The voice ordered, seething with rage in the back of his mind. It was always so violent, sometimes as much as pushing his rationality back to exert out anger to others. It wasn’t like him to be like this, and he hated the feeling of losing control of his thoughts and actions. Never did he think that signing up for war at the young age of 15 would also mean signing up to share a body with the pent-up rage that had eventually developed a consciousness.
(Years ago, the officer had taken one look at his child like face, and asked,
"How old are you, boy?"
Still a naive child, he replied truthfully.
"That's rather young. Get out and have a few more birthdays today before coming back.")
[I can’t. That’s my comrade.]
A loud hiss made itself heard, imaginary, yet so real. It made him wonder if this was, indeed, someone else living inside of his mind. Would it be polite to ask for name and consent?
[He does nothing good, you’re tired of him, I’m tired of him! Just kill him and leave. This kind of person doesn’t even deserve to serve. Besides, the war is already over! It’s not like they’ll need us anymore other than run errands and protect packaging.]
[… Stop making me see red again. I’m trying to keep cool.]
[Ugh, forget it. Let me handle this.]
The inexplicable force pushed him back, suddenly losing all control over his body parts but sight. A silent gasp, as he was forced into a strange sort of spectator mode, watching his body move, yet having not sent any signals for them to do so.
He watched as 'Naib' pulled his hair out of his usual ponytail, muttering something about it being way too tight for its own good, before gripping on the handle of the Gurkha blade.
[Stop. You’re going to get us in trouble.]
[Not if we run fast enough.]
A hand over the wasted figure’s gaping mouth, before metal met flesh. Petals of red bloomed on the man's tarnished uniform as the blade was pulled out with a soft grunt. There was little to no resistance. After all, the voice told him, it was the man’s own fault for being so damn drunk all the time.
Cleaning off his blade so that it was a clear as the moonlight once more, the boy grabbed onto the sill of the window, and hopped out.
He has been running in one direction for days now, discarding his uniform for something more casual (silencing the poor individual to exchange clothes in the process), laying low in a nearby town. Maybe if he worked for a while with a low profile retail job, he’d eventually save up enough for a flight. And then take it from there. No one wanted a runaway military in a country that wants him dead.
[Since we’re… going to live the rest of our lives together, what should I call you?]
[But that’s my name.]
[Does it look like I care?]
[…I’ll call you red. Because you’re always so angry.]
[My name is Naib.]
I’m Naib. Naib Subedar. I am a mercenary on the run.
Please take me in, Sir.