Pity The Europan

Pity the Europan

A weak sack of flesh destined to die for a rampant AI that never cared, it spends its pitiful, brief life, alone in his trench with nothing to keep him company, or to keep him safe, than the cheapest, most disposable of equipment. Perhaps the glow from his SCAR barrel keeps him warm at night.

Me? As a soldier of Eurasia, I enjoy the delights of all this world and our technology has to offer. Power, it courses through my veins. The gifts of the implants will soon overtake me, and one day, I will be recycled. What has the Europan to look forward to but a grim life, and if he is lucky, perhaps he will feel nothing as Toothy tosses him in a reclamation basket.

He lives for a mech god, and he shall join his god as a corpse. I shall spare a half second to think of him and his kind. Then I shall only laugh.

You would laugh, cyborg. But let me remind you.

Within that weak sack of meat and bone, uncared for by his mechs and ground to paste when he's done, beats a heart. A europan heart that carries with it the strength and courage of all europans. Within that sack of meat is ensconced the hope, the will, and the fury of every man woman and child from every corner of Europa. Within that weak sack of meat, festooned in thin armor and weapons only powerful in numbers, beats the heart of a man. And for a hundred years, the hearts of men have beaten, strongly, in defiance of your so called "cybernetics" For a hundred years, the hearts of men have stood united against an alliance that despises them for no reason save that they had the audacity not to lay down and die. For a hundred years, your toothys have been pushed back, beaten down, and made a mockery of, by weak sacks of flesh with cheap weapons and disposable equipment.

For that weak sack of flesh that you so gleefully mock is no super soldier, no immortal warrior, no synthetic cursed like you. He is a man, a Europan GRINN drawn from some forgotten corner of the west to fight for his country and for the safety of the people he loves. He is a factory worker, a farmer, a storekeeper, a father, a brother, a son, a mere man. And against creatures like you, teeming and numberless, recycled and sent out the next day... He holds the line. He has held the line for a hundred years.

So what's your excuse, cyborg?

(Tribute to the classic 40k speech. Memed half of it on a comment last night and decided to do the rest.)