Post by microfarad on Jun 6, 2010 7:35:50 GMT
The rebels had decided to lead an assault of leviathan proportions against the Nonjas. After years of preparation and carefully collected resources the time had come. Over 500 fighter planes appeared on the morning horizon, effectively eclipsing the island. Their wings sparkled with the morning sun. Now was their chance. The bombs fell for hours. Defenseless for the first time, the nonjas were all cornered into the quickly dwindling hiding places.
Deep within the inner sanctum VIROS was busy launching the only apposing attacks. The fighter planes withdrew to a geosynchronous orbit, just within earth’s atmosphere. The only successful Nonja attack came from a small unmanned rocket, used for delivering payloads of up to 100 lbs into space. The rocket sailed into the night sky in hopes that it would collide with a fighter plane. The “Shot in the Dark” happened to strike the lead fighter jet. Its starboard propulsion array failed and the fighter slowly lost altitude. As it fell, it appeared to drift like a leaf, descending from a maple tree with its roots in the earth and branches suspending the sky. The little world hardly mattered for the fallen soldier. In the crash, he miraculously survived, with minor head trauma and a broken clavicle.
Two nonjas grabbed him, and took him deep into the nonja base. The fallen soldier once again drifted, this time away from earth, into a painkiller induced dream. He saw the planes of his comrades. Struggling to the surface he opened his eyes. Blurred before him was the image of his cell. It blended with his dreams. Tears clouded his vision. Reality became an important aspect of his existence, which was no longer reality. The blurred figures of armored nonjas, dressed in black with sharp angled figures of red, insignia dressing their chests and arms, dragged the fallen soldier. He saw a vivid world, alternative realities flashed and blurred in his mind, always accompanied by the two shadows of his captors. He was forced through jungles and through desert scenes, with barbed wire fences separating him from starving people, clinging to the wire as they died. He was shoved at gun point up a grassy knoll, and was pushed down the other side, a sandy dune which permeated his clothing with abrasive grit. Lava flows gently meandered past, houses were consumed as their yards were lit on fire by the slow flow. Burning fields swirled with snow and the sky was lit with green and blue lights.
Finally he was dropped on an iceberg, which faded into the falling of leaves. Soft moss yielded beneath him as a carpet of dirt was laid over his body. Eventually, he drifted into sleep, six feet under. When he finally became semi-conscious found he was lying in the middle of a large metal room. But the floor swam and his vision deceived him as warm blue water lapped at is legs. Panic consumed his mind. What was real thought the fallen soldier? What could I count on? He bit at his right thumb until there was a raw bleeding section at its end. Visions of zombie finger puppets faded as his concentration increased. He wrote on the cold floor 1790. It was a number he would never forget.
After what seemed an age of watching two small Chihuahuas fighting to the death, he looked back over. The number he now read was also unforgettable, but drove him insane. Printed on the floor in his own blood was written 1793. The fallen soldier didn’t know what to turn to. Either he could no longer comprehend symbols, or he no longer knew the difference between the two numbers. Which one could he trust? His heart told him 1790, but his mind was skeptical. 1793 was larger. And bigger was better, he observed, as visions of sharks eating tuna swam before his failing perception of the world. The fact that he could no longer trust his mind to decide which numbers to trust was maddening. How could he forget those numbers?
After what seemed to be years of watching the superimposed images of his imagination, the fallen soldier saw a maple tree. Its cool shade refreshed his mind. Its roots reached down to the core of the earth and its branches supported the sky. A squirrel ran down the tree. The little creature proved to be quite the conversationalist. It took his mind off his horror. The fallen soldier couldn't help befriending the little squirrel. The squirrel told him of its issues, and, in turn, he confided in the squirrel all that he knew, and fell asleep petting the little red species. When he awoke he felt more lucid. His thumb hurt and he could remember which number to trust, 1790. He looked at the floor, and there was written 1836. Then it all flooded back. Quickly he cast around for the squirrel, but it never existed. He had confided all of his secrets and hopes and knowledge to VIROS.
Deep within the inner sanctum VIROS was busy launching the only apposing attacks. The fighter planes withdrew to a geosynchronous orbit, just within earth’s atmosphere. The only successful Nonja attack came from a small unmanned rocket, used for delivering payloads of up to 100 lbs into space. The rocket sailed into the night sky in hopes that it would collide with a fighter plane. The “Shot in the Dark” happened to strike the lead fighter jet. Its starboard propulsion array failed and the fighter slowly lost altitude. As it fell, it appeared to drift like a leaf, descending from a maple tree with its roots in the earth and branches suspending the sky. The little world hardly mattered for the fallen soldier. In the crash, he miraculously survived, with minor head trauma and a broken clavicle.
Two nonjas grabbed him, and took him deep into the nonja base. The fallen soldier once again drifted, this time away from earth, into a painkiller induced dream. He saw the planes of his comrades. Struggling to the surface he opened his eyes. Blurred before him was the image of his cell. It blended with his dreams. Tears clouded his vision. Reality became an important aspect of his existence, which was no longer reality. The blurred figures of armored nonjas, dressed in black with sharp angled figures of red, insignia dressing their chests and arms, dragged the fallen soldier. He saw a vivid world, alternative realities flashed and blurred in his mind, always accompanied by the two shadows of his captors. He was forced through jungles and through desert scenes, with barbed wire fences separating him from starving people, clinging to the wire as they died. He was shoved at gun point up a grassy knoll, and was pushed down the other side, a sandy dune which permeated his clothing with abrasive grit. Lava flows gently meandered past, houses were consumed as their yards were lit on fire by the slow flow. Burning fields swirled with snow and the sky was lit with green and blue lights.
Finally he was dropped on an iceberg, which faded into the falling of leaves. Soft moss yielded beneath him as a carpet of dirt was laid over his body. Eventually, he drifted into sleep, six feet under. When he finally became semi-conscious found he was lying in the middle of a large metal room. But the floor swam and his vision deceived him as warm blue water lapped at is legs. Panic consumed his mind. What was real thought the fallen soldier? What could I count on? He bit at his right thumb until there was a raw bleeding section at its end. Visions of zombie finger puppets faded as his concentration increased. He wrote on the cold floor 1790. It was a number he would never forget.
After what seemed an age of watching two small Chihuahuas fighting to the death, he looked back over. The number he now read was also unforgettable, but drove him insane. Printed on the floor in his own blood was written 1793. The fallen soldier didn’t know what to turn to. Either he could no longer comprehend symbols, or he no longer knew the difference between the two numbers. Which one could he trust? His heart told him 1790, but his mind was skeptical. 1793 was larger. And bigger was better, he observed, as visions of sharks eating tuna swam before his failing perception of the world. The fact that he could no longer trust his mind to decide which numbers to trust was maddening. How could he forget those numbers?
After what seemed to be years of watching the superimposed images of his imagination, the fallen soldier saw a maple tree. Its cool shade refreshed his mind. Its roots reached down to the core of the earth and its branches supported the sky. A squirrel ran down the tree. The little creature proved to be quite the conversationalist. It took his mind off his horror. The fallen soldier couldn't help befriending the little squirrel. The squirrel told him of its issues, and, in turn, he confided in the squirrel all that he knew, and fell asleep petting the little red species. When he awoke he felt more lucid. His thumb hurt and he could remember which number to trust, 1790. He looked at the floor, and there was written 1836. Then it all flooded back. Quickly he cast around for the squirrel, but it never existed. He had confided all of his secrets and hopes and knowledge to VIROS.
[M:977802]
