The crunch of steel caterpillar tracks on the bitumen of his street was deafening, even above the maddening thumping of the intermittent chopper flyovers.

His mouth was dry, stubble thickening. The bottle of scotch lay depleted beside him. He sat in an empty house - maybe big enough for a new family to raise children in, with a yard for a dog and a porch to sit and watch the neighborhood youths play. Now, it was just plaster and wooden beams, a tribute to the collaboration and planning of drones who's jobs were to do the same thing, day in, day out; whoever had built this house had done a quaint job. But Father Time forgives none. The windows were cracked and dusty, floorboards warping, plasterboard crumbling. A temporary shelter of a temporary era.

Distant echoes of shots and explosions rumbled from beyond the horizon. The city lights glowed a gloomy maroon in the evening setting. The diversity of sounds his tired head could process included what could be mistaken as a stadium full of thousands of people, screaming for their team at the crucial moment of a match.

But the masses and their cries were softening, as their numbers thinned.

For weeks, all he had seen was a red sun rise, a ghastly reminder of the last day's bloodshed. Tomorrow would be no different; he was convinced that his would be amongst it.

He did not know who he was anymore - it did not matter. Everything he knew and lived for was now washed away; the mundane existence of a Western Man, toppled in a fraction of a lifetime. And how the irony, he chuckled in bitter disbelief. The greatest power collapsed from the inside, destroyed by the concept of liberties that made it once so strong.

The masses had rallied, and oh how defiantly! The drones were angry, and the whispers from within the ranks had been slowly warming their blood for a while. Then, with the movement and rallying of a few, the cells of the defiant had risen. There was a fight to be fought, and they were tired of not being a part of it. Angry and armed, they marched. They marched and they sang, and they sang as loud as they could bellow. The spirit was undeniable, and the attraction could not be denied; it was the Uprising! What meager man would not join the fight against everything that was wrong?

And so they banded and marched with the fire in their hearts ready to set fire to the evil.

All the while this one sat.

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The children were told of a man that came once a year, in the days of old. He brought gifts, and was a figure for peace and giving. A fable, whispered in young ears that young minds would soak up and love - for who would not? Until the truth was realized, and the link between the manifestation and fable dimmed; the anecdote just another lie.

And so too, fell the faith in the Law. There had always been those who believed - and some still did. They were the first to go, some walking from the post in realization of the futility of their presence. Others fought to maintain what once was, but were torn to shreds and forgotten in the masses’ path. The rest had joined the masses - for they were mere drones, too. There were wrongs which needed rights, and they were going to be part of the solution.

The military complex was the hope of many to maintain order. Yet the ranks consisted of mere men, with their hearts and minds impressionable, too. The rumors and lies mixed in with the rumors and lies had them disgusted with what they realized to be real lies with their now real eyes, and took the vow to no longer be a part of it. Sub ordinance, mutiny, desertion; the pride of the nation crumbled too, taking with it what it even meant to be a soldier.

Faith was fleeting, and you'd be damned pressed to find it anywhere but from within the masses, as they marched.


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Others were left confused. What did it mean? What was the truth? Who knew the truth, and who would even speak it?

They laid low, fearful of their unwillingness to conform with anyone inducing prosecution. There was no right or wrong anymore - that had been relative for a while. Non conformation was met with aggression, and those who did not assimilate were left behind, with the rest of history, and returned to the earth.

Vigilance ruled. Self-righteousness drove groups. Groups conflicted, disagreed, and fought. It was the sublimation of the population, by the population.

The cities burned.

And he lay back as the glow of the setting sun washed through a cracked window, offering fleeting warmth as it set. Something exploded, maybe near the end of his street, but it just faded into the noise of everything else. As the sun set lower into the smoke and the smog of the horizon, numbness washed over him. He didn't even feel angry anymore, he'd felt that for long enough.

He just really wanted to know: What WAS the answer? It was wrong before, it was wrong to a whole new degree now. Wherever things wound up, what would everybody be happy with calling right? Would that be when the bashing of heads would stop?

More shooting. Cracks of teargas canisters a few doors down from him. He didn’t have to look and see what was going on - more recruiting. It didn't matter who came bashing at his door; they'd ask him what he stood for, what he was for, and be given the opportunity to join in their noble fight to Righteousness, Freedom and Justice.

He'd been there. He'd done that. He had killed those who he had though stood in his way. Now all he saw, all he thought, was a blur.

He heard a breach of the back door. Footsteps, maybe just the one person.

The scotch bottle was empty, a final luxury he had enjoyed. His eyes were tired, his body aching, and head screaming - not that he was listening to that anymore. He clutched a firearm, and chambered one of his few remaining rounds.

The boy must have been 17, no older than 18. The balaclava he wore was stifling, the boots he had pilfered had been on his feet for too long to bear, but that did not matter - he was a soldier now. The tread of his boot smashed in the door-handle as he let fly; and brandishing his weapon - a spoil from a battle, the sword of a fallen warrior - he stepped inside the suburban abode.

His heart raced, the balaclava was moist around his mouth, and the sweat at his brow was running down his nose. The exhilaration of being a part of his cause gave him such a pride, that he'd happily die. He inched around the rooms of the house, eye trained behind the iron-sights.

*Schi-scnick*

His heart and his world froze as he understood exactly what just happened. He stood still for what felt like a day, as his eyes crept to his right, and found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun, wielded by a haggard looking man on the floor. The man's eyes drooped - weary, a warrior who had seen monstrosities for too long. He stared back with his eyes alight, calculating what to do. Checkmate was not in his vocabulary.

The man spoke, "Don't sweat it kid, you'll be alright. I remember what it was like, standing up." His words slurred, only slightly - his choice of words was precise.
"You're in more control than you think, kid. Be who you are, for you."

The youth's mouth opened, and closed, gawking. His hands were clammy, still gripping his rifle.

"We #ed up, kid. We all did. We let it get like this. We never really could see, and we only further blinded ourselves.

"There are no winners in this game. I pray for you."

The youth watched motionless, without flinching, as the haggard old man's eyes rolled, shifting his handgun. He slumped further against the wall, as he opened his mouth, swallowed his gun, and pulled the trigger.

He was free now.

The youth stood, as old man’s message ran down the plasterboard behind his skull, lifeless eyes staring at the sunset. With a sigh, the boy pivoted, left the room, and vacated the house. It was not his job, nor was it necessary to think anymore; he couldn't. He checked his weapon, and walked on with the rest of his group, looking for the solution to everything.

Nice first entry, very well written and paced out

S&F.

it hit me where it counts... S+F

-TF

Outstanding!
Fantastic piece of writing Derpest, very well done.