Dream 4
Locke was standing on thin ice. This was not a metaphor. He was, quite literally, perched upon thin ice. There was nothing but whiteness that surrounded him. Upon first glance, the ice was flat, but further investigation proved that only the top was flat; he was standing upon a globe. He crouched down to the ice and looked closer at the drifting, blue shapes that were underneath.
They were bodies. Blue bodies, with blue smiles on blue lips, blue fingernails on blue fingers, blue, blue, blue... and some of them were familiar. He knew these people. He knew all of them. On some of them, the smiles looked foreign; they had never smiled in life. Some of them had bloody wounds, and others were too young to have even considered the evils of war.
There were footsteps behind him. Without even turning around, he made an educated guess. "Soldier?"
"That's right."
Locke nodded. "I recall my death."
"You may not when you awaken."
"It was gruesome."
"It was necessary."
Locke finally turned around to look at the soldier, and saw that he was lying on his side with his head propped up on the heel of one of his hands. His legs were crossed. "You realize what this is, do you not? If you choose to act on this, you will be playing God."
"God is dead."
"Oooh, God is dead. How subversive." The soldier scoffed. "That's old. Try again."
"I will kill God."
The soldier waggled his hand in the air. "That has a bit more zing to it, I admit. So? Are you going to do it? You will die too."
Locke closed his eyes against the throbbing pain behind his eyes. "Death is such a small cost for the truth. You only watch so many lives disappear meaninglessly before beginning to think that way."
"So you say. But what do you do?" The soldier stood up, and all humour faded from his voice. "It has been so long, and you have done nothing. Nothing! All is meaningless!"
"Not all," Locke said slowly. "Not all."
He lifted up his leg, and slammed his foot on the ice. It shattered, and he fell inside. The ice water encompassed his body, and he could feel it running down his throat, shooting up his sinuses, smothering him, choking him, swallowing him. The bodies inside fell out of the shattered ice and rolled off.
Above him, the soldier stood, the faintest of smiles on his face. At last, he took off his helmet, and Locke was somehow unsurprised to see his own face stare back at him. It was him, several years younger, with larger shoulders and a smoother brow and a larger head of hair, but those were the same blue eyes.
The soldier smiled at him, and unstrapped the gun from his back.
He leapt in after him.
They were bodies. Blue bodies, with blue smiles on blue lips, blue fingernails on blue fingers, blue, blue, blue... and some of them were familiar. He knew these people. He knew all of them. On some of them, the smiles looked foreign; they had never smiled in life. Some of them had bloody wounds, and others were too young to have even considered the evils of war.
There were footsteps behind him. Without even turning around, he made an educated guess. "Soldier?"
"That's right."
Locke nodded. "I recall my death."
"You may not when you awaken."
"It was gruesome."
"It was necessary."
Locke finally turned around to look at the soldier, and saw that he was lying on his side with his head propped up on the heel of one of his hands. His legs were crossed. "You realize what this is, do you not? If you choose to act on this, you will be playing God."
"God is dead."
"Oooh, God is dead. How subversive." The soldier scoffed. "That's old. Try again."
"I will kill God."
The soldier waggled his hand in the air. "That has a bit more zing to it, I admit. So? Are you going to do it? You will die too."
Locke closed his eyes against the throbbing pain behind his eyes. "Death is such a small cost for the truth. You only watch so many lives disappear meaninglessly before beginning to think that way."
"So you say. But what do you do?" The soldier stood up, and all humour faded from his voice. "It has been so long, and you have done nothing. Nothing! All is meaningless!"
"Not all," Locke said slowly. "Not all."
He lifted up his leg, and slammed his foot on the ice. It shattered, and he fell inside. The ice water encompassed his body, and he could feel it running down his throat, shooting up his sinuses, smothering him, choking him, swallowing him. The bodies inside fell out of the shattered ice and rolled off.
Above him, the soldier stood, the faintest of smiles on his face. At last, he took off his helmet, and Locke was somehow unsurprised to see his own face stare back at him. It was him, several years younger, with larger shoulders and a smoother brow and a larger head of hair, but those were the same blue eyes.
The soldier smiled at him, and unstrapped the gun from his back.
He leapt in after him.