Sept. 19, 2001
America regards one of the model planes hanging from his ceiling with a unique numbness. After a moment he reaches up and gently plucks it from its string, holding the plane in his palm. He's always loved planes; he's always collected these kinds of models. This one is a typical commercial jet. It's a lot like the one that...
The edges of the plastic wings bite into his hand, which is burned and calloused from almost eight straight days of frantic work, as the thought makes him tense before he can complete it.
God, why?
Why would anyone even consider using a commercial jet like that? Why would anyone see look at this fantastic innovation... and see a missile?
But, then, who would have thought to split an atom? What kind of cruel minds would test bombs on populated islands, just to see? Who could have seen the way a serum killed plants, and thought to spray it from above on all living things below? Why would anyone use passengers on a cruise liner as a camouflage to transport weapons? How could a government test a psychedelic drug on a town of innocent people, on their own people? Why would anyone use think to use water boarding, mustard gas, carpet bombs—
A crunch snaps America from these thoughts. Without meaning to his hand has curled into a fist, easily crushing the small plane. He tries to force himself to relax; his fingers shaking as he uncurls them from around the broken pieces of his commercial jet. The tail end tumbles from his palm; it hits the carpet without a sound.
America stares at the wreckage. After a long moment of solemn silence he gently brushes the plastic pieces from his hand onto his desk. He has to keep evolving, or he'll fall behind. He never wants to see another broken wing, another pile of wreckage that belongs to him...
Peace is just a game of innovation...