My name is Fredrick Heinz. I once belonged to the 5th Imperial Rifles Regiment, during the 2nd Europan war.

You may remember me as a villain. The stories of the baby killer and a rapists are wide spread. Sometimes, I'm seen as a cannibal, other times as a monster, not even human. Your thoughts are deserved. I did fight for an ideology, for a cause, that wasn't right and though it's indoctrination followed me through my earlier years, it has long since left now that I've lived in Gallia and saw my enemy face to face.

But please, listen to me. For I once thought that you all were nothing but savages, barely worth the space you take up. That all a Gallian was good for was sex and slavery. But now I see my mistake. All I ask is for you to look past my past and know who I am.

Know that I am a man, a human man. The only thing different from you is how God put us together.

I grew up in a military family. My father was a sergeant in the first war. We lived in a small village, so small that the mapmakers of the Empire never bothered to mark it on the map. I spent most of my life in the village, learning the tools of working on the farm as there was never much time to play with my peers.

It wasn't until I was sixteen that I met the man I would fight with during the war. He was rather tall for a country bumpkin. He had blond hair and blue eyes and looked as if he was a long lost heir to the throne. The girls of the village always flocked to him whenever they could.

I was out in town when I met the devilish rogue named Victor. Father had requested that I sell the harvest and I was happy to oblige. That year, our crop had a bountiful payout and I was happy to return home when I heard a commotion. Being a good young man like myself, I had to see what had happened.

And there he was. Victor, the rake of the village, being assaulted by a sweet young gem. She was shouting insults at him. I would later come to discover that Victor was not the most honest man, but at the time I had no idea. Should I have known that Victor was caught cheating on her, I might've ignored it and let her beat him to death with that rolling pin.

Instead, being the ignorant good samaritin, I came between the angry betty and the cowardly giant. After counseling the girl, who of course being taught in her wicked ways refused to tell me the problem, she agreed not to kill him in exchange for an apology. Now it was Victor's turn to face my stern face. He quickly uttered his apology to the girl. Content, the girl carried on her way. This was, of course, not before she threw the rolling pin at Victor for a comment unbecoming of a gentleman.

He walked with me, for fear that the moment I left her sight the girl would be renewed in her fury and descend on him with another rolling pin. It was here I discovered that Victor was the bastard of a nobleman, though he doesn't know which. A friendship was developed that day and only strengthened with the continuation of time.

And when the day came that we had to go defend our home against the Federation, we signed up together.

Training in the Imperial legion was always interesting. Most of the time was dedicated to growing our muscles so we could fit in our armor. The rest of it was divided by our specialties which were assigned after the first day when we spent the day seeing what we would be doing during the war.

I had a keen eyesight and had the choice between sniper and scout. I decided to become a sniper as I believed I could do the Scout's job better with a scope. My days were dedicated to the art of camouflage, shooting targets, and staying hidden while I was shooting. I found it easy, especially with my time helping out on the farm, keeping the wolves away from our livestock. I recalled how the wolves would either run away or, if they saw me, would start to attack, not too different from a human that finds an enemy sniper.

The different was that the wolves didn't have guns.

My brute of a friend Victor had volunteered for Shock trooper training. He would explain that their training took our basic one to a max, mostly training them to carry the heavier armor they wear, their guns, and the sheer amount of ammo they take with them. After looking at him after we were finished training, it was almost amazing that he was still unburdened.

Though, I suppose that had more to do with his adultery than his looks.

After the grueling 18 weeks of training, we were ready to serve. Our unit was sent to reinforce the 5th Imperial Rifle Regiment just before the invasion of Gallia. For a while, I was under the impression that had fallen on our ranks alike a virus. I believed that the nation of Gallia was about to fall, that it would be crushed under the weight of the Empire.

And were it not for those gallant school boys and country girls in the Gallian militia, they would've fallen. Even in peace, so it seems, many Imperial soldiers have nightmares about the tenacity of the militia from Gallia. So brave, so few, rushing our gun emplacements with no hope of success and somehow carrying the day because they know if they fell, Gallia would fall.

