If u think deeply enough, it has everything to do with bf2. Because agree or not, we are practicing killing. Dont get me wrong, i enjoy this game and its ultimate purpose, but dont forget the effect on the subconcious. After all, this game should be fun because its a game, but everything has an underlying sociological price to pay.
Helicopter blades spinning, cutting through the air like a sword of God. Light flickers as the cockpit becomes hot and humid while the blades spin faster. Faster and faster they build momentum, a chant that erupts louder and louder until the crowd cannot contain their hatred any longer. Like the building up of tension that can only be felt when you hear people crying for help on the radio. You hear explosions, cursing, yelling screaming. Those are friends, brothers, fathers, and sons. They are you.
With the tension finally built up for not being able to do anything as you wait on the carrier to take off the helicopter magically slighty jumps and the butterflies start erupting in your stomach.
Will you be killed? Will you be shot down? These thoughts pass through the head of anyone who would be in the same seat, but the passion and the tension to help his brothers shut the door to lingering doubts and the voices shuttered to a whisper.
Without wasting anymore time Mark punched the throttle on the propellor blades and slightly tilted the helicopter forward, feeling like he was on fire. On fire with justice, fear, uncertainty, authority. Normally Mark would say something moderately catchy like, "let's do this" or let out a whoop of excitement. But today, he couldnt speak. Something was different about those screams. Something that wasn't anything necessarily out of the ordinary. After all, Mark has been in the military for over 6 years now with veteran status in the first Persian Gulf War. But something in his gut that he couldn't attain for was talking to him. In whispers he couldnt hear, and words he couldn't understand.
Usually he flew the helicopter like an adrenaline junky, doing flips and barrel rolls on the way to his target zone, but today he was steady, calm, and deadly serious.
"Missles up", said his gunner.
In his brain he thought he said acknowledged. But his body wouldnt say it. It was focused on winning, it was focused on the screams. But above all, it was focused on surviving. The body has an interesting way of slapping your brain across the face and taking over, all without your soul knowing that there was even a coup.
But once that muscle memory kicked in, his brain was tapped into the helicopter.
He suddenly heard no sound, everything slowed down to a crawl. Time stood still, and the dying soldiers muffled their screams, and the panicking private on the radio wasn't calling strike coordinates. It was a calm and peaceful world for Mark. A world he would visit in times of hardship, like during the time he witnissed his mother being repeatedly beaten by his father. He learned to stop time. He learned to disassociate himself from the world and would be able to step back and look at it, as if he was God himself. He learned to mold life using his subconcious.
Everything finally was quiet. He looked to his left and right, as if he was finding some answer that was promised to him. Some message that would come forth from this dimension of life. He felt calm and at peace. At that moment, he noticed over the horizon that land was nearing so he grudgingly let his dimension, his world that he created to slip past once more. Again he heard the screaming private yelling coordinates of enemy positions. He could see in the distance of 3 A-10s coming in from the north west at a 35 degree angle in eicholon formation littering the ground with bullet casings and filling the sky with smoke. Mark always wanted to be an A-10 pilot for as long as he could remember, but since he wasn't born with perfect vision, he learned to love his cobra the way you learn to love women. Nervous at first, but once you get comfortable with her, you can push her buttons and after a while you dont even really consider each other as 2 seperate creations, but one continuous thought, one being.
When Mark flew that day, he didn't have to think about moving his hand left or right on the joystick to bank in either direction, all he had to do was thinking of moving to the right and the chopper copied his thought. The chopper and Mark were one, each copying the other, each loving the other, each being useless without the other. And each died together when an AA missle ripped through the tail of the chopper ripping apart the chopper with the heated edge of hatred, of cruelty, of hell itself cutting through the very fabric of life. The missle cut through the chopper without thought, without remorse, and without mercy.
It's kind of interesting to think about it, but that could be used to describe a pycho killer. But this was no insane human that had pulled the trigger, no person getting fun from it, just a regular father of 2 daughters who was told to fire at someone he never knew, would never know. They might have been good friends if they had met at a baseball game. But fate would have it that God would be absent there that day. That it was the day men turned their backs on one another and the price was life. The most precious commodity that nobody owns or can control. The only hold man has on life is its very end. It is this last grasp for power that men desire. Men who feel like they are trapped because they thought it was the right thing to do or they were ordered to be there. Men who take the deep breath before the plunge. Men who would have otherwised led productive, caring lives, would die that day.
