This extra layer of reality is a battlefield. It’s a war of monsters. Everyone believes they’re committing the least amount of evil possible. Humanity being alive is not my goal. I’m a patriot, an American. I didn’t believe in conspiracy theories. For a while, I didn’t know what to believe. Then I covered my face. I lost Bruno Bowman. I stopped thinking about myself. I started thinking about people, about the thing countless people died for. I thought about the constitution.
I might come off as weak, or as a dreamer. I understand people will die. People will suffer. Some things will come as pure evil at first, but I will choose the best option available. I will not minimize evil. I will maximize whatever I think is good. If that dooms humanity to a fate worse than death, so be it. Any fate without rights, is a fate worse than death. Death can be the best option. I will negotiate. Inevitably my olive branch will be burned. If required, I will use the fire lit by my olive branches to burn every city to the ground. That is why I am a patriot.
Her black hair stops at her chin. The young woman has a healthy Caucasian skin tone and a lean earned body. Her dress shirt is as black as the blazer atop it. The small base is a gray box with a few silver cases and a large computer. The wall of racks contains weapons, rifles folded up into neat black rectangles. A young man with pale skin and black hair sits at the computer. His silver orbs study the screens that cast white onto his black shirt. "The media is eating you up, and the foundation does not like your copyright infringement," The German comments, typing away.
The rubbery chest goes over the shoulders. The black knuckles shine. The young man crosses his arms. The white symbol is a trio of arrows pointing towards the center of the white circle, stabbing through the crust of the small planet. A second circle has thin sharp rectangle bits that allow the arrows all the required space to anchor the first circle into place. “I’m not wearing that,”
The suit is placed on a black mannequin. The rubbery chest is connected to the shoulders. A pair of black gauntlets allow gloves with shining knuckles to flow out. The knee pads match the combat boots. A dark green spartan-style helmet is placed over it. “Every superhero needs a costume,” “I am not a superhero,” “The media disagrees,” the light brown man in a lab coat replies, showing her his black tablet. “He was a better fit,” “For the words, but he doesn’t have the skill,” “I was a security guard,” “For the foundation. If we want this merger to work we need a new line of credit,”
“And when we get it?” “That depends on you. The world is about to change. Changing it might be the easy part, but keeping it? It’ll be a full-time job,” “Most of it will still be classified,” “Except for the symbol. The emerald enforcer with her sapphire squires will be the ones people see. The GOC will of course provide support. The jailers will become just that, a glorified prison. No more MTFs enforcing anything on the president,” “Now they’ll need warrants,” “And the CIA will be aware of them. Everybody will be paranoid about everybody,” “but we all have to get along,”
“You caused quite the ruckus. Nobody’s gonna like you,” “But everybody has to smile,” “Yup,” “I hate politics,” “Still gotta wear the suit,” “Shit,”