Every action, however, has consequences. Nothing remains the same forever, and nothing stops change.

He was intelligent, not super smart nor brilliant, but clever and intuitive.

He thought differently than most, always drawn to the creative side of life. Often pondering how society, the world, power, and money created "life".

He saw the world in a bland view, as if all the colors were missing, and he was unable to perceive the gray in-between. In his mind, he saw the world for what it really was: a playground, mold, and another ecosystem like the jungle.

The strong persevere, the weak fail, and most importantly the gap grows. Constantly, power changes and intensifies. It stretches farther away, just a tiny bit at a time... but those bits add up, and life still continues.

And thus, as a mere ant in a world where the powerful and rich are giants, here he was nineteen years later with a bullet lodged in the side of his ribs, and two straight in his guts. Little more than a sandbag punctured, leaking rice, he leaked blood. Rapidly.

It was at these moments that he thought about death and what he truly fought for. His death was useless, not brave, as a "soldiers" death was often honored and referred to.

It was simple: he and other people fought a war, killing one another for the people with true power in their grasp. All the while, they sat back and sipped wine, laughing, fucking, and relaxing.

That's what war is, regardless of the issue. Casualties will happen, tragedy will occur, and so here he was bleeding out thinking in my head… rambling like a crazy person.

Regret flashed through his mind, though he did the best he could with the environment he grew up in. He dealt with bullying, beatings, and near death by starvation many times over.

Shit, even the cold and rain used to be hell. The orphanage was always a front. They made the kids fend for themselves around age 7 or so. It was simply for the government to send that check to them every month as the so-called "nuns" split it and lived off it.

However, even under these conditions, he was never bitter at the world nor even angry at it. It might not make sense... right? How could he be treated so poorly, thrown away, and not cared about… but still remain not angry?

Well, he was angry, but it was not directed at the people who abused him. They would always exist.

No, it was directed at himself. The world was not fair, but nothing could change that, and only the weak were miserable.

He was mad because he was weak! The strong will forever, and always rule. And so, as he lay on a battlefield in the middle of nowhere as World War 3 raged, he simply chuckled to himself in pity; blood leaking out with each wheeze.

"Hmm my existence was pitiful indeed..." Vector mumbled, trailing off as his eyes locked on the shining moon in the distance. Like that, Vector took his last breath.

Earth has been through many changes of power. Over time, resources kept being sucked up by all the powerful countries, and the less powerful countries were swallowed and eventually wiped out.

However, earth isn't a concern anymore, for Vector was already dead.

Lifeless, staring upwards at the glittering sky as dust permeated the battlefield upon the impacts of shells, bombs, and bullets.

His escape from earth was finally here… the feeling of incompleteness he had was finally dispelled, for he was gone.

His life and freedom, his regret for being weak, and his desire for power were forever lost.

Or so he thought…