Tactical Agitation

Nausea gripped me and I turned to spit. Blood splattered on the ground. Blinking, I was amazed to find myself on my feet- leaning unsteadily against the shattered remains of some building, but on my feet. Realization was slow in coming.

I still stood. There was something to feel good about. Promising to bend neither neck nor knee- I yet stood.

Currents in the air brought the choking scents of smoke and powdered mortar, scents long associated with rich and plentiful destruction.

The attack that had dropped like a bomb in the middle of the city, had rung my bell. I wasn’t used to it. Stronger than the pitiful wretches that lay mewling like kittens hit by a car, I had thought I was invincible. Few had enough power to get my attention, let alone hurt me. Bullets were ignored as insects.

“Where are you?” I called, trying to pin-point my adversary. “Have you seen your handiwork? Are you proud of it? This was not my doing. In a pitiful effort to rid the world of me, you have done far worse than I ever could.”

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