A Call to Arms

[John Doe]

"Was tuh awefissor, prablum?"

John Doe struggled to keep his balance as he stood in front of a young man. The man was suited with clumsily fitted military gear, seemingly thrown together in haste. "You can't be here, sir!" Doe bobbed his head around in response, taking a short glance at the man through thick, black shades. He quickly turned his attention towards the two half-finished bottles of liquor he held in his hands. "Sir?" The young man slowly reached for a riffle that hung by his shoulder. "I won't say it again, you can't be here!"

"Calm dawn, Jennurfer." With his left hand, Doe raised the bottle of liquor to his mouth, then leaned back and took a swig of the drink. He lost his footing for a moment, taking two short steps backwards before swinging forward again. "Was gawt yur pantees inna bawnch?" He noticed the young man had his riffle aimed at him, a slight tremble in its motion. Doe took a moment to get a better look at the man.

The young man seemed to be in his late teens, no older than 18. His hair was kept messy underneath his helmet, which had been leaning more towards the left side. He was dressed in light brown fatigues and carried an old riffle that had seen better days. Even in his drunken state, Doe could tell this man was part of a militia of some sort. Swishing his liquor inside his bottle, he took another gulp before asking "Ya inna war?"

The militiaman widened his eyes in surprise while trying to steady his weapon. "Don't you watch the fucking news!?" he blurted unprofessionally. Taking a short pause, the young man tried to explain the situation to Doe. But he wasn't listening to him. Instead, his eyes wandered around the area as he caught glimpses of images. More militiamen were running about, guns in hand, while large metal crates were being loaded with food and ammo. A few sharp dressed big shots were yelling at people and organizing soldiers into shuttles. Behind the young militiaman was an open cargo ship, filled with more metal crates that were stacked up to the ceiling of the cargo hold.

The images slowly faded away into a cloudy fuzz. Doe wasn't interested in any of these images anyway, but slowly stumbled over towards the outside of the nearby ship. He tripped over his own feet and spun around, hitting the door of the ship with his back. "Aren't you even fucking listening!?" Exasperated, the young soldier continued to aim his riffle at the overcoat wearing individual. Doe continued to ignore him, staring inside his empty bottle of alcohol. "Screw it, we don't have time for this. We need to get this ship mo-"

"Shutap!" In that instant, Doe swung the empty bottle against the door of the ship, breaking the bottom half into large, sharp shards. Still clutching the neck of the bottle, Doe thrust it into the young man's face, driving itself deep into his skull. The militiaman fell backwards in a heap, eyes and mouth wide open. "Ya killin' muh mood!" With a slight chuckle, Doe turned away from the corpse. He eyed the cargo ship's hold and, feeling tired, simply decided to call it a day. After climbing into the hold, Doe slowly raised his last bottle and took a refreshing swig from it. With nothing left to drink, Doe fell back onto one of the crates and quickly drifted into sleep.

As he drifted into slumber, the ship's doors closed and it began to rise. It sped off into the grey daylight, entering the blackness of space. The large cargo ship had a one way trip to Mercy to supply the militia forces there. The war to end all wars was at the end of the journey of this vesicle. As the ship entered hyperspace, Doe still slept, murmuring in his sleep. Little did John Doe know, but he wouldn't soon wake from his nightm-

"Boobs, heh heh heh..."

...