Sounds almost romantic, doesn't it?

But war is a terrible thing, one most people are fortunate enough to see. The glory promised by recruitment drives quickly shatters when you're met with the screams of the dead and dying, the bullets whizzing through the air, and look of shock, then pain, as your enemy falls.

I suppose that's why we always fought with our visors down, so that when it was our turn to die our friends don't see our face as we fall dead on the bloody Gallian Earth.

Though I fought throughout Gallia, two stories haunt me to this day.

During the battle of the Barious desert region, we engaged members of the Gallian militia. Prince Maximillian had some sort of interest there that I was too low to understand, but I suppose that Gallia is rich in more than just ragnite. Maybe he was after the historical artifacts to build his own tomb when he died.

We had a long defensive trench and fired upon the Gallians as they came from a small town, I suppose it's called. We were doing well, keeping the Gallian pinned until a wave of dust swept over the field. The Gallian, using this as a prime opportunity, raced across the field and took our first line. Then our second line when a second sandstorm blew over the area.

When it was time for my trench to fall, I remember praying to god. There would be only one other time that I would feel just as frightened, which would come many years later. When the dust came over the trenches, I heard my commander order us to fix our bayonets and be prepared to fight hand to hand with the Gallians.

The first Gallian came up to meet me, bayonet fixed on his rifle as he jumped into the trench with me. We took a long second to stare each other in the eyes, fear in his eyes betraying the hatred on his face. My face, covered by my visor, no doubt read similar to his. I still remember coming to my senses first, plunging my knife into his heart. Pain took his face as he clutched the wound and fell, but my training kicked in. I stabbed him again before shooting him, killing that man instantly.

Another Gallian came over the trench, ready to return my stab but a burst of machine gun fire caught her and kicked her out of the trench. Victor, my best friend in the world, had found me. Back to back and side by side we fought until we heard the awful sound of tank treads. Was at that sound we looked at each other and decided that we should pull back.

Victor exited the trench first and I was right behind him when a wet substance splashed all over me and a heavy mass slammed me back down into the trench. Victor was lying on me, a massive hole in his back. His face looked up toward the sky as he laid, dead by the shot in his back.

I like to think he felt no pain, that the bullet had gotten him instantly. But I've seen shots like that through the scope of my rifle. I've seen them wither in agony for seconds, sometimes minutes, before they die. I still can't remember if he called my name or not, I just remember his face.

The face that had broken the hearts of so many women, the face that had wooed so many girls. He was gone. I can't remember for the life of me had I managed to escape that field, but the next thing I remember is holding Victor's dogtag in my hand and a letter from his bed.

It was addressed to that girl I saved him from many years ago. It turns out that they were in-love and betrothed for after the war. I suppose she must've been a very forgiving woman.

When I went home, I had found out she was killed when the Federation moved through our village. I imagine she must've been surprised when she Victor by the pearly gates, waiting for her. She may have cussed him out for hours before finally kissing him and letting St. Peter grant them admission.

I wouldn't know.

The second story is one that has gotten me some hatred for it. For it was I that pulled the fatal trigger than launched the bullet into the heart of an entire squad. The day I would come to regret and the day that I have attempted to pay for with my blood, sweat, and tears.

It was the Battle of Mulberry shores. My unit was sent to reinforce the defenses. Despite our quick speed, we failed to make it in time and linked up with retreating Imperial forces. With our combined strength, we thought about a plan to retake Mulberry. For that, we needed intel on the size of the force there, so my squad was selected.

We found a tank with a small squad near it. My squad leader had me take a position on the bluff over looking the square where they were. I did and peered through my rifle scope at the contingent. I caught a red-haired shock trooper walking towards the tank and set my sights on her when another figure caught my eye.

