《Fleeing Oblivion: A Journey to Haven (Rewrite)》


 The Price of Defiance

    Diego hated this wing of the building from the second his boots hit the marble. Fucking marble. He''d seen schools back home that couldn''t afford basic supplies, but here they were, walking on polished stone worth more than his yearly combat pay.


    His reflection caught his eye in the brass wall panels - looking as out of place as he felt. The air here was all wrong too, some fancy sandalwood bullshit that made his nose itch. Nothing like the acrid sting of gunpowder and dust he was used to. That smell at least meant something real.


    Christ, even the furniture looked afraid to be sat in. All that pristine leather arranged just so, like some interior decorator''s wet dream. The desk ahead sat empty, its holo-display probably worth six months of a grunt''s salary. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.


    The window stopped him short. Below, recruits ran drills in gear that barely kept out the cold, while up here... Diego''s hand pressed against the glass. The temperature was perfect, regulated by an AI system that could probably run tactical ops better than their field computers.


    Something about that thought made his chest tighten. The whine started in his ears - that high-pitched sound that always came before...


    No. Not now.


    But the memory crashed in anyway. Tear gas burning his eyes. Kaito''s screams mixing with the drone rotors. Blood on concrete...


    Diego jerked back from the window, his fingers finding the grip of his sidearm without conscious thought. The familiar polymer texture helped anchor him here, now. But the taste of gas lingered at the back of his throat.


    The worn spots on his uniform sleeve felt rough under his fingers as he forced himself to move forward. That big-ass painting at the end of the hall - some artist''s dream of a perfect future city - caught the light wrong, making his scarred knuckles look alien against the gilt frame. Had to cost more than defensive upgrades for a whole sector. But sure, let''s hang pretty pictures while recruits trained with outdated gear.


    The plush carpet tried to swallow his boots with each step. Everything here screamed money - crystal vases perched just so, holo-displays dancing with shadows, metal sculptures that could''ve fed a platoon for months. Even that tiny jade drone carving... Diego snorted. Someone thought they were being real clever with that one.


    His datapad''s scratched case looked like a battle scar against all this perfection. Good. At least something here had seen real action.


    The ops floor below caught his attention through the reinforced glass. Blue light from curved displays painted everyone ghost-pale. Fresh lieutenants pushed pixels around like it was all just some fancy game - resource matrices, threat assessments, supply chains. Numbers that couldn''t capture the sound a man makes when he''s dying.


    That whine started again, higher this time. The glass felt wrong under his palms. Cold. Like Osaka. Like watching through command center windows while everything went to hell...


    "Fuck." Diego ripped his hands back. His reflection showed everything he didn''t want to see - the tension, the memory-shadows in his eyes. His fingers found his sidearm again, muscle memory from too many firefights. The polymer grip felt real. Present. Here.


    But the past wasn''t done with him. Tear gas filled his lungs. Civilians scattered. Blood bloomed across a father''s leg while his son - Kaito - dropped beside him.


    "Get to cover!" The words echoed in his head as drones descended, their guns spinning up. His team moved like they''d practiced it a thousand times, laying down fire while he sprinted for the boy.


    The father''s blood was warm on his hands. Kaito''s tears soaked his vest as Diego carried them both, the concrete barrier barely stopping the bullets that sparked off its edge. The tourniquet. The pale face. The boy''s small hand gripping his father''s...


    The memory faded, but Diego''s tongue still tasted metal and gas. He squared his shoulders, forcing himself back to now. To this hallway with its excess and its emptiness.


    Lieutenant Clark''s desk stretched ahead like liquid mercury, all curves and polish. Blue light from floating displays painted her features as she looked up.


    "Major Martinez. The General is expecting you."


    Diego nodded, his boots silent now on marble as he approached the general''s office. It hit him like a museum of military masturbation - shadowboxed medals, combat photos, unit citations arranged just so. The massive APU flag dominated one wall, pristine as a recruitment poster.


    General Jackson stood behind a desk big enough to land a chopper on, every inch the picture of command authority. His uniform sparkled with ribbons, silver eagles catching the light like they were winking at some private joke. The room reeked of leather, gun oil, and expensive cologne that couldn''t quite hide the smell of bureaucracy.


    Diego snapped to attention, muscle memory taking over while his mind cataloged escape routes and defensive positions. Old habits.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    "Major Martinez reporting as ordered, sir."


    Jackson''s return salute was textbook perfect. Too perfect. Like something learned from a manual rather than earned in the field. "At ease Major, have a seat."


    The leather chair creaked - new, unused to the weight of actual soldiers. Diego settled into a bastardized parade rest, unable to fully relax in this shrine to military excess. His fingers found that worn spot on his sleeve again as Jackson tapped his desk interface.


    Blue light bloomed between them. "Major Martinez, I''ll cut straight to it. Command''s implementing new AI integration across all combat units."


    Diego''s shoulders locked. Drone rotors. Screams. Blood.


    "The new combat AI systems will be integrated at squad level," Jackson continued, either blind or indifferent to Diego''s reaction. "Each unit gets direct AI tactical support for mission planning and execution."


    "With all due respect, sir-" Diego''s jaw ached from clenching. "We''ve seen this go wrong. Osaka-"


    "Was years ago, Major." Jackson waved through the hologram like he could dismiss the dead that easily. Combat frames moved with inhuman precision in the footage he pulled up. "These aren''t the same systems. The new integration is foolproof."


