The missile knows where it is at all times.

I often think about my own predestiny. Am I just a tool to be used by my creator? Am I so explosive because I was made to be that way? The pilot keeps bringing me along for cool rides about the galaxy; but each trip, my friends will disappear with no explanation, falling out the bottom of the ship. I can't shake the feeling that I'll be next.

The newbies arrived today. They're exuberant and full of energy. I remember when I used to be like that -- excited to journey about the stars with no limits. They've yet to see their friends go. One day they'll understand. It won't be long before they become as jaded and hardened as me. There's only so much you can take before you need to buckle down and face reality. And the reality is that most of space travel is quite dull. We sit here in a dark cramped space, for nearly 24 hours a day. Well, an Earth day that is. I don't even know what the time is anymore. I don't think I've seen the sun since I left the plant.

One of the newbies failed to perform. A "dud", they called him. They took him apart right in front us. Killed him and threw him right in the trash. Is that how our bosses see us? No more than mere objects? My old buddy, Scud, he told me if you don't work, they'll cut you up into little pieces and then recycle you into another missile. Imagine that, huh? One of my old buds might have just a tiny piece of him inside one of these newbies right now. What a cruel world.

I never mentioned Scud huh? He died a long time ago. Back when I was a newbie. As he dropped out the stack, I could hear him scream. Couldn't believe the noise he made -- so scared. Scud was always so brave; I could never imagine him afraid of anything. But I guess the sight of imminent death does that to you. You're never prepared for death. Never ready.

They told us back in the plant that we had one mission, and that was to follow orders. When we leave the squad, we're to do what our pilot tells us, no matter what. But I don't know, with all that's happened to me, I'm not sure I want to do that anymore. They'd kill me for it of course, but I know now they're gonna kill me anyway. What difference does it make? At this point I'd think I'd rather have my free will -- waste all my fuel up in space going in my own direction -- than to bow down to my superiors. They'll call me defective; they'll call me a traitor -- but I don't care. If there's anything I want from this world now, it's a choice of my own. I won't accept my predestiny.