The rocks falling, the screams coming from his own throat, the crushing darkness, he could feel them all around him. It happened again and again. It felt like every time he woke up, he was waking up into the same events, every time.
It felt like years, years he had been trapped in this vision of the past. Every time the ground caved under him after he felt a black blade enter his chest. Something was wrong with it.
Nothing ever lined up. Sometimes there were other faceless people. Sometimes there was something else with him. Every time it ended in failure. Not this time. He had gone through it so many times; he knew everything that was going to happen before it did. He dodged the rocks, he jumped over the bullets, and his weapon hit its mark. He had nothing to lose, and going through this so long had drained him of mercy.
He attacked, all out, nothing held back. His hands broke, his head bled. His arms felt like rubber as he kept beating the man in front of him to a bloody pulp. He didn't stop until there was nothing but bloody twitching pulp next to him…..then he fell to his knees and started to cry.
He wasn't a killer. He was a mechanic for Pete's sake. He cried to the heavens. He cursed them, and everything that resided in them, all for putting him in the in the place he stood. Rain washed down, pulling the blood from his clothing, his face, his shirt.
Tears fell to his cheeks as he felt a hand on his shoulder. A person was looking down to him over his shoulder. They knelt down next to him, saying nothing as he wept. It was a while before a voice entered his thoughts.
"Your hour has come again. The right man in the wrong place can make all the difference in the world. So wake up Issac, wake up and smell the ashes." The voice left him, and he felt himself jerk forward. He was out of the dream…and into a nightmare.