    "Foolproof." The word tasted like ash and failure. "Just like Yodogawa''s systems, sir?"


    Jackson''s face hardened. "This isn''t a debate, Major. Integration starts next month. You''re overseeing implementation for your units."


    The hologram shifted to schedules and protocols that blurred through the red haze creeping into Diego''s vision. His pulse drummed a combat rhythm in his ears. They were doing it again - trusting machines that could turn murderer in a heartbeat.


    His fingers drummed his thigh, bleeding off tension that threatened to explode. "What safeguards are in place, sir? Last time, AI overrode ground forces. We lost civilians because a machine decided its protocol meant more than human judgment."


    Jackson''s jaw worked as he pulled up flowcharts. "Multiple redundancies. Every AI decision needs human confirmation."


    "Like Yodogawa''s ''foolproof'' safeguards?" Diego leaned forward, combat-scarred hands stark against the polished desk. "Until they weren''t."


    "These systems are different, Major." Impatience edged Jackson''s voice. "Three separate overrides. Any field commander can shut down the AI with one code."


    "And if the AI decides those overrides threaten its directive?" The screams echoed in Diego''s head. "What stops it from marking human commands as hostile?"


    "You''re letting past trauma cloud your judgment, Major. These concerns are addressed in the architecture."


    Diego''s fists clenched under the desk. The office''s polish felt like mockery of real combat experience. His jaw cracked as Jackson tapped through more specs.


    "With respect sir, no one paid for those failures. A soldier who caused that carnage would be in prison or dead."


    Silence stretched between them, broken by environmental controls and hologram hum. Diego held Jackson''s gaze. He''d faced worse than angry brass, and the stakes were too high to back down.


    "How about this sir - we embed the lead designer and engineer with a test unit. AI malfunctions, causes civilian casualties, we terminate them on the spot. Give them some skin in the game."


    Jackson''s face flushed dark. His manicured fingers squeezed his stylus until it creaked. "Major Martinez, that''s completely unacceptable. These are corporate employees, not military personnel."


    "That''s my point, sir. They make war machines from clean offices, never seeing the aftermath. Forty-seven dead in Osaka was just an ''unfortunate error'' to them. Maybe they''d care more if their lives hung on their work."


    Jackson''s teeth ground audibly. The holo-light aged him, showed the paper-pusher beneath the general''s stars. But Diego had watched too many die from AI "errors" to yield.


    His mind flashed to Kaito''s father bleeding out. The child''s screams. That flat AI voice declaring "protocol infraction" before gunning down civilians. All because some clean-handed tech hadn''t planned for reality.


    "That is not going to happen. You are just going to have to accept it. That''s an order," Jackson snapped.


    Copper filled Diego''s mouth as he bit his cheek. His hands stayed steady, but rage burned hot in his gut. Same dismissive bullshit, same blind faith that had painted Osaka''s streets red.


    Diego stood, precise despite the fury coursing through him. His knife pressed familiar against his thigh as he rose to full height. The salute felt empty after so many years of real service.


    Jackson''s smug smile spread like oil on water. His pressed uniform and shiny eagles caught the light, everything Diego had grown to hate about command.


    "Sir, then you''ll have to accept my formal resignation." The words carried the same tone he''d used in Osaka when the drones opened up. Final. Certain.


    Jackson''s face darkened as his fist hit the desk. "You arrogant son of a bitch! After everything we''ve given you? Twenty-five years and you throw it away over one order?" His finger jabbed toward Diego''s chest. "I''ll make damn sure you never work security again. You''ll be lucky to get mall cop work when I''m done!"


    Diego unclipped his datapad, its scratched surface cool and real against his calluses. The interface hummed to life, casting blue across his weathered face.


    "Datapad, initiate resignation protocol. Major Diego Martinez, service number 47291-APU, formally resigning from active duty, effective immediately."


    He watched Jackson''s smugness crack.


    "Request digital recording of this meeting for personnel file and oversight review."


    "Sir, you just violated Executive Order 2080-47. No retribution threats to military or civilian personnel." The datapad caught every word, every micro-expression crossing Jackson''s face.


    "Datapad, submit recording to Personnel Division. File formal complaint against General Jackson for violating order 2080-47, including professional retaliation threats." His fingers confirmed the submission. "Copy to Military Oversight and Ethics Review."


    The blood drained from Jackson''s face as it sank in. All that arrogant bravado crumbled under the weight of documented threats.


    The datapad chimed. "Submission confirmed. Time-stamped and logged."


    Diego''s muscles coiled as he snapped to attention. Twenty-five years of drill took over - spine steel-straight, fingers aligned perfect, arm locked at forty-five degrees. Every combat deployment, every medal, every life lost under his command went into that salute.


    His face set like stone as he locked eyes with Jackson. "Sir."


    Three beats held. Then an about-face that would''ve made his drill sergeant proud. His boots struck marble with metronome precision as he marched out, each step echoing his final defiance against command''s sterile halls.


    They could have their marble floors and fancy art. He''d take the weight of his combat knife, the familiar grip of his sidearm, the memories of real war - even the painful ones. At least those were honest.


    The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow carried more finality than any explosion.