Damned…

And cast off…
To be left alone…
In a world so cruel…
And makes it a contradiction…
It walks along the barren wasteland, with nothing “hot” on its body except heavy, irreplaceable kevlar armor. This…“thing” that everyone considers is nothing less human than what it once was. It’s just different, like people that used to be born with alopecia or simple defects. Except, like the norm, it wasn’t born, it was made. It was made to fight with due diligence and unrelenting vigor to control a world that it considered their prize. It was made to kill those who resisted. Yet, as is so cruel of God, it didn’t see the desire to fight. It never felt the true loyalty to the Overseers as his peers did. He kept a face of true loyalty in order to stay alive, with the dream that maybe one day he could save this world from the terrors of fighting each other. 
Its name was Mark Alpha. 
He doesn’t know why he’s called Mark. He just thought thats what everyone else called him. Curiously, everyone else that he knew dear, and knew similar, was also named Mark and given a peculiar last name. Late one night, he researched on the past culture of the humans and found out that everyone that used to live, and is living, was given a last name. “Neat!” He thought to himself, but not really because free thoughts weren’t supposed to be thought. Except he could, for some reason. 
This free thinking came to true form when he was first deployed to a heavily contested “sector.” His peers all fearlessly hopped off the APC and immediately began to work, lugging around machine guns and mowing down wood and people alike. The wood structures stood no chance, and so did the people, as they were galvanized by heavy pulse rounds. He witnessed the carnage first-hand, and thought to himself that this shouldn’t be the way. Life wasn’t meant to be lived neither fearing death, nor causing it. 
What convinced him most of that thought, though, was what he saw during the clean-up.
He entered a wounded home, one of the only ones left remaining, and began to excavate the destroyed wood, debris, dented metal, and quarantine anything that could be considered dissonant. Moreover, he was tasked with “mopping up” dead bodies. 
As he entered a room, the door painted pink with butterflies, he saw the truly devilish nature of his actions.
A young girl, one of the only left remaining as he’d come to find out, was killed. 
Not just killed,
Pulverized from the neck down. 
That wasn’t it. Her mother was crying in the corner and holding one of the only things left remaining of her little girl. A teddy bear. 
Her sobbing became mute as she realized what walked in. The monstrous thing that killed her baby girl was standing in her room and examining the fruits of its labor. The thing would rear its ugly head and look at her with furious green eyes. The bluish-purple demon knelt down and reached a hand out to her, seemingly to offer her “help.” Why help her? This…thing…could easily snap her neck and leave her to die. She mustered up words, buried by grief, and spoke with the intent that the creature would leave her alone.
“You killed my daughter, and killed me too.”
With no other choice but to carry on his duty, he would unholster a pistol and fire one, painless round at her head. This being one of many confirmed kills tallied on his heads-up display. As he traveled out of the area, he thought long and hard. He spent many nights in the bunks of his forward base thinking of the morals the humans lived by. Was control meant to be held by killing? Why wasn’t there ever peace, and what can I do to restore that peace? 
Then, one night, he acted upon his free will and left the base. He abandoned all his weapons, his identification, and anything deemed hostile and began a journey of redemption. He wanted to meet with the humans, repent for his actions, and finally bring peace to the world. While he could not remember why he wanted peace, he wanted to see to it that there was. He wanted to redeem himself for all the terror he spread throughout his short life.
There would be no redemption, however, as his redeeming life was cut short by a short spurt of gunfire. As he lay wheezing, basking in the murky sun, he saw his makers. A crowd of Rebels examining his corpse. They were his killers.
His final thoughts were of many things, but one stood above all.
Acceptance.
No matter how hard he could have tried, nobody would paint him as a hero. Each tally of the fading HUD was a reminder of his true worth as a soldier. It wasn’t meant to ever be human, it was only meant to kill. Free will wouldn’t spare it from the goal its makers set upon him.
That goal was to control.
Not to set free.
Such is life.