The girl was young, too young to be there. She was a teenager who had found herself in the Gallian militia. Around her neck, though I could've gathered from her complexion, was the Darcsen cloth that they hold so dear to them. The officer who I had been intending to shoot walked towards her and offered her a hand, though I couldn't understand was she was saying as I was too far away.

Nevertheless, I took aim at the officer. My crosshair was right on her back, at an angle that would've pierced her heart and killed her.

I still don't know what happened. I don't know how I missed so badly that I hit the other girl. All I know is that when I pulled the trigger, the Darcsens' eyes went wide and she fell, blood pouring from her wound as she laid dying, the officer desperately trying to save her life.

She was a child. She shouldn't've been there, she should've been back at home working to become something in her life. She should've lived her life, not fight against an overwhelming power.

But I suppose that's what makes you Gallians so powerful. Even your own children are taking up arms, guided by the hope of eternal sovereignty.

As you may have guessed, I survived the war. I came home to a destroyed town with almost no one left in the village. My father, pressed into service, was killed in defense of the village and my mother was caught in the crossfire. Houses were burned and the fields were destroyed. Even the livestock was not spared by the Federation's wrath as they killed those they didn't take, poisoning the remains as to not leave a single thing for the survivors. Those who survived looked at me with a look of pain, then sorrow. They saw the look in my eyes, the weight on my shoulders. They knew that I had seen war, and that I had failed to protect them. They were angry, jeering me as I walked through the village, hurling insults at me as if I was to blame.

I felt that I was.

It was my third day in my village when I finally decided fix up my old house. I desired a place more comfortable than my military bedroll that the Empire let me leave the army with. It wasn't razed like the other buildings, just looted. Cabinets were smashed on the floor, counters were split open, my mother's pottery was smashed on the floor or scattered over the field, probably used as target practice by bored Federation troops.

The only thing I wasn't able to do was replace the plates and other cooking wares that were lost to the raid. But after the house was just the way I remember it, I had a massive pile of lumber as I expected that I needed more than what I had actually needed. At first, I debated on upgrading the house, maybe building another room or a storage shed.

But then, I had another idea.

I took the lumber into the village and picked the first house I saw with a man walking out of it. I went over to it and started to clear the debris, marking the sights where the foundation would be while visualizing what I would make the house. The man, confused at first, watched as I began the monsturous task of setting down the foundation for a new house. As I did, I felt a crowd watching me. I remember as I build the supports for the house, dropping a hammer. When I climbed down the ladder, the man who I was helping offered it to me. I took it from him and thanked him.

For the rest of the day, the two of us worked together. The next, four people came and soon the entire village was helping rebuild our home. Work was slow, but by Christmas, everyone had a house to live in and by the onset of winter next year, our little village as back to how it used to be.

I smiled with pride at what we accomplished. We were destroyed, decimated, nearly wiped off the face of the Earth by an enemy that had hated us for existing, but we came back. We were stronger than ever and even had people come into the community on a daily basis.

In about two years, we went from nothing to thriving because of the efforts of those who remained.

After the village was completed and my moment of pride came up, I thought about that Gallian I had killed. Curiosity getting the better of me, I decided to pay a trip to Gallia not to apologize, as an apology would not bring the dead back, but to know the person I killed. Granted, I killed about forty people, but none of them stuck to me like that one did.

So I packed my bags, bid a farewell to my village, and set off on my quest to Gallia. First, I went to Mulberry. A monument to the Gallian dead was constructed there as were a list of the names of the fallen. As I read, I noticed that there wasn't a Darcsen name on the wall of the dead. I asked a local as to why there was a lack of Darcsens, not revealing that I had killed a few people on the wall, and he explained the Darcsens didn't fight in the war.

I had corrected him, revealing myself to be an Imperial soldier and saying that I saw Gallian Darcsens charging our lines and they were fiercer than anyone in all of Europa. He laughed at me and spit in my face, saying that was for the lie. He then berated me for being an Imperial soldier, spitting in my face again before walking away, laughing to himself.

