The world?s last breath is nigh. And still, boys will be boys.
A battle-worn veteran, bemused at the casualness of the callow youths in the face of certain death. His sergeant stripes are a heavy burden. Crouching behind the faintly smoking rubble of a once-majestic building. In a trench.
The alien technology draws ever nearer. A military juggernaut mowing down the cr?me of Earth?s men like fresh grass. It is like a game of cat and mouse. Only a cat equipped with a mouse-trap. The futility of the situation bores down heavily on the unnamed soldier.
Juxtaposition. Grimy grimaces of the veteran; light banter in his boys. Their animated faces, boasting of their girls. The gravity of the situation has yet to dawn.
Weathered and lined face. Reminiscing. Of a long-gone day when concerns ran no further than the mundane; the rent, university, girls.
He can see the implacable alien faces. Surreal. It felt like another sequel to Alien. Or Star Wars. Only, no Luke Skywalker. No Vin Diesel.
The topic has shifted. Sport. Defending their teams passionately. ?Liverpool? seems to be bandied around a lot. A thought drifts into his mind. ?Some things just don?t change.? The triviality of the situation brings an attempt of a smile to the veteran. His cracked lips resemble a grimace still from lack of practice.
The unknown soldier tries to empty his mind. Harmony, and peace with the uncaring gods is his last goal in existence. He is interrupted. Cries of ?Oohs? and ?Aahs? and ?Holy crap!? fly into his blank mind. The veteran opens one eye. Gives a chuckle which ends in a wheeze. More banter flies. ?Oh yeah? My arms are so big that my shirt would rip if I flexed.? Derisive laughter ensues.
A new voice interjects. ?Go flex to the aliens! I?m sure they?d be impressed.?
A moment of sobriety.
The sergeant returns to his meditative state. Expecting peace and quiet for a little while yet. He is wrong.
A deafening cheer invades his sea of blankness. Wearily he opens his eyes. His boys are hiding their fear behind juvenile antics. Steady streams of urine steams towards the invaders. They turn around. In the greatest traditions of Braveheart, they give the uncomprehending aliens the universal message for, ?F**k Off?.
The aliens don?t take the hint. Maybe they?ll gain from Earth a Scottish sense of humour.
One of the boy soldiers leaps out of their trench, a meager protection. Catcalls, jeers and hoots follow his bare-buttock run. He wields his carbon rifle with carelessness. Pulses spray the incoming gargantuan.
They are as ineffectual as a water pistol. With a cold air of contempt, an alien carefully takes aim and blows the boy?s head apart. Gory and bloody blobs of charred flesh fly everywhere. Earth is enriched further. But no one will be around to benefit from it.
The boys are not fazed. Like ants, they prepare to assault their human oppressors. An uproar is raised. Their war cries of Earth buoy them onwards. The aliens halt their monstrous machine, impassively watching.
The veteran stands up, and joins his men. One last charge. The Ride of the Valkyries. A footnote in the aliens? history. Maybe even a chapter.
But boys will still be boys.