#300
we have reached another hundred, and here's my special piece for it :) i couldn't think of anything but 300 the movie, where 300 spartans were made to fight against the entire persian army in a losing war. so i did that but with living weapons! i hope you enjoy :)
content: living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpees, war setting, death, major character death, murder, guns, shot, knives, conditioned whumpee, mind-reading, betrayal
It was an impossible battle, and Renne knew that. Renne and the whole team. There were 300 of them, and the enemy was so great they couldn't count them. They were completely and utterly outnumbered. But there was nothing else to do; they had to fight. Had to protect what they had been made to protect.
Renne was part of a generation of super soldiers born and bred to fight impossible battles like this. They had grown up training for combat, they had held their first gun by the age of 6, they had made their first kill by the age of 11, they had served in their first military mission by the age of 15. They were 21 now. And this was their biggest mission yet. War. Unending, merciless war.
The camp they were staying at was quiet. Living weapons weren't made to talk to each other much, aside from exchanged commands and reports. There was a sense of camaraderie, they supposed, but not too great. They would've shot each other in the head, had one of them decided to desert and run. Had one of them decided to sell out their team. Had any mishaps happened. They were comrades, but not friends. They were teammates, but not family.
So, there they were, 300 of them, preparing for the battle that would ensue in the coming days. They were doing maintenance on their weapons, doing last minute adjustments to their metal body parts — because of course, no living weapon was complete without body modifications — and generally trying to get used to the idea that they would all die soon. Renne did the same, in front of their shared tent. They shared it with four others. They didn't talk. Didn't look at each other. Just polished their metal arms and tried to ignore the impending doom lingering in the air.
"Hey," someone called quietly. Renne ignored it; there was no way someone was addressing them. "Hey. Renne, right?"
They stopped, rag still in hand. They slowly lowered it and turned around. One of the other four living weapons was looking straight at them, looking worried. "Yes?" Renne asked. "Plan changed?" That was the only possible explanation. Maybe this other soldier had some information they had to convey.
"No, nothing like that. I don't want to talk about the mission. Well, I do, in a sense… Uh… Would you step out of the camp with me for a moment?"
This was incomprehensible. An awkward, stammering living weapon, addressing them and asking them to leave camp? Before battle? The enemy could attack at any second. They were in the state of the calm before the storm. "Why?" they asked.
"I want to talk to you."
Incomprehensible. Weapons didn't talk. Weapons took orders, weapons killed, weapons did what they were bred to do, but they didn't talk. What was wrong with this one? "Go back in the tent, get some rest before the action. You won't get much rest once this starts."
"No, I need to talk to you. Privately."
"What on earth do you need to talk to me about that can't be discussed among teammates?"
The other weapon lowered their voice, leaning in. "I'm having doubts."
That was one of the most dangerous, most asinine thing a weapon could say. Weapons didn't have doubts. Weapons did what they were told to do. Without question, without hesitation.
At the same time… Renne couldn't help but feel a sense of anxiety. They… had had doubts before. They had never talked about them to anyone, it would've been suicide to do so, but they'd had their share of private doubts. Did this other weapon somehow know that? Why else would they have singled them out for this 'private conversation'?
"Go back in the tent," they repeated. "Now."
"Renne, please."
"Stop calling me that!" Renne snapped. "My mission number is #143. You're #144, right? Go back in the tent and rest. I don't care if you somehow knew me before this mission, or if you asked someone else about my name before this mission, I don't respond to that anymore. I'm #143. I was sent here to protect our higher-ups. And I will do that until my dying breath, and I won't be swayed."
#144 fell silent, but they didn't leave. They seemed to be thinking, cogs turning in their head. "Renne, do you know my special power?"
Renne swallowed. Some living weapons had special powers, like telepathy, or telekinesis, or any other number of useful things. They were rare, most living weapons simply relied on their training and physical abilities. If #144 had a special power, that could've explained how they knew their name. "I don't, and I don't care. I just care you use it to take down as many of the enemy as you can."
"I'm a mind-reader."
So they did know about Renne's doubts. They tried to steel their nerves and think about something else, anything else, but they couldn't seem to rein in their thoughts. Suddenly, all those times they'd had doubts about the mission as a child came back to them, a barrage of thoughts completely disarming them.
Stop. Stop thinking about that. Stop reading my thoughts. Stop.
"I just want to talk," #144 repeated.
