“Language!” I shouted. At this point, purely on reflex. You don’t curse in my home and get away with this. I should know - I grew up there. Besides, having a teenager swear was an epitome of public fiasco. Not that I’m concerned about stuff like that. 

Everything hurt. That was fine. I knew pain. Lots of pain. Given time, you can get used to it. Become numb. Grow yourself a tough shell. Pretend it’s happening to someone else. Like it’s not your problem. And with time, it becomes someone else’s problem. 

Your mentor’s problem, when she’s stitching your wounds with a deep sense of guilt and shame on her face. Your aunt’s problem, when she pulls a piece of lead out of your shoulder, cracking an attempt at humor, not quite fooling you. Your teacher’s problem, when he sadly tells that no child should ever experience this.

It all slowly became a part of you, piece by piece. I look up, peering closely. It’s strange, even mysterious. I have spent virtually days in this place: at this level of pain, the program should’ve shut down automatically. Neutron insisted after the last year’s incident. I even helped to install and test that thing. It should’ve been perfect.

And then, metaphorical excrements finally connected with even more metaphorical propeller, sending obscenities flying everywhere. Not that he minded. That sentence was pretty much a short summary of his early years. And speaking of escalation, that thing - whatever it was - clearly wasn’t the part of original plan.

Either that or adults all had a very dark sense of humor. It wasn’t the case. It clearly wasn’t the damn case here. I had a very bright mind, and one of the drawbacks of being smart was that you knew when you were royally screwed. And that was the case. Absolutely.

I exhale and fall back. I don’t exist. No sense of self. Weapon acts. Weapon kills. A human’s body is fragile, weak, full of weak spots. Weapon twists someone’s neck. Weapon breaks someone’s ribs. Weapon cracks skulls and destroys vertebrae and twists spines and follows orders.

In a few minutes, artificial civilians fall down to the ground, dissolving into virtual dust. Weapon is… I’m me. Again. I inhale and become me again. I’m scared of everything. I’m even more scared of the situation going wrong. I’m scared of someone dying on my watch. Always.

“Dragoonslayers,” that name was in a bad taste, but the press had latched into this thing like a lifeline, so there’s no changing it anymore. Still, maybe this will work. Maybe, just maybe, some sense of unity and camaraderie might grow from this soil, however infertile it might be. “No holding back!” 

I roar like tiger. Is this my voice? I’m not so sure anymore. Never in my life - since that day - have I ever let myself shout so loud, so intently, so heatedly. It was time for a push, and push will be delivered, one way or another.
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Unleash Power - Impossible Fighting Skills: [url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1351]8[/url]