Characters: Mike Jones
'How long have I been here?' he thought to himself. All around him, the sounds of battle prevailed. Deep explosions rocked the earth, light pings danced off the far walls creating an infinite tapestry of pot marks on once clear walls. His hiding place was a wall similar to all the rest, and just as pot mark-ridden. Only a few holes allowed light to bleed through to his side. And luckily, none of those hole were around him.
The war had been going on for days. It was a terrible situation; nothing other than conquring a people for the purpose of enslaving them and ruling their lands. It sickened him to think of it. Neither side had been gaining much ground, and it was obvious the war was coming to an end. Did war get defined by how long it lasted? A week long war seemed insignificant in the fabric of time, but the number of lives lost in such a time... It pained him to think of all the lives lost in the last few days. A number of cities had been destroyed, some to the point where they were even uninhabitable.
A piece of wall in front of him shattered, covering him with debris. Without looking, he pointed his weapon around the corner and shot into the storm. He was satisfied to hear a liquid choked scream follow. The feeling of satisfaction caught him off guard, however. 'Has fighting, even for such a small space of time, turned me into a monster as well?'
Stupid question.
He was always a monster. A monster with a conscience. How ironic. His mere existence disgusted him. It was a painful dichotomy. Michael was "born" only to fulfill one purpose: To save these people. Saving people is one thing. He could save people all day, every day. Running into burning buildings, jumping in front of traffic... Hell, even jumping in front of bullets. He could do that. He could do anything to save the people of this land. But what he was doing now was murder. Cold-blooded murder. It was second nature to him, unfortunately, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His ability to predict where an enemy was and to disable them was uncanny. And, if presented with a situation where he could save as many lives as possible, he would do so. However, the enemy made it difficult.
They were relentless. It was strange, because they no longer had the upper hand. It was like a bully who refused to back off. They couldn't surrender because that would be weak. Therefore, they were sacrificing themselves completely. And in their desperation, he kept having to destroy them. Including that last soldier, his death count-- no, his murder count-- was up to 12 people. Twelve breathing, loving, living men. Twelve people who were sons and lovers and brothers; twelve people who had lives and people who loved them and people who depended on them...
An explosion from directly on the other side of his protective wall rattled his thoughts. Screaming erupted, followed by cursing in his native language. He rolled his body down the wall and poked his weapon through one of the holes created by this new explosion and shot again. Thirteen now. The man pressed against the wall looked up at him with thankful, tear-filled eyes, and then began to pull himself away to safety.
As if any place was safe here.
Ending this war was simple to him. All he had to do was go in and destroy the main unit attacking. He was in the capital. This was all they had left. And act of desperation from rabid attackers. However, it wasn't that simple. Who was he to determine the fate of so many men? Yes, these men had chosen to steal and kill and take what wasn't rightfully theirs. Yes, these men had chosen to invade and create war and destruction. But, not the men who stood before him. Not these innocent soldiers who were merely doing what they believed in-- being patriotic and passionate. They were following the command of one man. And all he had to do was head right into the lion's den and kill that one man. One man had to die to save thousands, to end this bloody excursion. But how many would have to die before he reached his goal? How many men would give their lives to save their leader? Their destruction wasn't something he ready for... wasn't something he could sleep with at night.
The ground began to rumble more frequently, and light began to flicker from mortars along his left flank. Soon, he would be surrounded. He didn't have long to talk himself into it. Talking himself into it. It went against his programming to be compassionate and pacifistic. But, here he was. An anamoly of his kind. Could pacifism win wars? Could words alone save people? If they could, it wasn't his place to decide. It wasn't his place to make that happen. It was his place to create a world where that was possible.
Yes.
Through his destruction, he could create a world where pacifism was possible. Where people could live in peace. Well, at least his people. Yes. And he could go on and provide his services to the world... He could be the one monster in the world, the one monster the world needed to create a world without monsters. It would be lonely and practically insufferable... but, it was the only way he could live with what he'd done. What he was about to do.
Looking around, he suddenly noticed his people were retreating. The explosions were coming closer... Something must have---
An explosion ripped his world, sending the majority of the wall he hid behind flying in all directions as useless rubble. He never moved. The pieces of brick and cement tore at his skin, ripping away large chunks of flesh and revealing him for what he really was. He turned around to face his attacker. Before him, twenty men stood in their tracks, staring at him as though he were a monster spawned from the deepest hells.
He pulled his left hand up to his face, and felt it intact, but lacking skin, revealing a glistening metal interior. His eyes glowed a red, passionate despite his mechanical origins.
