Today, I'm on an outdoor assignment.
Recently, I was sentenced for killing a guard in solitary confinement—a judgment that feels excessive. The reason, they say, is that I've been away from the battlefield for too long, and the stress has built up.
The atmosphere seemed to suggest as much, and now I'm savoring the air of the outside world for the first time in ages.
"Fk youuuuuu!"
A voice came from my left.
I looked and saw a pickup truck barreling toward me. The driver was screaming, his face contorted with rage.
On impulse, I hurled a severed human head I was holding, as if pitching a baseball, straight at the truck.
Its speed far exceeded that of a baseball.
The head, now a projectile, shattered the truck's windshield and crushed the driver's skull. The cab looked like an exploded ketchup bottle.
Yet, the truck didn't slow down. It kept coming, perhaps driven by the driver's lingering grudge.
I didn't panic. I raised my left hand and waited.
As the truck closed in, I thrust my hand into its emblem, effortlessly absorbing the impact.
A heavy *thud* reverberated through my body.
The truck lurched forward, then screeched to a halt with a metallic crash.
"That's for Mikey! Die, Butcher!"
Another man emerged from the truck bed, aiming a machine gun at me.
The truck bed had been modified to mount a heavy machine gun, a .50 caliber. It was a makeshift combat vehicle, a technical.
Small arms fire would bounce off my Butcher's skin, but a heavy machine gun at close range would hurt—maybe even kill me if it hit the right spot.
I can't die yet.
A dark shadow fell over the gunman's face.
"—-!?"
He looked up, his face twisting in despair.
I had raised a massive blade.
Stupid… If he'd fired immediately, he might have landed a hit.
With the ease of splitting firewood, I swung the blade. It let out a *whoosh* as it cleaved the man and the vehicle in two.
Blood and oil mingled, spreading across the ground.
This blade is called the Butcher Knife—standard close-quarters weaponry for Butchers.
Calling it a knife is a misnomer; it's more like a giant cleaver or a great axe.
Its thick blade slices through thin metal like paper, and as you can see, a technical is no match for it.
I climbed onto the truck bed and removed the heavy machine gun. I spotted a squad approaching in the distance.
This is my advantage as an atypical Butcher. Normal Butchers can't repurpose human weapons—they're too dumb.
But I can.
And with my military experience, my aim is precise. I was a sniper, after all.
My vision is enhanced now, thanks to the paper bag on my head.
The Butcher Bag covers my head, looking like a square paper bag with eyeholes, but it's highly advanced. It softens my terrifying appearance, hides the control device on my temple, and provides various assists. Its defense capabilities are impressive.
I don't understand why it looks like a paper bag despite its high performance. Maybe it's alien aesthetics—or perhaps to lull humans into complacency. If so, they're cunning.
Humans do underestimate it, thinking it's just a paper bag.
They mock it, saying it's a "meat bag" to contain Butcher head fragments when they explode.
Even I didn't know it was this advanced until I became a Butcher.
By the way, Butchers' heads always explode when they die.
It's due to the control device on the temple. When a Butcher dies, the device detonates, blowing off their head.
Humans do something similar, destroying disabled weapons on the battlefield to prevent enemy capture.
As I thought this, I felt an itch on my temple.
I aimed the machine gun at the approaching squad, who were advancing in a dispersed formation.
One of them pointed at me, his mouth moving silently. He'd spotted me with the machine gun.
They froze.
I pulled the trigger without hesitation.
The rhythmic *rat-a-tat-tat* of gunfire was accompanied by *splat-splat-splat* as blood mist erupted. It was a scene Rambo would envy.
My aim was perfect.
Heavy machine gun rounds are the same as anti-materiel rifle bullets—like a familiar relative to me. With a Butcher's strength, the barrel doesn't waver, no muzzle jump. Combined with the Butcher Bag's assistance, it was like a machine gun sweep with a sniper's precision.
Left to right, I swept the squad.
I kept the smoking gun aimed, waiting to confirm no reinforcements were coming, then lowered it.
I sighed and turned around.
Corpses lay everywhere.
Two squads of humans I'd dispatched earlier were strewn about.
I don't take prisoners—it's my way of showing mercy, since death is better than capture. Unless they're the ones who betrayed me.
My mission was ambush and interception. It's done. Time to go.
As I turned to leave, the control device spoke:
"Capture survivors and return. Capture survivors and return."
This signal controls me, but it doesn't work on me. Still, ignoring it would cause trouble, so I must pretend to be under alien control.
I sighed, dragging the Butcher Knife through the blood-soaked ground, searching for survivors.
Severed torsos. Shattered skulls. Scattered flesh.
Then I spotted a twitch in the carnage.
As I approached, shaking the ground, the body remained face down, unmoving.
But it was futile. The Butcher Bag detects biological signs—a poor attempt at playing dead. Even without it, I could see his chest rise and fall, his fingers trembling slightly.
This man… he'd played dead while his comrades were slaughtered.
A dark, swirling anger boiled in my gut.
Resentment.
I, too, was betrayed by such a coward.
Back then, humans were losing. The alien-occupied city I'm in was once a human fortress.
It fell to the alien invasion. I was part of the defense, left behind.
Alone, I could've escaped. I was a scout then—evading encirclement was my specialty. But I wasn't alone; civilians and wounded soldiers were left too.
The cowards used them all as bait, retreating without warning.
In the end, I rescued less than a tenth of them. But I was satisfied. I was battle-weary and ready to die. I thought I'd done good work.
But I couldn't die.
I stood beside the coward, still feigning death. Couldn't he have directed that courage elsewhere?
I could take him prisoner…
I slowly shook my head, pretending to search for survivors, and placed my foot on the back of his head.
The small "uh" and the sensation of crushing an egg underfoot happened simultaneously.
An accidental kill, unconscious. Crushing him like worthless roadside trash. Proving he had no right to exist. This way, he'd die without regrets—worthless.
This is my kindness, proof of my remaining humanity.
No other survivors. Job done. Time to go.
I'll hide the machine gun on the way back. Bringing it would cause a fuss. Butchers are overpowered even for aliens, so they limit our weapons.
Normally, I'd abandon it here, but my alien handler—the Rasher—died early today, so I'm free to detour. Thanks to whoever killed him.
Disappear entirely? No.
The control device in my temple prevents that.
It's also a self-destruct mechanism.
With the Rasher dead, if I don't return to the facility within a set time, my brain will explode.
This is why I'm still under alien control. My top priority is disabling this device or seizing the control terminal.
"Capture survivors and return. Capture survivors and return."
The command comes from afar, even without a Rasher. Ignoring it likely means brain explosion.
Normally, they'd send a recovery team for a valuable weapon, right? But aliens just order me back. If I don't, I'm disposed of. Amateurish.
Today, humans launched multiple offensives—a large-scale push.
Other battlefields are likely similar.
Human forces are weakening.
Tonight, many prisoners will be taken.
I wonder which girl will come next.
Whoever it is, my actions remain the same.
I'll compassionately violate, comfort them to the brink, then shatter their minds before releasing them.
This is my kindness.
Girls must be treated like princesses.
I once heard tales of princes and princesses, vague memories of someone reading to me.
In a way, I'm now a prince among aliens, sending captured princesses to heaven, freeing them from hell.
See? My mind, retaining such kindness, is still sane.
I'm human.
A/N: A heavy machine gun can bisect a human body on impact. A technical is a makeshift vehicle with such a gun mounted on a pickup truck bed.
*Black Hawk Down* is a masterpiece.