As the Mullberry memorial had turned up no leaves, I decided to head to Randgriz where the national cemetery would be for the fallen heroes of Gallia. To my shock and disdain, there were also no Darcsen names for Darcsens had no last names and everyone there did.

It was there, standing amongst the dead of my enemies, that I had decided that I knew how to repay the family of the girl who I had killed. I would find the names of those Darcsens that had died and honor them someway, somehow.

It wasn't easy. The records of the Gallian militia were difficult to get into and my obviously Imperial accent and name raised questions as to my true intentions. I was arrested twice and watched by an officer, waiting for a sign that I was trying to contact someone in the Empire. When it became obvious I wasn't a spy, I was released.

It was my second time released from the station that a light would start to shine. When I left the prison, an elderly woman was standing there. She asked if I was the man who was trying to get into the Militia archives and I told her I was. She told me to come with her.

Capt. Eleanor Varrot, retired and now leading a publishing company, was a veteran from both the conflicts, the first and the second Europan War. She took me to a small café, about a block away from the detention cell. She asked me what my interest was in the Gallian Militia archives as I had appeared in the local news as an 'Imperial arrested for attempting to see Gallian Military Secrets'. I had told her my story, how I was a sniper during the war and killed a Darcsen that I wanted to know the name of. Eleanor studied me for a while before nodding and agreeing that it needed to be done. So the next time I requested to see the records, with the support of Capt. Varrot, they were granted. Once we got the documents, or copies of them at least, Varrot took me to another location and we enlisted the help of her husband, another Veteran named Largo.

The three of us poured over recruitment papers, finding names that didn't have last names and setting them aside. Once we had separated the suspected Darcsens from the rest of them, we proceeded to find the names of their squad leaders and what had happened to them. After compiling a list of survivors, we set out to recruit more people.

It was here that I met three more people. And Alicia and Welkin Gunther and a national icon named Bridgett Stark, though everyone called her Rosie. Together, the six of us hunted down these squad leaders. Those that could remember the Darcsens recalled their bravery and dedication to ridding the land of the Empire. Those that couldn't merely shrugged and said 'They're just Darcsens. Who cares if they lived or died?'

Once we had our list of names compiled, we debated on what monument to make. A few ideas came up before I presented mine. I told them my story, about that girl I had killed from the girl I had killed at Mulberry.

The next thing I knew, I was struggling to breathe as I was forced against a wall. Rosie's hand around my neck, strangling me. She was screaming at me, yelling at me, hitting me with her other hand before Largo and Eleanor pulled her off. She still tried to come at me as Welkin and Alicia stood by the table, shocked.

Once Rosie was restrained, Largo spoke to me, telling me that the name of the girl I had shot was Isara Gunther. He then said that they were all hurt when Isara was killed.

Welkin looked at me with a betrayed look in his eyes. The color drained from his face that the man who had worked so hard to memorialize the Darcsen had killed his own sister.

Once I had caught my breath and regained my stance, the right words came to me. I remember them as if they had just left my lips.

I said, "I could never apologize for what I did to your friend. An apology won't take away the pain I caused to you nor would it bring Isara back. That being said, I want to try and redeem myself and the way I can do that is memorializing her and her people."

"Why." Rosie replied, sitting in her chair, "Why wasn't it me?"

I didn't have an answer. It was supposed to be her after all. I told her as much, and I told her I didn't know why it wasn't her. Rosie, understandably so, rose again to try and kill me only for Varrot to quickly pulled her back down.

Rosie cried and Welkin still stood in shock. I decided that the best option was to bid them a fair night and leave and I did so.

A surprise came the next day when Rosie appeared at my hotel room. I had thought she came to kill me. Instead, we had breakfast at the same café Varrot took me two when I first met her. Rosie told me her story, about how she hated Isara for being a Darcsen, how Isara tried to be her friend, how she had come around to being her friend, and then Mulberry happened. Rosie told me about her own tribute to Isara, being her song and visiting her grave a few times a year.

