A Simple Question
Warning for violence, language, events of Saturday afternoon. Would anyone like to write from their perspective?
* * *
They’ve got enough, now. Moving in, tickled by wary craving. The boys and girls are still at the back. Probably not time enough to save them, but ten seconds might just buy them a chance.
Farewell, pint. Got a good half in, and it was fucking glorious. Farewell, Fatcat. Twenty-four years ain’t bad for an orphan. Time to step forward.
The question is just out when the first blows come. Armour denting, ripping open. They’re keen. Would have made good recruits. Miss the fight, of course, tumbled down between the tables. Ask again, blood spitting from broken lungs.
They look between each other, nervous. Struck a chord, perhaps. One dodges it, asks if they should kill him. An easy answer. Hesitation. Not recruit material after all. Shame, I guess.
Ask again. Nervous one goes for a blow to the throat. Another sword catches his. Maybe another minute to go. Might as well ask again, then.
Nobody fucking knows.
Caterina's the first to try at an answer. Stumblingly, apologetically. Fugly is dragged past, her pretty face all carved up. Big strings of gore dropping from her throat. Dismissed. The Lady struggles to hawk out a reason.
Sister Susan’s grief flows freely. It’s the only human thing here.
That’s what we fight for, isn’t it? Take something foul, and strip all the dumb savagery out of it. Make it something we can deal with.
But nobody wins every battle.
In shelter, now. Talking to the fallen, hoping they can still hear us. More reports. More dead noncombatants. More bodies lost: mutilated, eaten, shot full of maggots. And still one question, left unanswered.
“What’s happening here?”
* * *
They’ve got enough, now. Moving in, tickled by wary craving. The boys and girls are still at the back. Probably not time enough to save them, but ten seconds might just buy them a chance.
Farewell, pint. Got a good half in, and it was fucking glorious. Farewell, Fatcat. Twenty-four years ain’t bad for an orphan. Time to step forward.
The question is just out when the first blows come. Armour denting, ripping open. They’re keen. Would have made good recruits. Miss the fight, of course, tumbled down between the tables. Ask again, blood spitting from broken lungs.
They look between each other, nervous. Struck a chord, perhaps. One dodges it, asks if they should kill him. An easy answer. Hesitation. Not recruit material after all. Shame, I guess.
Ask again. Nervous one goes for a blow to the throat. Another sword catches his. Maybe another minute to go. Might as well ask again, then.
Nobody fucking knows.
Caterina's the first to try at an answer. Stumblingly, apologetically. Fugly is dragged past, her pretty face all carved up. Big strings of gore dropping from her throat. Dismissed. The Lady struggles to hawk out a reason.
Sister Susan’s grief flows freely. It’s the only human thing here.
That’s what we fight for, isn’t it? Take something foul, and strip all the dumb savagery out of it. Make it something we can deal with.
But nobody wins every battle.
In shelter, now. Talking to the fallen, hoping they can still hear us. More reports. More dead noncombatants. More bodies lost: mutilated, eaten, shot full of maggots. And still one question, left unanswered.
“What’s happening here?”