A row of ghostly shades facing a crumbling wall, with another seven shades standing ten…

A row of ghostly shades facing a crumbling wall, with another seven shades standing ten metres from them. A single person stands on the sideline.

Look at the people against the wall.

A host of men, probably in everyday clothes -- ragged from the conflict and covered in dust. They were not sitting (a common practice for executions in some nations), as demonstrated by the height level of the bullet holes.

They stand, facing the wall... It's impossible to discern any details about their personality or background.

Ordinary people -- familiar, each and every one of them.

Who were they?

Comrades. The forsaken, the wretched, who tried to rise against the horrors of the world.

Foreign dissidents, unwashed criminals, and hoi polloi. Such is your belief, officer.

Maybe you should change it. They were praying... screaming...

Leeches, fleas, and thieves. All the freeloader scum living off the hard work of others. Such is your belief.

Collateral damage on the path toward normalcy and progress. Such is your belief, officer.

You, your friends, your family. Everyone you had ever known. This was you.

Who was who in this execution? I need to understand.

At first the lieutenant doesn't say a word... he just stares at the wall. "I don't know," he says finally. "I don't know who died here, lined up beside that horrible wall. It could have been any of the parties involved in the Revolution."

"Perhaps the ones executed here were the loyalist-conservatives -- killed by the communists at the start of the civil war. Or it could have been the communists, put to death during the last stretch of the conflict by the Coalition forces."

Remember what Trant Heidelstam said about Feld.

"What if it was the Feld personnel when their assets were being seized by the revolutionaries?"

"Another likely scenario." The lieutenant nods.

Or maybe...

"What about people from the Coalition? The so-called moralists?"

"Yeah... it's very unlikely the Coalition forces were the ones who died here. They were always the last ones against the wall."

"To be honest, if a Coalition member was anyone in this situation -- it was the commandant. The superior giving the orders."

"You mentioned Coalition forces. Could it have been them against the wall?"

"It could even have been the employees of the Feld R&D Center down the coast, as their building was taken over by the revolutionaries."

I'm just a representation of your mental faculties... piecing together any available information. You should probably ask the lieutenant.

Look at the person standing on the side.

The commandant -- the one who gives the order. Machine gun fire crackling through the air, the lights of the muzzle flashes dancing on his face...

Good bye. [Leave.]

A cold sea wind blows away the figures.

Behind this building -- the other one. Once filled with engineers and designers of Feld Electric, now collapsed and dead, but for some rats... You feel drawn, for some reason, to the faded mural again.

"Kim, who was who in this execution?"

Look at the line of soldiers.

Seven men in combat uniforms and dark coats, holding automatic rifles aimed at the people. Soldiers from some side... but from which one?

Men of duty. Dark duty.

Who were they?

Murderers. Twisted by orders. Young boys forced into killing.

Martyrs of the Nation, the ardent knights. The few who had the guts to do this.

Overpriced mercenaries putting down some rabid dogs. Someone's gotta do it, right?

In all truth, violence offers no answer... It's only the last available resort when all mediation fails. And here, all did fail.

Soldiers... people in a bad spot they probably did not choose, ordered to commit acts they wanted no part of.

A scattering of bullet holes is spread across the cracked wall, reaching from one corner to the other.

Why this many bullet holes?

A row of ghostly shades stand facing the wall. There are many of them, a dozen at least, their heads lowered and eyes blindfolded. It's quiet. No sound, no movement.

Ten metres away -- other shades are lined up in an orderly manner, automatic rifles primed. A gust of wind blows by -- the coats of the firing squad flap slowly in the breeze. A single person stands on the side.

Droplets of rain fall on the wooden planks, the surrounding sand dunes. The clouds block out any rays of light...

A long time has passed since the moment of this fusillading. Rain and brine have since washed all the blood away. Not a trace remains.

What is this...

The abundance of bullet holes leads to two options: either an inordinate amount of executions were performed here, or they did not use a conscience round -- where only one soldier has the loaded rifle. Looks like this was a mass execution with everyone fully armed.

Snowflakes fall on the wooden planks and the surrounding sand dunes, covering the land with the white of innocence...

The morning sun rises beyond the horizon, radiating the first light of the day. The order was carried out at dawn.

The sun blazes high up in the sky... baking the planks, the sand, your skin. The order was carried out in the afternoon.

The sun falls slowly toward the horizon... the last light of the day. The order was carried out in the evening.

It's dark, very dark... faint lights flicker at the edge of your vision. It's rare for the order to be carried out at night...

Unable to piece together the big picture just now. There's a hole in the hypothesis.

I'm dumb.

The scattering of bullet holes looks like one giant smiling mouth. Smiling its deadly smile. Laughing at you and the world and the living.

Fine. Okay.

The scattering of bullet holes looks like one giant smiling mouth. Smiling its deadly smile.

"Oh my god, look at all these bullet holes! I haven't seen any other bullet holes in the walls before, somehow."

"Hmm, correct." The lieutenant examines the wall closely. "The density of the bullet holes is unusual, even in a general average bullet hole frequency in Martinaise sense. Grim affairs."