Helmets in the Sand

The setting sun casts its orange hue along the sand, lobbing sharp, offensive shadows, stretched long across the beach face.

At the edge the ocean breathes, its movements sporadic and labored.

Suddenly, the surf crashes against a cold, hollow object.

The water retreats, than approaches again with renewed vigor, determined to understand the obstacle.

Cautiousness soon gives in to curiosity.

It has tasted this object before. Long ago when strange machines traveled through her depths and along the surface above; it was then that it had come to know the object.

It was referred to as "helmet".

Its mesh is deteriorating, shredded in parts were a force had apparently erupted near the wearer's head.

It tasted faintly of blood, but not of any ocean creature. It is the blood of a land walker, one that stood aloft. "Man," it says to itself.

The fluid seeps through a hole in the rusted steel, intermingling with the remnants of hair and scalp.

In the back of the helmet lies a spent shot that had embedded itself in the fortification without rupturing the membrane.

What purpose had this helmet possibly served them?

Why had it been so long since it had flavored such things?

The fluid mosaic considers these matters as it rushes forward, dislodging the object from its place, then retreating again, the helmet rolling along the ocean floor in rhythm with the movement of the tides.

"Victory," it says to itself.