He rode into battle wearily, a worn-out man continuing a worn-out tradition. As much as he hated it, it was his duty towards society. To serve his fellow man, to fuel his great nation, he forced himself into that same worn path of history every day. In every direction he noticed men and women riding along the same path, wearing the same expression he wore now: boredom, depression, weariness.

He glanced over at his weapon, a dull brown box shining lazily in the sunlight. It was old and worn, but it had served him well for years. Despite its age, he saw no need to replace it. The same went for the transportation sitting below him. A two-ton metal beast, eyes shining like the sun, with a roar rivaling that of lions. At least, that’s what it had been, once, long ago. Now it was as worn as him, battered and broken by the unrelenting sameness that permeated the war. It no longer had an edge to its roar. One of its eyes no longer shone, and the other was quickly fading as well.
All around him his fellow soldiers rode all the same. Their beasts varied in shape and size, a result of years of evolution and of differing design. However they all did the same thing, and they all seemed to be clouded with the grayness of repetition, despite their vibrant colors.
Their march gradually slowed to a crawl, and he wondered if something had happened up ahead. An explosion, perhaps, or maybe one of the beasts had finally given in to exhaustion and had died. He would have settled for anything, as long as it was a break from normality. He welcomed it; the unknown, a force he formerly feared, had now become his friend, and he revered it for its ability to interest him. It seemed that abnormality was the only thing that interested him now. His former interest had all become a part of the schedule, destined to become part of the routine for all of his life on Earth until he was dead.
The pace picked up again, and he urged his beast forward once more. Even riding his steed brought no joy anymore. It was capable of such great speeds and yet he had become so accustomed to them that he no longer felt any excitement, any fear, in the danger of their abilities.
In an attempt once again to break the monotony he flipped a switch on his radio to listen to the daily broadcast. It blared monotonously, informing him of their tactics as they approached the front lines and the weather they should expect. He did not really listen, however. The man said the same thing every day, or so it seemed. He found no joy in the sun, no interest in the clouds, and the rain did not dampen his arid soul.
The march slowed once more. To his right, he noticed a soldier who, lost in thought, or perhaps depression, did not slow his beast. By the time the man had realized what was happening, he had already slammed into the soldier directly in front of him. Fortunately, the beasts were tough, and both soldiers were unharmed, if not a bit dazed. The man who had been hit dismounted and turned to confront the reckless soldier behind him, and soon both were lost in the heat of argument. He yearned for an argument. Something to spark fire in his empty mind.
He continued onward, leaving the yelling soldiers behind him. At last he arrived at the destination he had long since grown tired of seeing. Another day of weariness, of a tired routine that he loathed, but deemed necessary. He continued for the people, for the government, for himself. He was a warrior of society, fighting the ever raging war of the economy, and he despised rush hour traffic. But above of all else, he hated going to work. He sat back in his car and rubbed his temples slowly, as though it helped ease the pain of repetition. He sat in silence for a moment, then slowly he picked up his briefcase and once again resumed that awful routine.