GWOT Nightmare 2
Sep. 12th, 2018 11:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyBodhisattva vow: "Living beings are innumerable; I vow to save them all."
“Whoever kills a person [unjustly] it is as though he has killed all mankind. And whoever saves a life, it is as though he had saved all mankind.” (Qur’an, 5:32)
I am in full battle gear. But my magazines are all empty and my first aid kit is as well.
I am mobbed by people. They are burned, blinded, bleeding out. They are confused, frightened, terrified. Insane.
Behind them is the Fire. Things that should not burn. It's just dead San Francisco. Just one little campfire, a bright flickering light.
The inferno is coming.
One of the crowd puts a handgun to her head and pulls the trigger.
Her lower jaw says, "You failed me" with her last breath as her brain splatters the floor.
I have to do something. I reach to recover the firearm, to salvage the ammo, to top up. But the mag release does not work. Even racking the slide does not eject live rounds.
In the foreground is the rumble of heavy iron. Diesel and turbine driven engines. Mechanized death. Heavies. Armor.
They are lashing out with machine gun fire at the bleeding, broken crowd.
They start begging me for mercy. For me to do something. Anything.
I realize that I am in a dream.
I should be able to load my weapons. To fill my first aid kit. To summon help: our own armor and ambulances.
I work hard to visualize an Apache helicopter, a dedicated tank killer. The crew tasked to protect the crowd.
The little remote controlled toy buzzes briefly, runs out of power and crashes, little LED flickers from its non existent weapons. Someone steps on it and it crunches.
The inferno is coming. It will kill all of them. All of us.
I visualize a Javelin. Anti tank missile, man portable. Woman portable, in this case Brooke. She targets and lights off a round.
A big flag pops out of the barrel. It is a US flag, soaked with dripping red.
A flamethrower tank lights her. She is still attempting to reload, screaming, when the fire burns through her tendons and she falls.
My team flickers to life and takes up positions. Mo is prepping a satchel charge. Shane is ramming his golf cart into an enemy command tank. George is firing at vision blocks. All utterly futile.
Betty takes off her clothes and dances. The distraction buys a few moments before a flechette shell turns her to goo.
The Site Location Executive is giving a presentation, explaining to the armor that they are in the wrong grid square. He is not heard. The track crushes him, leaving an outstretched hand with laser pointer in it.
How will you die?
The crowd is asking... pointing... accusing.
How will you die to try to save us?
###
"Echo 18, call the Command Center," squawks the radio.
“Whoever kills a person [unjustly] it is as though he has killed all mankind. And whoever saves a life, it is as though he had saved all mankind.” (Qur’an, 5:32)
I am in full battle gear. But my magazines are all empty and my first aid kit is as well.
I am mobbed by people. They are burned, blinded, bleeding out. They are confused, frightened, terrified. Insane.
Behind them is the Fire. Things that should not burn. It's just dead San Francisco. Just one little campfire, a bright flickering light.
The inferno is coming.
One of the crowd puts a handgun to her head and pulls the trigger.
Her lower jaw says, "You failed me" with her last breath as her brain splatters the floor.
I have to do something. I reach to recover the firearm, to salvage the ammo, to top up. But the mag release does not work. Even racking the slide does not eject live rounds.
In the foreground is the rumble of heavy iron. Diesel and turbine driven engines. Mechanized death. Heavies. Armor.
They are lashing out with machine gun fire at the bleeding, broken crowd.
They start begging me for mercy. For me to do something. Anything.
I realize that I am in a dream.
I should be able to load my weapons. To fill my first aid kit. To summon help: our own armor and ambulances.
I work hard to visualize an Apache helicopter, a dedicated tank killer. The crew tasked to protect the crowd.
The little remote controlled toy buzzes briefly, runs out of power and crashes, little LED flickers from its non existent weapons. Someone steps on it and it crunches.
The inferno is coming. It will kill all of them. All of us.
I visualize a Javelin. Anti tank missile, man portable. Woman portable, in this case Brooke. She targets and lights off a round.
A big flag pops out of the barrel. It is a US flag, soaked with dripping red.
A flamethrower tank lights her. She is still attempting to reload, screaming, when the fire burns through her tendons and she falls.
My team flickers to life and takes up positions. Mo is prepping a satchel charge. Shane is ramming his golf cart into an enemy command tank. George is firing at vision blocks. All utterly futile.
Betty takes off her clothes and dances. The distraction buys a few moments before a flechette shell turns her to goo.
The Site Location Executive is giving a presentation, explaining to the armor that they are in the wrong grid square. He is not heard. The track crushes him, leaving an outstretched hand with laser pointer in it.
How will you die?
The crowd is asking... pointing... accusing.
How will you die to try to save us?
###
"Echo 18, call the Command Center," squawks the radio.
