I do not have a name. Not yet.
I'm told I will be assigned one at my first duty posting.
For now, I'm still "Bookend". But it is a name I now bear with pride, for it represents much now, many obstacles and pain overcome.
I now have a purpose.
I am a soldier now. Or, at least, I will be one soon.
I stand in ranks with my brothers. Like me, they do not have names beyond half-mocking nicknames. Like me, their pasts, at least before they were officially wiped clean, were pasts marked by criminality, shame and, for many, murder.
But that seems a long time ago now.
Like me, they now have a purpose.
That purpose is to kill for the Republic, to bring death, misery and terror to those who would harm the People of the Tribes.
That purpose is to be a Valklear.
We stand in a dark hall, in the secluded portion of the Farm reserved for the instructors and staff. Reserved for Valklear, not for mere inmates.
The hall itself seems build to vaguely resemble a Brutor warriors' lodge. I see the outlines of Sebiestor tribal glyphs, of Krusual markings, of the warrior signs of all the Tribes marked on the walls and carved in the floors.
I stand with 226 other future Valklear. The fact that relatively so many made it is surprising, and I again feel grudging respect for the unseen hands who guide this place. The recruiters have a judicious eye when gauging murderers and criminals. I've grown to know many of my fellow recruits well, better than perhaps anyone else in my life. Well enough to guess at the commonalities that run through them, and given me enough perspective to see the same things running through me.
Each has a combination of unrelenting aggression tempered with a sense of communal identity, pack hunters rather than beasts of the herd or solitary predators. Each had a keen enough mind, low cunning if not scholastic brilliance, but most lived their lives through actions rather than solely in their minds. Each was a successful criminal, many of them violent, and with that each man was long accustomed to the idea that to succeed in their endeavors meant pain and loss to someone else.
The cynical voice in me, the one that whispered to me during Amarrian sermons, whispers that each man likely had a buried but powerful sense of guilt and shame, convenient handles for our instructors to shape and mold us. Perhaps they sought men desperate for approval and redemption in the eyes of the People they had failed, a quiet yearning that the instructors knew would drive them through yet another hideous day in the Farm. A shame and need for redemption that would drive them, us, me, to kill on future battlefields in the name of a Republic and a People we were never truly a part of.
I look over them silently in the dim light, the torch light flickering over each of their features. We are standing in tribal loincloths, in ancient Matari warrior tradition. We all wear our training-hardened bodies the way rich Gallente youth wear the newest fashion, with a quiet sense of assurance and pose, with just a hint of youthful, cocky smugness.
I stand in ranks with my brothers. Like me, they do not have names beyond half-mocking nicknames. Like me, their pasts, at least before they were officially wiped clean, were pasts marked by criminality, shame and, for many, murder.
But that seems a long time ago now.
Like me, they now have a purpose.
That purpose is to kill for the Republic, to bring death, misery and terror to those who would harm the People of the Tribes.
That purpose is to be a Valklear.
We stand in a dark hall, in the secluded portion of the Farm reserved for the instructors and staff. Reserved for Valklear, not for mere inmates.
The hall itself seems build to vaguely resemble a Brutor warriors' lodge. I see the outlines of Sebiestor tribal glyphs, of Krusual markings, of the warrior signs of all the Tribes marked on the walls and carved in the floors.
I stand with 226 other future Valklear. The fact that relatively so many made it is surprising, and I again feel grudging respect for the unseen hands who guide this place. The recruiters have a judicious eye when gauging murderers and criminals. I've grown to know many of my fellow recruits well, better than perhaps anyone else in my life. Well enough to guess at the commonalities that run through them, and given me enough perspective to see the same things running through me.
Each has a combination of unrelenting aggression tempered with a sense of communal identity, pack hunters rather than beasts of the herd or solitary predators. Each had a keen enough mind, low cunning if not scholastic brilliance, but most lived their lives through actions rather than solely in their minds. Each was a successful criminal, many of them violent, and with that each man was long accustomed to the idea that to succeed in their endeavors meant pain and loss to someone else.
