a siren wails. a gush of air. metallic jaws at the belly of the beast screech and whine as they open. deafening thunder, the clatter of death. a boy dies at the hands of his mother. and why? a clash of ideals, a war of principle. but it's not about principle. an evil regime and a corrupt, hypocritical freedom. a nation cries out for help, to be answered with bombs bursting in air. a flag waving. a bullet flying. and all for naught. truth reaches out only to be crushed by the cold boot of an embodiment of
"This won't hurt a bit, Rogers."
lies. the air is cold. the night is dark. orders are shouted, above and below. blood paints the alien sands, but it always has. it always will. history is written by the victor, they say. but what is victory? a body count. a statue toppled, a law overwritten, but it all ends the same. the human race is the most feral, fighting over ideas and beliefs. silly things, existing only in the mind, not nearly as real and as physical as
"Then why am I strapped to this table? What is that? Is that it?"
"A mild sedative. You won't feel a thing."
blood. precious. words are deceitful, actions are based on fleeting emotions, but blood never lies. it connects us; ties us, bonds us. it tears us apart. it sustains us, keeps us alive, but it kills us. it haunts us. it is one of our fears, it is our ally, it is the true writer of history. precious. blood to wine, so many years ago. simply precious. then why isn't life? a world blanketed in not necessarily prosperity but the richer ideal, that of peace. a distant future. but in that future there is an explosion. a second sun. not if he can help it. because the plight of humanity is
"God dammit, Abe, get me out of this thing! I can't take this!"
"It'll be over soon, soldier. Calm yourself."
"I can see it... but why... why this way?"
"It's strictly protocol, Captain."
strictly
protocol.
