Just An Order 1 Just An Order The low morning sun is creeping along a horizon. This is the strange cold sun that isn’t warming earth up. The orange symbols across visor of my helmet are informing me what an ambient temperature is -13 C. It’s strange a little, I’m thinking. It was much warmer at the last night. The ground was dirt and we were, sometimes, knee-deep in it. Boots and wheels and blasts ploughed it up for hours, but by this moment it turned into stone due to cold. There are hardened furrows and craters all over here, and you can easily break your legs here. The sun. The dirt. The melancholy. The rifle is across my lap. AFTER almost always looks like this way. Though sometimes, there’re stars or some kind of moon in the sky instead a sun. And dirt not always freezes into stone. I’m absentmindedly looking at my boots. They’re looking like two ugly lumps of whitish dirt. The dirt has red-brown blood streaks and covered with spots of soot. The blood. It was so much at the last night. Whose it? I can’t say sure. Or can I? The short flash back in my memory. My boot is running into a visor of someone's helmet. The soft crunch of plastic-metal. The squelch crunch of facial skeleton. An enemy is dying quickly and silently. Was that at last night? Or was that at one of ones? There is a smoking transport ship at about hundred and fifty meters on the left. The red figures across visor are notifying me about changing of air composition as breeze turns to me. The combinations of chemical elements are connecting in smells of the burning propellant, the melted metal and the charred, over roasted organic matter. I know these morning smells, though I can’t catch them. The sensors of helmet long ago became sense organs for me. And these are typical smells of my morning expressed with figures and symbols.