The cynical voice in me, the one that whispered to me during Amarrian sermons, whispers that each man likely had a buried but powerful sense of guilt and shame, convenient handles for our instructors to shape and mold us. Perhaps they sought men desperate for approval and redemption in the eyes of the People they had failed, a quiet yearning that the instructors knew would drive them through yet another hideous day in the Farm. A shame and need for redemption that would drive them, us, me, to kill on future battlefields in the name of a Republic and a People we were never truly a part of.
I look over them silently in the dim light, the torch light flickering over each of their features. We are standing in tribal loincloths, in ancient Matari warrior tradition. We all wear our training-hardened bodies the way rich Gallente youth wear the newest fashion, with a quiet sense of assurance and pose, with just a hint of youthful, cocky smugness.
After months and months of training, many of the class slowly grew to resemble each other, the training shaping their bodies along similar paths, the same corded arms, the same powerful torso, the same thick legs. I've noticed the same changes in my body, and I all but feel the trained power residing within me. It is a heady and intoxicating feeling.
We stand in our now familiar ranks, silent even as we wait. I would imagine that in other units, whispered jokes and pranks and gossiping and snickering would be heard down the line. But not here. Not with these men. Not in this unit.
I watch as Master Sergeant-Trustee Vr'cal steps to the front of the our ranks, and with him are flanked the assembled instructors of the Farm. Each are wearing a simple Valklear uniform, a uniform that hints at our tribal heritage, with glyphs and unique markings on the arms, shoulders and chest. Some of those markings speak of War, Victory, Sacrifice and Valor.
Others simply represent Death.
I watch silently as Vr'cal steps forward, and my mind slips back to the first time I saw the man. I remember the strength that seemed to hover around the man, shimmering around his visage like the heat rising from the black ashfault of the Grinder. I remember how the wolf in me was silently fearful of the man, of the inner strength and promise of death that seemed to follow him.
But that was before the months and months of training, before I was trained to read a man's body, and from his body, his intentions and his will. That was before I knew what to look for in a trained soldier, before I saw which men refused to break in training, before I saw seemingly strong and fearsome man give up and give in to relentless misery and onslaught of the Farm.
I note with a wry smile that with my newly trained eyes, the man is even more intimidating. He is a warrior-born, and everything about him reflects that. There is a sense of perspective in the world, to know that whatever else I am or whatever else I do, it is highly doubtful I will ever a warrior that is Vr'cal's equal. There is surprisingly little pain in admitting that.
As he takes his position in front of us for our graduation ceremony, it is hard not to notice the almost religious air in the lodge. My mind wanders back to the words of Father Yervanian, and I remember him saying that religion is the embody of humanity's desire to be better, to change, to be reborn, to be closer to what he or she was meant to be, and through that transformation to become closer to God.
We stand in our now familiar ranks, silent even as we wait. I would imagine that in other units, whispered jokes and pranks and gossiping and snickering would be heard down the line. But not here. Not with these men. Not in this unit.
I watch as Master Sergeant-Trustee Vr'cal steps to the front of the our ranks, and with him are flanked the assembled instructors of the Farm. Each are wearing a simple Valklear uniform, a uniform that hints at our tribal heritage, with glyphs and unique markings on the arms, shoulders and chest. Some of those markings speak of War, Victory, Sacrifice and Valor.
Others simply represent Death.
I watch silently as Vr'cal steps forward, and my mind slips back to the first time I saw the man. I remember the strength that seemed to hover around the man, shimmering around his visage like the heat rising from the black ashfault of the Grinder. I remember how the wolf in me was silently fearful of the man, of the inner strength and promise of death that seemed to follow him.
But that was before the months and months of training, before I was trained to read a man's body, and from his body, his intentions and his will. That was before I knew what to look for in a trained soldier, before I saw which men refused to break in training, before I saw seemingly strong and fearsome man give up and give in to relentless misery and onslaught of the Farm.