I told her about Victor, how he died at the Barious desert. I never had such a struggle with him, but I understand what it's like to lose a friend in battle. What I thought, what I felt. Rosie looked at me, tears coming down her face. She told me that ever since that day, she wished the bullet hit her. She shared my sentiment that Isara didn't deserve to die, but felt worse now that she knew that it was her that I meant to hit.

I told her that I had once wished I had died in the war. If I could've turned back time, I would've died with Victor in that trench. But, I had lived. I then told her about my village and how I had lead the restoration effort for it. How I had turned a destroyed wasteland into a thriving village. I then told Rosie that she needs to find her own village to rebuild.

Our eyes met again. I saw her eyes go from sadness to determination. The monument the six of us were building, the one for all the slain Darcsens, that was her village. That was her way to move past the war. Together, the two of us got up and we went back to Largo's farm where the rest of our band of historians had spent the night.

Welkin looked at me and offered his hand. I took it and shook it as he said three words. "I forgive you." To this day, I don't think he understands how much those three words meant to me.

The next two days were spent designing Isara's statue. Once we had it down, we requested approval from Princess Cordellia herself. When she accepted this undertaking, we got to work, hiring a Darcsen stoneworker who had lost his father in the war [He died in an explosion, so it wasn't my fault this time].

You can still see his handiwork if you go to the Randgriz National Cemetery. Standing on top of a stone block is a young Darcsen woman, standing as a sentry over the ranks of the fallen. On the front of the statue are the words Honor the Fallen, no matter their skin. And on the back of it is a list of names and ranks, those Darcsens who had died in the war. The first name, the one spread across the top of it, was the name 'Isara Gunther'.

The statue has only been defaced once. The convicted was scrutinized across the country and even fled to the Empire. After it was cleaned, the entire cemetery was given an honor guard, a Darcsen unit that watches over the graves with Isara.

It's one of Gallia's most visited sights. Shortly after the statue came up, demands and petitions were signed to set up similar monuments, mostly by Darcsen communities. With the support of Varrot and Rosie, these petitions were agreed and Darcsen names were swiftly added to monuments where battles took place under the demand of the Princess of Gallia.

Largo and Varrot grew old together. Largo outlived Varrot by a day, both dying when they were in their 90's. Their children still run the farm today.

Alicia and Welkin gave birth to a little girl they named Isara. Isara particularly liked the statue in Randgriz and everytime they came, she would have a conversation with her late aunt.

I remained in Gallia and eventually became a citizen. I spent my last days as a novelist, tagging along with a friend as she toured the country as a singer. I like to think I helped the Darcsen civil rights movement, but I doubt anyone listened to an Imperial. I did, however, help ease tensions with my books, portraying the Imperials as humans and the Gallians as humans. My village liked to send me mail, telling me about how they're doing and how they would love it if I came to visit them, which I did when I eventually married some random Shocktrooper I missed during the war.

Rosie married some Imperial sniper who had missed her and brought a kid named 'Victor' into the world with him. Victor grew up supporting his father's ambitions for eased tensions and grew up to be a political figure head, bound to make laws to make Darcsens equal. He married Welkin's daughter and the two fought viciously for Darcsens.

I wanted to write this because I know I'm dying. Age has caught up with me now and I won't have the chance to share my story once I passed. I don't want someone else writing my legacy so here it is.

All I ask is that those who read this to look past what you may see on the surface, a villainous Imperial sniper that killed a sweet innocent girl during the war. I may not have made it up to those who were affected by Isara's death, but I devoted my life to trying.

I am but a single man. I make mistakes, I do evil things. But at the end of the day, I am human. Look to those that you hate and see them, realize they're just like you. A human with thoughts, feelings, lives and families. Don't let hatred make you lose your humanity.

If not for my sake, for the sake of those who died so you may live the way you do.