Part 2
The Cleaver
barracks is a cold place. What heating there is on only at its lowest setting.
Stops us getting soft. Makes us less likely to try and skip off duty early to
get back to a comfy bed. There’s only one section, men and what few women there
are bunk together. Cleavers don’t really have a gender.
You’re a
Cleaver first, and a human second.
It’s a tidy
life. Everything you are is contained in a two metre by three patch of tiled
floor. A spartan bed, a cabinet and a chest. Your uniform goes in the chest, you go in the
bed. The drawers are just for looks, a meagre concession to comfort.
The Cleaver
Captains bunk the same as the others. They’re the hardest, toughest and most
deadly of us. They look just the same though, so the enemy have to assume every
cleaver is as dangerous as the Captains. Most are, but some are worse. Like me.
the barracks was grim, and cold and unfeeling, built to mirror the people who dwelt there. a place to sleep rather than a place to live.
But we didn't mind. We didn't care. To care was to feel, and that was something no Cleaver could ever do.