I note with a wry smile that with my newly trained eyes, the man is even more intimidating. He is a warrior-born, and everything about him reflects that. There is a sense of perspective in the world, to know that whatever else I am or whatever else I do, it is highly doubtful I will ever a warrior that is Vr'cal's equal. There is surprisingly little pain in admitting that.
As he takes his position in front of us for our graduation ceremony, it is hard not to notice the almost religious air in the lodge. My mind wanders back to the words of Father Yervanian, and I remember him saying that religion is the embody of humanity's desire to be better, to change, to be reborn, to be closer to what he or she was meant to be, and through that transformation to become closer to God.
Perhaps it makes sense that the Valklear graduation has a religious quality to it, more ritual than ceremony. Every man here was reborn, both literally and figuratively. Our past selves we're truly wiped away, to be replaced by something new, something stronger, something with a purpose.
The cynical, quiet voice in my thoughts whispers that perhaps we weren't changed at all, that we were merely honed, sharpened or refined. Perhaps all this training meant is that the unnecessary, unwanted and inefficient parts of us were stripped away, as we were psychologically and physically carved into a usable and tolerable type of murderer.
And there is still enough of a little boy within me that my heart feels a sharp pang when I think of what Father Yervanian would say if he saw the transformation I have gone through.
Still, such thoughts eventually fall from my mind. Valklear is what I am now. To be or do anything else is unthinkable, whatever the moral implications. The ability to put thoughts and concerns aside and merely be what you're ordered to be is one of a soldier's few luxuries. So I lose myself in the quiet solace of being a soldier standing at attention, and think of little else.
Vr'cal looks at us, his eyes scanning over our assembled ranks. Finally, he speaks, his voice carrying effortlessly though the large room.
"When you first came to this facility, I looked upon a group of violent, dangerous men, men who would kill without hesitation to achieve their objectives, faceless men who were likely destined to die violently in dark places."
He pauses a moment, the ghost of a mirthless smile finding its way to his face.
"In that, nothing has changed. That is still what I see today."
His face grows harder as he says those words.
"So what has changed? The reasons."
"Before, you killed out of weakness, out of addiction, out of shame, out of greed, out of desperation, out of pride, out of arrogance, out of whatever dark path brought you to the places we found you."
"From now on, you will kill as soldiers. Not out of whatever sin or weakness that drove you before, but to serve your People. To protect. To do what must be done."
"You have been given a great gift. You have been given a true second chance. A new fate. A chance to serve the People of the Six Tribes. But you have also been given a great burden."
"Each man here has stared at the four corners of a cell, knowing that small room would be his entire world for the rest of his short, miserable life. Every one of us here has known that moment where our lives were truly over, and we all knew in those quiet desperate moments that our lives were wasted, trite, pathetic little things."
"And each man was given a chance to be reborn as someone else, to be something else. It is a rare and precious gift. Do not squander it."
This dark eyes move over us, and seemed to hold each of us. The quiet voice in me whispers that Vr'cal would have been an inspiring priest in another life.
"Make no mistake, we are no heroes. I will not bore you with platitudes of glory. Most of you already know what it is to take a man's life, and if not, you will learn soon enough. It is rarely an inspiring or glorious thing."
"You path now means you will take the life of men and women and perhaps even children, in many cases men and women and children who share our bloodlines and Ancestors, kin still trapped by the lies and the chains of the Amarrian. We are commanded to do evil things to our kin, to those we would save if we could. The Amarrians have turned our kin against us, calling them Ammatar and sending them against us, forcing us to take up arms against those who should be our brother."
"And we have to kill them, without hesitation. For that is what war is."
"That is one reason why you are here. Why we are all here. We already have the blood of our kin on our hands, through either actual murder or by betraying and stealing that which was most precious to our fellow Matari. We have already done that which damns and dishonors us in the lodges of our clans and tribes. We have already shamed our Ancestors, given up our sanctity through evil actions."
"And the Republic will ask you to do it again. Because it must be done."
"That is what it means to be Valklear. That is why you are here."
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