The fact that Renne had been singled out by this weirdo meant that they probably hadn't found anyone else with doubts in their mind. It was embarrassing, humiliating, and now Renne had to worry about them snitching to their handler and potentially being pulled from the mission.
"I would never do that," #144 whispered to them. "As I said, I'm the same. I'm having doubts. I just want to talk a little. Please, Renne."
"Fine," they barked. "Fine. Let's go."
They stood up together and took a short walk outside of camp. The other weapons didn't pay them any mind, as they ought to. They were all preoccupied with pre-war prep. Renne was supposed to be like that, too. They were supposed to be a good weapon. And yet.
"We're here, just the two of us," Renne said once the camp was a ways away. "Talk. I can't read your mind."
"I didn't mean to intrude. My special power isn't meant to be used on comrades, I just… can't turn it off. And when I heard that you also have some doubts, I just knew— I had to talk to you."
"So talk."
"What do you think of this war? You don't actually believe it's worthwhile, do you?"
"It's not my place to decide. We go where we're commanded to go by our handlers. If I'm being marched into a death trap, like right now, I will go. Gladly. Joyously."
"But you're not glad. Or joyous."
"Stop trying to tell my what I am and what I'm not," Renne hissed. "I'm a weapon. I'm meant to be used. And war is my purpose."
"You don't believe that."
"It doesn't matter what I believe!"
"A moment of hesitation on the battlefield could cause your death."
"Then I die with honour."
"Nobody will even remember your name, #143."
"Nobody needs to. They just need to know that #143 died in battle, taking down as many enemies with them as they could."
#144 looked at them sadly. "Well, I guess it's only fair I share my side of the doubts. You can't read my mind, and I haven't yet told you why I'm having these doubts."
Renne narrowed their eyes at them. "Talk."
"I don't think this war is necessary."
The world tilted. Time stopped. Renne was completely caught off guard, taken aback, and they didn't know what to say. They opened and closed their mouth a couple times, no sound coming out. They had had doubts about their purpose, but never the absolute necessity of this war. Of every battle they'd fought. They were meant to protect their higher-ups, they were meant to fight for ultimate peace—
"Our higher-ups don't want peace," #144 said. "I've had conversations with them, and as I said, I can't turn my power off. I heard their thoughts. I heard them say and think conflicting things. They don't want peace. They want money and power. They want to subjugate. They want to turn entire countries into wasteland, they want slaves, they want control. This war is completely unnecessary; it only serves their ego. And it's a losing battle, this one."
"You're wrong," Renne said.
"Am I?"
"Of course, peace can only be achieved through our higher-ups controlling everyone. Uniting people under a common banner. And that happens through war and conquest. But at the end of the war, there will be peace."
"A negative peace: the absence of war, maybe. But not real peace. Not freedom. They want zombies, mind-controlled servants to carry out their every wish as they get richer with no blood sticking to their pristine hands they used to train us."
"It doesn't matter," Renne said eventually, after the words had had a bit of time to settle in their stomach. "We're weapons. We do what we're told."
"Are you really ready to die for this?"
"I am."
"You're not."
"Stop trying to read my thoughts!" they snapped. "I am ready! I've been ready from the day I was born! I was trained to die on the battlefield, I was trained to be useful, I was trained to listen to my handlers, I was trained for all of this! You don't know anything! So stop! Stop trying to sow seeds of doubt!"
"Renne, we can get away."
"I am not deserting."
#144 stepped closer and took their hands in theirs, looking into their eyes, pleading. "Renne, please. We don't have to die for a cause like this. We shouldn't have to die for any cause, but especially not this one. Your handlers don't care about you. You've been brainwashed. Please. Open your eyes. I know you're capable of seeing it."
Renne yanked their hands away. "Go back to the tent and get some rest before battle," they said coldly. But they couldn't turn off their thoughts; they were running in circles around the concept of negative peace. "I will do the same. Tomorrow, or the day after, we will die in glory."
"Renne—"
"Stop. My name is #143."
With that, Renne left #144 to stand outside of camp, going back to their tent and lying down inside. This was absolutely miserable. Not even their thoughts were their own anymore, not with a stupid mind-reader in their tent. What if #144 told others about the doubts? What if they actually deserted? They were already low on numbers, they couldn't afford a traitor.
They fell into a dreamless sleep, and they were grateful for it.