Now they knew what he was. Now they saw he was not man. Regrettably, he knew that his decision to become the monster the world didn't want, but needed, had already been made for him.
With an inhuman snarl, he launched himself at his attackers and began to prey for their souls.
Characters never come easily.
The war had been going on for days. It was a terrible situation; nothing other than conquring a people for the purpose of enslaving them and ruling their lands. It sickened him to think of it. Neither side had been gaining much ground, and it was obvious the war was coming to an end. Did war get defined by how long it lasted? A week long war seemed insignificant in the fabric of time, but the number of lives lost in such a time... It pained him to think of all the lives lost in the last few days. A number of cities had been destroyed, some to the point where they were even uninhabitable.
A piece of wall in front of him shattered, covering him with debris. Without looking, he pointed his weapon around the corner and shot into the storm. He was satisfied to hear a liquid choked scream follow. The feeling of satisfaction caught him off guard, however. 'Has fighting, even for such a small space of time, turned me into a monster as well?'
Stupid question.
He was always a monster. A monster with a conscience. How ironic. His mere existence disgusted him. It was a painful dichotomy. Michael was "born" only to fulfill one purpose: To save these people. Saving people is one thing. He could save people all day, every day. Running into burning buildings, jumping in front of traffic... Hell, even jumping in front of bullets. He could do that. He could do anything to save the people of this land. But what he was doing now was murder. Cold-blooded murder. It was second nature to him, unfortunately, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His ability to predict where an enemy was and to disable them was uncanny. And, if presented with a situation where he could save as many lives as possible, he would do so. However, the enemy made it difficult.
They were relentless. It was strange, because they no longer had the upper hand. It was like a bully who refused to back off. They couldn't surrender because that would be weak. Therefore, they were sacrificing themselves completely. And in their desperation, he kept having to destroy them. Including that last soldier, his death count-- no, his murder count-- was up to 12 people. Twelve breathing, loving, living men. Twelve people who were sons and lovers and brothers; twelve people who had lives and people who loved them and people who depended on them...
An explosion from directly on the other side of his protective wall rattled his thoughts. Screaming erupted, followed by cursing in his native language. He rolled his body down the wall and poked his weapon through one of the holes created by this new explosion and shot again. Thirteen now. The man pressed against the wall looked up at him with thankful, tear-filled eyes, and then began to pull himself away to safety.
As if any place was safe here.
Ending this war was simple to him. All he had to do was go in and destroy the main unit attacking. He was in the capital. This was all they had left. And act of desperation from rabid attackers. However, it wasn't that simple. Who was he to determine the fate of so many men? Yes, these men had chosen to steal and kill and take what wasn't rightfully theirs. Yes, these men had chosen to invade and create war and destruction. But, not the men who stood before him. Not these innocent soldiers who were merely doing what they believed in-- being patriotic and passionate. They were following the command of one man. And all he had to do was head right into the lion's den and kill that one man. One man had to die to save thousands, to end this bloody excursion. But how many would have to die before he reached his goal? How many men would give their lives to save their leader? Their destruction wasn't something he ready for... wasn't something he could sleep with at night.
The ground began to rumble more frequently, and light began to flicker from mortars along his left flank. Soon, he would be surrounded. He didn't have long to talk himself into it. Talking himself into it. It went against his programming to be compassionate and pacifistic. But, here he was. An anamoly of his kind. Could pacifism win wars? Could words alone save people? If they could, it wasn't his place to decide. It wasn't his place to make that happen. It was his place to create a world where that was possible.
Yes.
Through his destruction, he could create a world where pacifism was possible. Where people could live in peace. Well, at least his people. Yes. And he could go on and provide his services to the world... He could be the one monster in the world, the one monster the world needed to create a world without monsters. It would be lonely and practically insufferable... but, it was the only way he could live with what he'd done. What he was about to do.
Looking around, he suddenly noticed his people were retreating. The explosions were coming closer... Something must have---
An explosion ripped his world, sending the majority of the wall he hid behind flying in all directions as useless rubble. He never moved. The pieces of brick and cement tore at his skin, ripping away large chunks of flesh and revealing him for what he really was. He turned around to face his attacker. Before him, twenty men stood in their tracks, staring at him as though he were a monster spawned from the deepest hells.
He pulled his left hand up to his face, and felt it intact, but lacking skin, revealing a glistening metal interior. His eyes glowed a red, passionate despite his mechanical origins.
Now they knew what he was. Now they saw he was not man. Regrettably, he knew that his decision to become the monster the world didn't want, but needed, had already been made for him.
With an inhuman snarl, he launched himself at his attackers and began to prey for their souls.
Characters never come easily.