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Atomic OrdealTheir faces will be jerked from the screens, nuclear shock tearing flesh from bone,
atoms splitting and imploding until every unit of mass is pound into dust.
What will the data matter now?
For what it was worth; prediction was futile.
As it is written, as it was done.
Humanity wasn't created only to be doomed. Humanity created itself for the path of destruction.
What more have we done to evade our pitfall? Regret?
We spilled blood tearing at each other so much that we hardly noticed the ground tearing apart from underneath our feet.
We live today, only to continue to die tomorrow. There is nothing but a conclusion.
No man will rise to save us.
Our fate is sealed.
Unstable BondWe are a circuit:
Two charges bonded,
Grounded by reality.
Powered by love.
But if a node breaks:
The connection is snapped,
The circuit is broken.
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
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