White-hot steel buildings stand on blistering grey cement slabs, which support the soles of many black boots. Camo green tanks tread over brown soil to the commander, standing in formal blue dress, facing a red sea of soldiers. Red uniforms were chosen to serve a purpose and make a point. Their numbers are such that they do not suppress their presence – they advertise it. They march toward faces purple in horror, faces of people who understand the purpose of the red uniform, and can see the point being made in front of them. So the people run. They run from the yellow stars shooting black holes as their families and friends fall into tan sand, left to burn under an orange sun. The commander’s suit was blue because his superiors expect him to express sadness and regret for what he has to command the soldiers to do. The commander smiles. He smiles his brightest blue. He will receive a golden medallion for his bravery and decisiveness. He contemplates his merits as his soldiers eat purple hearts. There is never a great struggle. Not anymore. The unfallen see the consequences of resistance. Every black day the soldiers in red fall, a nation sinks into the blue sea. There is no longer any resistance. The soldiers know this. After their meal, they dance through the streets to a violet tune, lazily assassinating heads of state and taking power with the grace and rhythm of a drunken white rhino in a glass cage. Upon return to the homestate, a committee of men and women in blue suits address them. The scarlet covered soldiers are informed that they have been convicted of war crimes. Their sentence is death. The process of execution is determined by a group comprised of surviving family members of the slaughtered. They do not need much time. It is decided. The soldiers are forced to eat their blood-soaked uniforms. As the last soldier turns blue choking on his red uniform, he can taste what he knows are not pennies. It is the change he has made.