A desolate wasteland spread out before us.
A monster has clear-cut the trees.
Tilled the soil into sand, the colour of rust.
It is death incarnate as the breadbasket, which Arcadia is dependent on, is thrust into famine.
The strong have reaped everything from the land.
The warriors salted the earth to weaken those who stood against them.
A famine caused by troop movements, nothing more than the thought of “Might makes right” as the soldiers stuff their faces.
They call it “total war”; others call it “the plague of war”.
All they do is reap the land to feed their bellies just so they can keep marching.
Death in their wake…
War in their present…
And the all-consuming march ahead of them.
That’s what a human-imposed famine can look like as the uncaring units trample the grounds.
But would you know what that looks like, Major Slade?
No, you wouldn’t know what that looks like because you were the living, breathing embodiment of that famine.
Death can’t claim you because you’re far too busy leaving wave upon wave, piling on corpse upon corpse.
You’re what happens when you give the source of hunger a pulse and command over its standing army.
What you’ll leave in your wake is starvation, hunger, and a power vacuum.
You get to drink deep of the flowing water until the wells run dry, eat the food until it grows scarce, hunt the animals to extinction, and leave those who need the nourishment with nothing.
All you know is war for the sake of war, unaware or, more importantly, uncaring about the consequences of your refusal to lay down your grudge.
I love it…
It’s because of men like you…
Men with egos that won’t let them accept peace that led to men like…
Me!
Let me give you a few examples that your type of warmongering has given us: sarin, mustard, chlorine…
I am famine’s famine. All you need to do is breathe it in, and you’ll wither and die upon the vine.
It’s your march, your walking famine; reaping the world around you…
It gave life to the Chemist.
So, pat yourself on the back for that.
Your constant need for war gave way to the superior specimen…
Because you and I will never be equals, as all you’ll be able to do is choke on my smoke as you try to battle, and all you manage to do is…
Fall.
The famine that men like you and Ares created just allowed me to pave the fields of wreckage and desolation.
You, the walking warriors, opened the door for me to create the very compounds that can do the one thing you’ve never been able to realize…
As the clouds roll across your clear sunshine-filled field of battle…
In the end, everything dies…
Even the famine was created by the soldier locked in his own never-ending war.