"We're meant to fight for our lives out here," Pieter said to the convict next to him. "They tell us valor will win us freedom, but we all know how this is going to end. We're cannon fodder. Nothing but trash for them to toss away as their nobles steal the credit."

Maximillian - called Maxi in the cells - didn't bother to argue. No one knew about his background. Now that they were out on a battlefield, there was even less reason to explain it to anyone. If he was going to get shot, he wanted it to be in the front, not the back.

All of the chaos, however, was a sobering experience. For nobles, war was always a sport. A privilege that you earned, not a risk. Nobles were never the ones dying, and after spending three months in trenches with a penal battalion Maximillian understood that it was by design. Nobles didn't want to be the ones manning artillery or shooting rifles across No Man's Land or running through eighteen year olds with bayonets. They wanted to be the tide-turners. The backbreakers. The people who would win the war and march home to thunderous applause and adoration.

Maximillian couldn't really blame them, though. He was a noble. After spending a month in jail, two months in army training, and three months in the misery that came after, he realized that man's greatest motivation is to prevent themselves from dying as long as possible. He had never changed from his mindset as a noble, he just hadn't been aware enough in the past to understand what his thoughts actually were.

"Enough of that gibbering, Pieter," another convict, Marko, said. He was the "officer" of Maximillian's squad. A group that had started as twenty men, now reduced to eight. "The Ponties-" soldiers loved their slurs - "are going to attack our position in an hour. You'd better hope the nobles get here in time with those Mounts of theirs, or we're going to be in a world of trouble."

"I'm just stating the obvious here, Marko," Pieter said. His lack of respect existed because Marko was only a de facto leader, forced in that position after the squad's initial "handler" had his organs evicted by an artillery shell. Command still hadn't gotten around to sending a new one.

"Would both of you be quiet?" Maximillian requested. "Goddess above, if you two would stop bickering all of the time maybe we would actually be able to hear them coming before they decide to drop into our hole. Wouldn't that be a blessing?"

Pieter sighed and pulled his canteen off of his belt. He took a swig. "You know, Maxi, I've neen meaning to ask you."

Marko rolled his eyes. "Here we go again."

"What did you even get locked up for in the first place?" Pieter asked earnestly, raising an eyebrow to emphasize the question. It wasn't the first time Maxi was asked, but it was the first time Pieter voiced the inquiry.

Maximillian felt the eyes and ears of other men prick up at the question. No one knew, and everyone who forced the issue wound up getting beaten. "It's not of any import to you," the noble said. "You don't even want to know. I promise."

"That bad, huh?" Pieter said tauntingly. "What, did you touch your-"

Surprisingly, Maximillian hadn't been the one to hit Pieter. "That's enough, you idiot," Marko hissed.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just... your face. You remind me of a nobleman who lorded over the area around my town before I got convicted," Pieter confessed, still catching himself from the smack he had received. "He was such a prick I can't help myself."

Message received, Maximillian thought.

Suddenly, Marko's curiosity was piqued. "Really? Enlighten us, Pieter, since you're so eager to share."

"Constant parties. Women. Alcohol. You name it. He was known for four counties as the greatest hedonist ever, and when he passed through the city he always looked disgusted, like he stepped in shit," Pieter recounted. "Only, the interesting thing about this guy was that he was surprisingly competent. He was great at running the place. The whole time he was in charge peasant taxes were never raised."

"How'd he afford all the parties, then?" Marko asked.

"He taxed the guilds. Shame on him, though, because that got him axed. Apparently the rich bastards didn't like all of his hijinks so they assassinated him and replaced him with one of his daughters. Her name was Penelope, I think."

Marko snickered. "How'd she do?"

"I didn't stick around long enough to find out. I got caught stabbing a guy for groping a barmaid and look where I wound up," Pieter ended his tale. "No good deed goes unpunished, I'll tell you that."

"Amen," Marko said. "What do you think, Maxi? Is Pieter making this up or-"

His sentence was cut off by a bullet landing between his feet. For a moment, all eight gathered men just stared at the hole, understanding what it meant but still somehow needing to process it.

"We're under attack!" a man shouted. Maximillian didn't see who said it, but muscle memory sent him flying to cover. He heard bullets starting to fly, and artillery picked up, sending dirt and shrapnel flying overhead. The trench did its job, keeping the inhabitants sheltered from the worst of it.

Another lesson Maximillian learned: Always wear your helmet.

The Ponties came like termites. For every one Maximillian killed, another popped up right behind him. They reached the trench.

Maximillian stabbed one through with his bayonet, and dodged to the side as another thrusted. A swift tackle send both flying into the mud, and he grabbed his opponent by the throat and pushed him into the mud. When the other man stopped moving, he had no idea whether he had killed someone or not.

Soon the Ponties were swarming back, another ten dead or wounded littering the trench and the space right outside it. Marko was grazed by a bullet, and another man shot dead, but the line held.

"Looks like we held it again, boys-" a man started to say. He died.

A Noble Mount wasn't a horse. It was a weapon platform meant to shield a noble from all but the most powerful, devastating weaponry. In an era where bolt-action rifles were still common, the technology necessary for creating one sould have been impossible.

Yet they existed all the same.

The Mount hopped in the trench and crushed a man's head by slamming him against the wall. Marko took one look at it and shouted, "Run!"

They ran. Pieter slipped. Foolishly, Maximillian stopped to help him. If he had kept running, he would have been fine, but somewhere in his heart the noble harbored some affection for the men he shared his filthy hole with. He picked up the fallen convict and took a shot at the Mount, which bounced harmlessly off the helmet.

"Go, go!" Maximillian cried.

A ball of plasma annihilated a wooden beam holding the trench together in front of them. Pieter and Maximillian were left isolated from their comrades with a Mount at their back.

"Done running?" the Mount said, its voice electronic and hollow.

"Goddess above," Pieter cursed.

"Have any grenades on you?" Maximillian asked.

"No. I used the last one. On the Ponties earlier."

"I hope you're ready to die, then."

"Oh, well. I already knew it was coming. I would have liked to kiss one more girl before I died, th-"

The Mount in front of them suddenly stopped. "Wait a minute, you're not supposed to be alive," it said. It took off its helmet, revealing a young woman. She couldn't have been older than sixteen. "Father?"

It wasn't her face that he remembered well. It was her voice. "Penelope?" he asked.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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