dreams of
Floating. Dreadful loathing,
always the same, the thick warmth, the fine chains
green tendrils and sharp pistol-shot
running through the field where they died, trying to find peace and having
run out of time. The laughter peals, the blood soaks into the dirt, staining the grass, so much potential wasted
for someone's death-lust. It was all for nothing, wasn't it? Something? Who knew in that place
where everything was
labelled with kanji and questions. The only thing that was obvious was the true nature of the people you loved,
and even that was
fractured all to hell and back again
so he opened the door, not staying to watch the soldier leave, and went inside to warn them of the danger zones
being called. It wasn't hard to hear inside buildings at all, but perhaps someone didn't, sleeping or struck deaf
by one reason or another.
Human nature. One man was driving a long boning knife into another's gullet, twisting
it to rip the man's intestines, possibly puncturing a lung. Everything was stained red. Too late, but stupidly
frozen. He wanted to get out, instinct pulling him back from the smell of fresh blood, get out get out get out--
the man had a gun, and he raised it, fired three times. And his face was not his face but the Spider,
Sheila
Michael
It
Gabri--
falling, green eldritch tendrils of smoke pulling him into the earth, sucking the flesh from his muscles, his
bones, into the cold cold ground.
All is as it should be, said the man.
All is as it should be, and no more.
All is
---------
He wakes up screaming. Again.