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Karasuma has taught soldiers before, lined them up in clean, straight lines and explained to them a world of violence and strategy and death in the same no-nonsense tone that an accountant uses to describe taxes. There are benefits, Karasuma has explained. Strengths to be gained from espionage and warfare, from well thought out combat and a carefully timed assassination. All the ... the insignificant parts of you burn off, leaving behind a person who has hobbies and interests and an impressive gun impression that would make a dealer’s mouth water, but with none of the fat that clogs life up.
And there are losses, he always explains. There are parts of you that get clawed away with each mission, every death. With each breath in you tally them up, and sometimes the person who breathes out is someone you wish you didn’t recognise.
The difference between Karasuma and an accountant, Karasuma likes to think, is that this has never been about numbers. His men have always had names and faces, some of which he sees on the back of his eyelids each night before he clinically falls into an empty sleep. When a mission has called for it, he has been afforded the experience of men who have fought more battles than Karasuma has had nightmares. Instead of watching them age with grace as they drift into retirement, it is almost as though he watches time – their lives - dial back to zero. Karasuma has known many of them for years, then months, they days, then hours, then those last few minutes, seconds-
Sometimes, he has been assigned recruits who have barely passed through into manhood, eyes sharpened on their own wit but without the calm conviction that comes only from actual combat experience. Karasuma knows how all those desires and aspirations are shaped once the gun in your hand has cooled, and you realise that there is a totally different kind of blood on your hands.
It never washes off, not really.
Karasuma had wanted to be a teacher, once.
He doesn’t have experienced soldiers to work beside in this ridiculous scheme to save the world. He doesn’t even have young recruits to lead, bodies ready for wars their minds are still just a little too adolescent to comprehend. Karasuma feels that perhaps he might have stood a chance if he’d had either of those options available to him. Every enemy has its flaws, even those who can fly around the world in under a minute.
They don’t give him warships or soldiers, but a yearbook filled of dour photos and grim smiles.
Children.
He feels sick.
Karasuma reads through their files blankly, making short notes in the margins and locking away the slowly simmering anger that is bubbling behind his eyes and roaring through his ears. The children are a mish of childish skills and a mash of behavioural issues, and yet it is their head shots ...
So young. Too young. Scraped knees and thinly drawn mouths and obnoxious hair styles. He’s seen these same faces a thousand different times in the park across from his apartment.
He’s seen the same weariness in his men’s eyes after they’ve returned from a long, fruitless deployment.
So young.
Sharp minds.
Blunted experiences.
Reflexes born not from innateness but from always been targeted.
Ground down expectations.
Raw.
Potent.
Potential.
Too young.
Karasuma’s taps his fingers on the table, eyes distant.
It’s a particularly human trait to use children as bullets. The men Karasuma work for are just as willing to play this game for the world with tin soldiers as the alien is.
The tapping stops, and Karasuma’s eyes narrow into hardened slits.
No. These children have been picked for a wholly different reason. Bullets aren’t supposed to have teeth.
Somehow, in some way, they are its weakness.
He closes the files thoughtfully.
It's the alien's first mistake.
Karasuma petitions to become their assistant teacher the following day.