The fight was over. The battlefield was now quiet, but it wasn't a peaceful quiet. It was the silence of death.
Smoke curled up from the broken ships, twisting in the cold wind. The ground was covered with bodies. Some were still moving slightly, but most were completely still. Sparks flew from the broken machines, and the wrecked metal moaned and groaned under its own weight. The air smelled of burnt wires and blood, a thick and strong smell you could almost taste.
I stood in the middle of it all. My hands were sticky with something warm. I was breathing normally, calmly. Too calmly. I should have felt something—like guilt, sadness, or even relief—but I felt nothing at all.
I clenched my hands into fists, but the empty feeling didn't go away. I looked down at the nearest body. It was a