It was the day that the last tortured, decent man died.
post what u think.
Helicopter blades spinning, cutting through the air like a sword of God. Light flickers as the cockpit becomes hot and humid while the blades spin faster. Faster and faster they build momentum, a chant that erupts louder and louder until the crowd cannot contain their hatred any longer. Like the building up of tension that can only be felt when you hear people crying for help on the radio. You hear explosions, cursing, yelling screaming. Those are friends, brothers, fathers, and sons. They are you.
With the tension finally built up for not being able to do anything as you wait on the carrier to take off the helicopter magically slighty jumps and the butterflies start erupting in your stomach.
Will you be killed? Will you be shot down? These thoughts pass through the head of anyone who would be in the same seat, but the passion and the tension to help his brothers shut the door to lingering doubts and the voices shuttered to a whisper.
Without wasting anymore time Mark punched the throttle on the propellor blades and slightly tilted the helicopter forward, feeling like he was on fire. On fire with justice, fear, uncertainty, authority. Normally Mark would say something moderately catchy like, "let's do this" or let out a whoop of excitement. But today, he couldnt speak. Something was different about those screams. Something that wasn't anything necessarily out of the ordinary. After all, Mark has been in the military for over 6 years now with veteran status in the first Persian Gulf War. But something in his gut that he couldn't attain for was talking to him. In whispers he couldnt hear, and words he couldn't understand.
Usually he flew the helicopter like an adrenaline junky, doing flips and barrel rolls on the way to his target zone, but today he was steady, calm, and deadly serious.
"Missles up", said his gunner.
In his brain he thought he said acknowledged. But his body wouldnt say it. It was focused on winning, it was focused on the screams. But above all, it was focused on surviving. The body has an interesting way of slapping your brain across the face and taking over, all without your soul knowing that there was even a coup.
But once that muscle memory kicked in, his brain was tapped into the helicopter.
He suddenly heard no sound, everything slowed down to a crawl. Time stood still, and the dying soldiers muffled their screams, and the panicking private on the radio wasn't calling strike coordinates. It was a calm and peaceful world for Mark. A world he would visit in times of hardship, like during the time he witnissed his mother being repeatedly beaten by his father. He learned to stop time. He learned to disassociate himself from the world and would be able to step back and look at it, as if he was God himself. He learned to mold life using his subconcious.
Everything finally was quiet. He looked to his left and right, as if he was finding some answer that was promised to him. Some message that would come forth from this dimension of life. He felt calm and at peace. At that moment, he noticed over the horizon that land was nearing so he grudgingly let his dimension, his world that he created to slip past once more. Again he heard the screaming private yelling coordinates of enemy positions. He could see in the distance of 3 A-10s coming in from the north west at a 35 degree angle in eicholon formation littering the ground with bullet casings and filling the sky with smoke. Mark always wanted to be an A-10 pilot for as long as he could remember, but since he wasn't born with perfect vision, he learned to love his cobra the way you learn to love women. Nervous at first, but once you get comfortable with her, you can push her buttons and after a while you dont even really consider each other as 2 seperate creations, but one continuous thought, one being.
When Mark flew that day, he didn't have to think about moving his hand left or right on the joystick to bank in either direction, all he had to do was thinking of moving to the right and the chopper copied his thought. The chopper and Mark were one, each copying the other, each loving the other, each being useless without the other. And each died together when an AA missle ripped through the tail of the chopper ripping apart the chopper with the heated edge of hatred, of cruelty, of hell itself cutting through the very fabric of life. The missle cut through the chopper without thought, without remorse, and without mercy.
It's kind of interesting to think about it, but that could be used to describe a pycho killer. But this was no insane human that had pulled the trigger, no person getting fun from it, just a regular father of 2 daughters who was told to fire at someone he never knew, would never know. They might have been good friends if they had met at a baseball game. But fate would have it that God would be absent there that day. That it was the day men turned their backs on one another and the price was life. The most precious commodity that nobody owns or can control. The only hold man has on life is its very end. It is this last grasp for power that men desire. Men who feel like they are trapped because they thought it was the right thing to do or they were ordered to be there. Men who take the deep breath before the plunge. Men who would have otherwised led productive, caring lives, would die that day.
It was the day that the last tortured, decent man died.
post what u think.
Last edited by Xenris (2006-04-13 02:05:31)