They say it's the ringing that sticks around. Some slick kid who studies that kind of thing probably charted it down in his notes sometime in college. He probably nodded slowly, scrawling down the details in whatever form he could. The ringing, they probably told him, is the thing that the victims recall years later. Piercing, some will say. Excruciating. Livid. A cry unlike any ever heard. I once heard someone tell it as the "voice of god". Poor bastard.
STOP. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. If you listen closely, you can make out the sound of kids counting out loud, with little "mississippi's" in between their numbers. That's the bit that movies like. The shock, the crash. The initial touch and go that makes everyone lose track of time. Watch your screen closely. Everything slows down. The camera tilts, but at a smooth angle. The sound starts off as being stripped completely. Perhaps there is a generic ringing sound somewhere in the background, but they try to recreate the feeling of cotton balls in your ears. The sound filters back in like a trickle. First a voice. The voices always come first. They're the only thing our minds are trained to recognize. A masculine voice in the distance. I can't make out the words, can you? Something about his wife, I think. You move your limbs, flexing your extremities. Good, take it slow. Easy, now. Look down. Alright, everything's still attached. Some blood, but it looks just like some scrapes. And then, the gravity of the situation hits. This is the part that no cinema can ever accurately create. The sudden burst of adrenaline flooding through hot veins of instinct. Fight or flight, right? That's what they called it in training. The moment in which you either sink or float. You move or die.
Like the full force of a train it hits you. This is unlike any panic attack you've ever experienced. And yes, I know you have a history of those. Suddenly everything around you it within your grasp. Your senses are at their fullest extent, and yet also duller than ever before. It is surreal. No drug can fake this feeling. I know because during my time, I was quite a connoisseur of such pleasures. But that's a story for another time. Lift yourself up. Move quickly now, I know your arms feel heavy but you're going to have to ignore that right now. Remember your training. Pick up your weapon, comrade. Man, I always liked it when the lieutenant called you that.
You. Me. I should probably refer to this vessel as an us, now shouldn't I?
After all, we both pilot this thing, right? Hey? Are you there? You seemed to be doing fine just a second ago. You like the war stories, don't you? As much as you keep telling Doctor Connery you hate them, I know the truth. You forget, I'm in your head. You respond so well to my stories. You tell the good doctor that you despise the violent details that always flood your dreams. I always burst out into laughter at that. It is not horror that I see in you. The gunpowder, the smoke, the blazing horizons. You love it. Wicked little creature. Bred for war and none else. Whatever shall they do with you?
Now now, don't be so cross. Don't fade away on me. We've still got some hours of sleep yet. Yes, I may be in control right now, but that doesn't mean we can't have any fun. What was it we were doing? Ah, yes. Bombs, gunfire. Grenade launchers. Bazookas. Hell, you can be in a tank if you want. Remember when you rode in one for the first time? All that power. That thing freaking crushed everything in its path. Small lass as a force to be reckoned with. Boy, did they look at you different after that day. It wasn't the first time you let me ride shotgun. But it was the first time the guys noticed. Remember? They started calling you "sir" after that. Finally, some recognition!
Hey now, of course you deserved it.
