Despair--
Brock
--
I can feel another memory coming back on its own. I can feel it coming, but I have to stop it.
Private Ronas… he passed.
He passed, and then the same people who’d hurt him wanted to hurt me. A week after returning back to our base of operations, one of my sergeants asked me to grab a “file” for him out of a secluded room. I went into that room, and there they were. Ten soldiers, half of them grinning and half of them staring hard at me with blank expressions.
“It’s your fault,” one of them said. “Go ahead, say it. Tell us that it’s your fault, Brock. Say it.”
--
We send three drones beyond the red, metal door and into the following room.
Nothing. Three cameras clear a chamber of clear white tiles lined with grey. Sergeant Onaem hesitates before giving us the ‘ok
