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Writer, soldier, thinker, and science fiction lover. I just can't seem to find a way to divide my adventurous self of constant outdoor activity and exercise from my nerdy self playing games and going to conventions. So why not just be both?

 I am a young professional living out of Tallahassee, Florida for the past five years. I have been on a deployment with the United States Army and continue to work outside of my other occupations to better myself mentally and physically. My passion for writing is driven by my passion for everything I find entertaining in life, and of course by my friends and family.

Friday, September 30, 2016

A New Kind of War (Inner Workings)

 The Regret knew what had happened. It wasn't that hard to foresee. The universe had a cosmic harmony to it. Everything ended, but that moment had not been the end to him, to Juan, yes. Just like the deplorable Americans and their sense of rights and liberties, everything has a end though. The Americans never realized theirs ended decades ago, just as the man as he is now does not know his time has come. The Regret would use his supreme ability to show him the faults of his ways, and convert him.
  At at time, someone like him would have been proclaimed to be royalty, sent from God. Of course, religion was only a means to control the masses, and in the last century it has become much simpler, with the singular exclusion to the arrogant American public. But soon enough, they too would be subjects, as truly, the 99% of the masses belong, subject to a singular righteous body to do as it saw fit. Hector, The Regret would be among the elite. Of course, neither the SoA or any singular government would understand. This was a global movement, done by the very select elite and carried over and worked on in each era.
 Now they were so close. And he would be The Regret's perfect pawn to tip the balance. He needed strong pawns to be the iron fist. People need to be subjugated, controlled, and especially disarmed. Even for his loyal work with the SoA, they did not fulfill his personal quest enough, the Soviets had almost done so, but since the death of his dear friend in 1953, the Motherland was never really the same.
   Hector sealed the door behind him. Turning he faced a long corridor, the walls were concrete, the center walk way was a grated metal catwalk over a body of water that should have been stagnant but in the last hour had begun to slightly rise. The water was just reaching the point to which it was touching the catwalk. In the next half hour he expected it to be ankle depth. But he was not concerned about the rising water, his guest was about to enter through the door at the opposite end of the catwalk.
 The door squealed and water poured in at the step.

 Zane saw the last submarine off. He didn't see Hector Kajima on board, he doubt he missed him. The bastard was still around somewhere. He had other issues to attend to. His small contingent and himself remained behind to attempt to learn as much as they could on the secret server. The server, if his commander's suspicions were correct, were more important than the rail-gun itself. The potential of  holding the facility after they cracked the server was complicated by several structural breaches that occurred after the main passage was destroyed. Now the holding tanks for the facilities weapon develop sector was leaking into the general water passage and maintenance corridors. Too much was at play against Zane and his SoA contingent, but information was power.
 Zane had to swallow a tough pill, even for a combat veteran. It wasn't easy first learning your origins had been a lie, the learning most of your life had been orchestrated, but lastly to learn his creator had no other motive other than 'they could.' His actions weren't any more treasonous than Eve's had been in the Garden of Eden.
 The next hour he'd be on his flight, to his first steps of freedom, and the first attempts at a world freedom as well.      

