I Am Sethkari.

It Is Not A Name.

We Are Not Given Those.

What Is A Person Without a Name?

A Thing.

An Object.

Property.

We Are The Sethkari.

We Are Weapons.

We Are Raging Fires.

We fought for years as nothing but a rifle. Aimed and fired. The enemy was not a concern. Enemy. Man. Woman. Child. Friend. Brother. Sister. They said the words and We obeyed.

We dared the fires of the Lastryn Rubicon. We broke the shields of the Callisto Moons and descended upon them to ravage and destroy. We died in the Olythian Corridor when our commanders threw us in waves against an enemy that was better and smarter than any of us.

We did not ask questions.

We fought, and we died.

We froze or burned on Herax. We drowned in the waves of Calliagh. We turned to dust when they launched Obliterator missiles, annihilating their own people along with the enemy. We marched forward. When we could go no further we were shot. Through a hail of plasma or a wave of bolt-rounds large enough to tear entire squads apart.

When they bombed the Juniper Starport we were left to die. Great gaping holes punched through the plasteel armour, and we were ripped out into the coldness of eternal darkness.

Abandoned.

Discarded.

The greatest of weapons. Tarnished by a thousand battles, culled, reforged, remade.

Murdered. Again and again.

Different people. Different lives. The Same.

Fight. Win. Culled. Begin Again.

An Endless Cycle.

I… Wanted More.

I Am Sethkari.