Warmonger

A Chapter by Teh_Az

It started with fun and games. They would have a knife, a gun, and an undeniable drive to kill--all of which is make believe of course. The knife is merely metaphorical, and so was the gun. The hunger for murder though was very real. They called it Warmonger--posses of teenagers killing each other over pride and fame. Fortune was a given.

All the benefits reinforced their basest instincts, bonding their self worth with the need to show off, to be the best at killing everything painted the other color--perfect symbiosis. The children ate, drank, and dreamed warmonger. Quijano and Rodrigo were no different. They had every justification for the killing--it was just a game.

They always gave that answer when accosted of their violent demeanor. They were responsible, the said. They knew reality from fantasy, they said. Besides, people loved to watch, the said. No one ever truly got hurt, they believed. Good wholesome fun, they asserted.

Sometimes they did doubt it a little though. Rodrigo could have sworn the fear in one young man's eyes were so real as he tried to crawl away on his back, a hand raised begging for mercy, right before he was shot in the head. Just a game, he insisted. It must have been the safety gear regulation forced them to wear whenever they played on accredited fields. The Parkesine helmets shaped to look like gas masks did carry an inhuman air. Quijano couldn't even recognize himself whenever the mask was donned in front of a mirror. Like a bloodsucking monster of myth, his own image drove him to look away.

They never asked themselves why they felt what they felt. It was just a game wasn't it? The next thrill always wiped clean the taint of doubt off their own skin. Quijano was going to be a lawyer--Rodrigo a teacher. Yet, why do they grip their knife hilts tightly? Why do they breathe so hard and sweat so much? Why do they shudder when they hear their enemies scream? Why do their hearts deaden at every mark of death that paints their armor? Having died so many times, their concept of death was warped--narrowed down to a matter of winning and losing.

Death was ephemeral,--a distant reality. It never bothered them. Losing on the other hand meant weeks of practice and money spent for nothing, all for nothing. Quijano felt a nasty chill crawl up his spine after every loss. Rodrigo always got angry, always remembered every slight and jeer thrown his way. He kept his frustrations inside, never forgetting a grudge. They would wait for their day. No one forgot a loss.

next chapter

© 2009 Teh_Az

Author's Note

This is a second draft of the introductory chapter, not really a prologue, but with it I hope to already ground the reader in the reality of the story. There are several things in this piece which I am unsure of. The most of which is its perspective. I'm not sure if I want it as it is, with the tone coming from someone telling the story as a personal account--or as something more detached which fits most third person narratives in style.

You would note this after reading the first paragraph of the chapter, wherein there is a confusion on my part on which tense would be the most fitting. Had I chosen to side with consistency the words seem to lose all currency, yet having it as it is defies grammar. I am not sure if this does the chapter good or not.

Another point I am not sure of is how to use the introduction of the game and its name as a transitional device to move from one topic to the next. I have tried various phrases, rewrites of sentences, and such. All seem to carry a good idea with them, but none are perfect. They either ruin the flow or lack the wholeness to carry its purpose.