—
Renne saw the enormous army advance on them. Their own team of 299 dedicated soldiers was waiting on the other side of a narrow cove, and that was their only chance of holding out. The narrowing would only allow about thirty soldiers to come through at the same time, and Renne knew they could deal with thirty at a time.
Time to shed blood.
The battle was brutal. The bodies were piling up. Renne and their team held their position, and whenever one of them fell, another took their place. Renne had killed tens and tens of enemy soldiers, their blood staining their metal arms. Guns were running out of bullets, daggers and swords were drawn, combat became dirtier.
And then, someone yelled.
"They discovered the other route!"
Renne turned around instantly, looking towards the other path that should've been hidden from the enemy. Unless… Unless someone of their own team gave them a tip.
#144.
They stopped fighting on the front lines and elbowed their way to the back, ready to face the sea of enemies now advancing on them from the back. They knew, they just knew that this was #144's doing. And before the enemy could reach them, they glanced to the side, and saw #144 standing right next to them.
"I can still tell them to spare you," they said to Renne. "But this battle needs to end with us losing."
"I would rather be quartered than betray my team," they said, fingers tightening around their dagger. "And don't expect them to really spare you. I know you think you're safe because you told them about the other route, but believe me, whatever you think of our side, their side is worse."
"Your handler trained you well," #144 said sadly. "That's okay. If you want to die, then die." They left Renne standing there, walking towards the enemy army. Renne watched their confident steps, the steps of someone who had sold out their own team, the steps of someone who thought they were invincible because of it. And they watched as the enemy opened fire, and made a sieve out of them. #144's body fell to the ground lifelessly, and despite them being a traitor, Renne found themself running towards them, falling to their knees next to their body.
"#144!" they cried. "You're— How could you be so stupid?" Bullets were flying overhead, whistling past Renne's head, and yet they only saw #144's abused body. "Did you really think they would spare you?"
#144 coughed up blood. They were bleeding out fast. "This is what dying in glory means to me," they breathed. Their teeth were stained with blood. "Glory is stopping a bloodthirsty army from winning, and I did that. It doesn't matter whether I live to see the end."
"You're an idiot! We could've won! You could've lived!"
"I don't want any part of this," they said, then coughed again. "I'm sorry that you have to die now, too. I wanted to save you."
"Stop," they said, and despite their training, despite how much death they'd already seen, tears trickled down their stupid face. "I… #144, I would've never left with you. I need to die here. I want to die here."
"You don't. But you will." #144's head lolled to the side. "But it's okay. It's all gonna be okay. What you consider the enemy will win, and they'll be far more merciful towards us than our higher-ups would've been to them. And that's all I want. Mercy."
"You sold us out and they didn't think to spare you. That's not mercy."
"Maybe not. Have I made the wrong call?"
"Are you having doubts?" Renne asked, laughing a little. It was humourless.
"I read the mind of the enemy. Some from the lower ranks — they didn't want to fight. Some from higher up — they didn't want excessive bloodshed either. I thought… Maybe I relied on my power too much. Maybe they just knew how to manipulate their thoughts into what I wanted to hear."
The enemy was closing in on them. A bullet hit Renne in the shoulder and they cried out. There was no way to go up against an army still inundated with bullets when all they had left were melee weapons. "What's your name?" Renne asked.
#144 smiled. "#144."
"You know mine, it's only fair—"
"You don't need to spend your last moments thinking about my name. Let me just be #144, the traitor to you."
Renne nodded. Weapons weren't meant to grieve. Especially not traitors. Yet, when they saw #144's bloody smile, they knew that they'd read their mind. They were absolutely shattered.
"I'm sorry," was the last thing #144 said before losing consciousness. Renne laid them gently on the ground and stood up. Another bullet immediately got them in the stomach. They didn't care. They charged at the enemy with their one little dagger, determined to take down as many of them as they could.
Maybe they were fighting on the wrong side, but weapons were meant to fight. Weapons were meant to follow orders, no matter how wrong. If #144 had just understood that, they might've still be alive.
More bullets hit them. They cut through the throat of an enemy soldier. Then another. And another. They were fast, faster than any human should've been, thanks to their body modifications. They were bleeding out, but they couldn't stop. They had to fight. They were bred to fight.
But had #144 still been there, they would've seen that Renne's thoughts were far from the battlefield.
They wished for peace.