Clark heaved, the door creaked, squealed and water poured from around his feet into the next room. At the far end of the long room stood a thin man. Clark locked his arms out, steady and squared up ready to fire his pistol. The figure didn't move. Clark eased off the trigger. Maybe he was another scientist who made it?
 "I've been expecting you." Clark kept his muzzle pointed at the man. His eyes narrowed. He knew something was wrong. The walls began to bend at his peripherals, no he ignored it, focus on the man. Clark said nothing in response. "You look just like him."
"Who are you?"
 "You can call me The Regret, and I want to see all your sins." The man flung his arm out. Clark almost squeezed the trigger, but the man's hand was empty. Just an empty hand pointing out to him. There was a nothing be silence between them.
  And then it began.
  An ear piercing whistling, like a dental drill being dragged across a blackboard inside of his head. He wavered, winced, pressing against his skull to get the noise to stop. He fell to his hands and knees, the water soaking into him and the noise stopped.
 Clark stood, blinking his eyes from the tears that watered their edges. He found his footing, and blinked at the images that were coming to him, trying to blink them away. He was no longer in the artificial caverns of the facility, but in wet soggy riverbed.
 The banks were steep but short, thick lush prehistoric like plants were hindered from reach him only by the barrier of water he stood in. The water was moving, a soft stream just over his ankles. The water was murky, clouded and impossible to see through. His legs felt weighted, and a heavy fog rolled across the stream before him. Too much fog rolled across the top of the stream between Clark and where the man who claimed to be the Regret had stood to be seen. Yet all around Clark he could heavy the heavy breathing of the man, like the trees were speakers blasting the sound around him.
 Clark took several step forward, he felt heavy and burdened, carrying weight that didn't belong.
 "You are a murderer." The man's voice came from the fog and from within him simultaneously. Clark looked behind him but he was alone, and in front of him, there the fog swirled. The fog swirled and hardened in thick lines, heavy arms and a disfigured face. "You convince yourself doing so on behalf of others isn't murder, but that makes you a liar." Clark took another step forward, dragging his right leg with him. The fog had created the image of the reptilian man he had faced. The figure floated, a phantom given form. The thing lunged, Clark  threw his hands up last second. The hit never came, but his gut tightened and a knot gripped his body. The figure was gone. A chill rose from within his bones, worse than when he had awoken in the snow fields, a knot grew tighter in his stomach.
 Clark moved forward. The fog swirled and more shapes began to take hold. Clark tried to move faster, faster to the end of where ever, to where ever but his legs moved as fast as concrete pillars.
 He saw other faces, faces of old friends, Army buddies and faces of enemies around the world begin to form. The was suddenly Randal, and old Birdman standing at the side of the banks. He stopped and looked at them, their semi-transparent figures looking at him from their sides and then down, disgust and disappointment painted across their features.
 "You could have kept us alive." But neither of their lips moved. Neither ghostly figures moved, even if they could see, they wouldn't look at the hurt that was in his eyes, they only sought to worsen it.
 In the center of the stream ahead he could see the man, The Regret, Hector Kojima, he two was ghostly but more solid, more present. When he spoke, his lips moved.
 "Look at all the pain and suffering you've caused."
 Another figure began forming among all the dead that surrounded him. Behind him his entire team had formed and stood silent. The Jackal, the woman formed, her death marks still there where they had stopped her heart beat.
 "You look just like him, a demon, a demon!"
 A final figure formed, it was Coppola, the agent, the mannequin man standing with his face just before he died. Clark's grip was loosening on his pistol. He sagged some, his head weighing him down, wanting to topple his body. He put his hands on his knees to hold himself up.
 "You killed me." He heard Coppola call out. Clark shook his head. Mumbling to himself, I didn't kill you. I didn't kill the half of you. The ghosts closed in on him, all except for Hector who stood stoic, but gleefully so in back, of the group, but with a clear path right to Clark.
 "Look at your sins. You can repent now, and attempt to fix them." Clark shook his head, it wasn't right, Coppola, Birdman, Randal, he didn't kill them, they didn't belong. "All you have to do Captain is work for us, for me, I can lead to you reason. Rational is a group objective. The individual does not matter, only the whole of society, and you've fought too long and hard against the whole of society."
 Clark only shook his head again in response.
  "Your delusions of good and evil have only made you a pawn to a system of oppression. You, could, fix it all right now."
 Clark shook his head. His grip tightened on his pistol. He looked down at it in his grip. It was real, it was real, it was truth. His body stopped shaking, something he became aware of only when he stopped. The silence of words brought his eyes up to Hector who eyed him.
 "Well, if you won't join what you know is right, then you could set yourself away from doing more harm. You know your damage is irreversible. Go ahead, use the pistol demon. Caste yourself away, or do what is right for the greater good."
 Clark pushed off his knees, his back still hunched from a knot that was only slowly dissolving. He would use the pistol, Hector was right. Raising it as his grip tightened, the silent audience around him of all those dead, the false dead around him.
 "Fine, use the pistol, end yourself, demon." Hector spoke, a smug grin as he clasped his hands behind his back watching Clark.
 Clark looked down at the pistol. The slide smooth, and nicked from years of use. He looked up at Hector, the smug content look. He snapped the pistol up at Hector.
 He fired.
 He was back on the catwalk. The river gone. The dead, gone, dead as dead. Hector lay on his back. A single hand's fingers twirling above a bubbling hold in his chest.


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