“Caush, what is war?” asked the timid voice of Sedu, who was a mere eight years old. His brother, who was seated at the other side of the round, stone table, was drinking water from a roughly hewn cup. The thirteen-year-old put down his drink, wiped his mouth and leaned in closer.

“War is a test, to prove you worthy of power, “he whispered, though there was nobody in else in their house. “One who wins his power through war earns their power.” He sat back in his seat. Sedu didn’t get the idea, and asked another question.

“But some people get hurt in war, some even die…” he said quietly, though there was a hint of aggressiveness that Caush seemed to notice. His face tensed.

“You may not know this, but when we get hurt we get stronger, and…” he paused to think for a moment before continuing. “And when we die, we are lived on in honour.”

Sedu clearly had trouble grasping this idea.

“Mommy died in war though, so how-” Caush leaned across the table again, so far that his torso was actually resting upon the rough surface. His hand was pressed over Sedu’s mouth.

“That is different,” he growled. “That was, she was….” his voice had become so hoarse from his sudden rage that he was unable to speak. He breathed deep and continued.

“She was murdered by a band of fools. That is different.” He winced as the memories flowed back into full vibrancy. He was just 7 years old at the time, when he found her mangled body lying in the bushes not far from their simple home. Sedu was didn’t remember, but Caush did. He remembered the still warm blood seeping from her wounds, her uniform reduced to threads. He remembered Sedu crying and his father screaming and swearing revenge. Their father knew who had done it; he saw the grisly crescent moon carved into her belly, which Caush caught a glimpse of before being pulled away by their father.

On a distant battlefield, amongst the carnage and gore, Zakri did what he does best: he fought. Already facing off against three opponents, he also killed any man who strayed into his path of destruction. His skill is amazing. Nearly twenty years of combat experience have left him with near super-natural skills. He is an expert, no, a master of guerrilla warfare. Tracking the enemy, engaging the enemy, and destroying the enemy, that was his mission…

Two of his opponents charged ahead. Zakri knew what they were doing. They were creating a distraction while the third snuck around behind him. They actually thought they could trick him. His mind flashed briefly to his training days, where he received instruction from the best soldiers who had fought in the very same war. The hours of drills had left every action to reflex, every situation was analyzed by the mind instinctively, and then the appropriate response was chosen subconsciously and executed, all within a split second.

When the two fools can towards him he dropped to crouch, rested on one leg while the other sent a straight kick behind him, tearing the clever soldier in half. Before they realized their ally was defeated, Zakri jumped on his one foot, landed on the other and swung a kick under one of his attackers, sending him to the mud. Stretching his arm behind him he blasted the last man standing to pieces, before cramming his fist into the chest of the only survivor, crushing his heart and lungs.

As the death rattles faded, Zakri heard a faint beep. Then another one. He looked down and saw the tiny black box that was strapped to his belt. Pulling his hand from his fallen foe’s chest with a sick squelch, he grabbed the box and unhooked it. Judging from the urgent beeps he figured it was somewhat important, so he cast off into the sky. After his previous display of brutality, nobody tried to engage him.

Once airborne, Zakri scraped off the black tape that he was stuck to the display. He didn’t want it to act up and alert the enemy of his presence if he was trying to be discreet. Underneath the tape, there was a green luminescent screen, a blinking red light and a tiny speaker. Now that it was uncovered, the beeping was surprisingly loud. He checked the display and saw an increasing power growing far from the battle. He glanced at his compass to check his bearings.

Fuck, he cursed in his head, someone’s at my house! My kids are there! Why can’t I be left alone? You’re at war with me, not my family. The last thing I need is another loss at home, he screamed at The Enemy, the mental oppressors in his head. In his mind, he fought them in varied battlefields. Jungles, forests, the desert. They always found him, no matter where he went to try to get away.

When his house was in sight, he lowered his altitude to about 250 feet. He could see a strange red light spilling out through the windows onto the dark lawn. Zakri swerved around to the side of the house and dropped into the dense forests that lay on the perimeter. He crept through the bush, dropped to his stomach and crawled on his belly to the window, where he crouched silently. From his location he couldn’t see inside the house, but he could hear a struggle. He closed his right fist and extended his index finger, middle finger and thumb, igniting a small yellow charge of ki on the tips of his fingers. In his head, he could feel the soldiers pressing in on him, trapping him, wounding him. As one particularly ugly one closed in, he jumped up and fired, both in his mind and in reality.

Firing rapid bursts of ki into the chest of the enemy, who was disintegrated, Zakri screamed with triumph. He laughed at the screams The Enemy made, until the illusions faded, and he saw his thirteen year old son being blasted by high-power bolts of ki, straight to the chest. The smouldering boy crumpled to the ground, with Sedu standing over him, glowing with a menacing red light.