A Bag of Letters

[A. Vaher]

Letter 1​

9/3/23​

Dear Mashina,

How is the old town? I hear that they have started reconstructing some time ago. I don't get to hear a lot about it these days. The days of house duty are long behind me. Trader mercenaries keep attacking our front and so we now attack back. Commanders keep ordering us forwards and I do not know if it's the best thing for us, but when have commanders ever been good guys, right? I joined on with the guys, how long ago, and still all of us are recruits here and don't have the same spirit as the others. I've killed at least as many combine guys as the rest of them and even more equal mercenaries. It feels like we should be as fanatical about it as the other guys, nearly every other recruit ends up like them. That's the only way to get the better equipment, too, apparently. It's a miracle that none of us newbies have kicked it with our peashooters. If I didn't know any better I'd say god was guiding our rifles.

It's like they're obsessed with victory. 'Death to all those who deny us the path to the spire!' 'Die so that humanity can live!' It's terrifying and amazing to be around, in combat. We could be on our last legs about to be sent home in boxes, and all it takes is for one of our officers to charge down our defenses with a yell and suddenly I'm out there with them and all the rest of the guys. I don't know. It's strange how much fervor these guys have. The older veterans fight so fearlessly and then when all is said and done they cry so loudly it makes me want to stop hearing. The feeling overcomes the camp sometimes. Maybe if we complain loud enough we'll get a platoon therapist, right? I can't bear it sometimes, when we are counting up our dead. I only see their eyes when they cry, so reddened. Maybe it's from wearing dusty goggles for so long that makes it so bad for them. Just thinking about it makes my eyes sting. I don't know. I try to think about other stuff instead of our lost but it always ends up back there. Forgive me for making this letter so sad, let's talk about something else.

Did you manage to get the wall patched up properly? Cardboard wasn't so good of a solution, hah. At least it stopped the wind. If it's still open and letting the cold in then take some of the things I've sent back and sell what you need from the bigger box.

We're going out to the coastal towns soon. I hear the weather by the sea is nice this time of year, maybe I'll find a postcard to mail back. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. You wouldn't imagine how heavy the fighting has been in other places and now we have a simple mission to just go look at the place, small combine patrols and even fewer mercenary camps. After this I should be back for the tower celebration.

Love you,
Maxim

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
​

The letter is marked by waterlogging and brown stains. Several others just like it are stuffed into a bag covered with dust and soot. The courier's truck is burnt out, several other trucks nearby also dead. Scorch marks and bullet holes mark the concrete. Whatever cargo was in the trucks is gone now, the remaining boxes smashed open. Nothing remains but the dead men of a SPIRE contingent, ruined army cars, and this bag of letters.