A single bird flew over the killing field. It was a raven, separated from it's murder. It's black plumage stood out from the crimson splatter on the ground. It looked down upon the once green fields, which even now were still being fought over by the petty humans.
It saw a tank roll through the knee deep piles of remains, spattering gore all about it in it's wake. It's slow, inexorable advance was marked by rapid and periodic fire from it's guns and turrets. The humans broke and ran, tripping among the entrails of their brethren and sliding through the carnage, but they ran. Another tank also pushed forward. And another, and another, and another...
There were many thousands of people there, and that was only the ones that the raven could see. They were trading bullets with each other, and every time they did there were fewer left to trade bullets. It slowly spiraled downward, spreading it's wings farther out. A single human caught it's eye, one holding aloft a bright metal sword.
Suddenly, the raven could no longer fly. It's wing was gone, replaced with a bloody stump. It cawed in pain and surprise, but still it fell. It plummeted toward the ground like a rock. It too, was soon dead, like so many others on the killing field.
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