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Topic Started: Jun 1 2011, 06:06 PM (670 Views)
Namira
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Paint me like one of your Sith girls
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((Tyler Blake continues from Captain America))

Making his way up to the roof of the admin building hadn't been too difficult. It might have been the tallest structure that wasn't a watchtower, but it was still only a couple of stories tall, and there had been a set of stairs in the corner of the top floor leading up there. Simple.

And now Tyler Blake sat in the centre of the roof, trying to block the sounds of gunfire and shouting out of his mind. Trying to scour the sound that Dave's neck had made as it snapped from his memory. It wasn't working, he didn't think it could ever work, and even if it could have done, Tyler wasn't sure that he would want the memory gone. What he'd done, it ... wasn't something that he could just shrug off. Nobody should shrug it off. Not lke the people he was hearing on the announcements over and over again.

He might've asked them - the Ferraras and the Madelaines - 'What happened to you?', but in the wake of what had happened to Dave all those hours ago, Tyler knew. It wasn't the people, really, it was the situation. It was the Program. Their killings probably weren't the same as how it had happened with Dave, but... they would never have happened if they hadn't been put into this compound. They would have grown up with clean consciences and gone on to live happy lives - or maybe even unhappy ones. Point is, they wouldn't have wound up being murderers.

Tyler stood up, faced a bulbous metallic box the was bolted to the corner of the roof, something he assumed was a camera.

"Hi there America. My name's Tyler Blake. I'm sixteen years old. I play shortstop on my highschool's baseball team, and I'm the vice captain of the wrestling team.

My dad is in the military. Jack Tyler, you might have heard of him if you've served in the forces. I've got a little sister called Kyla, who really shouldn't ought to be watching this... I don't have the best grades in the world, I'm not really a poindexter or anything. Just an average kind of guy. Guess you'd call me a jock."

Tyler swung his bag from his broad shoulders, produced from it his designated 'weapon' - Songs of our Nation - then tossed the pack from the roof. He waited for the thump of it hitting the concrete below before holding up the book.

"Believe it or not, I own a copy of this. Got it back at home. Few pages are missing cause I read it that much. I'm pretty sure I know a lot of the stuff in here off by heart, could recite it to you, if I wanted. But honestly? I don't. See I think of all the songs and poems that are in here, and I don't have that same feeling of pride anymore. Thinking of them... it makes me sick to my stomach."

"Because this," Tyler raised the book a little higher. "This is grade-a bonafide bullshit, people," he cocked back an arm and hurled it from the rooftop too. Tyler swore very little, the curse was almost spat out.

"You people sit there at home and you watch this, but do you ever think about why? Do you ever ask the soldiers why this is necessary, why this is needed? And do me a favour and don't spout the Chalmers line about this being a way of showing that American ain't wearing kid gloves. There's better fucking ways of making a show of force than locking a bunch of high schoolers away and having them butcher each other. We're the USA, aren't we supposed to have the biggest and the best army in the world? Right?"

He shrugged.

"And who tells us all to jump? The General. And you don't question The General because hey, isn't he an American hero? Doesn't he protect our way of life against those evil nasty foreigners? And what a great way of life. Let's kill or beat down anybody that doesn't agree with us, anybody that doesn't come from here. I kept mum about this bullshit at school long enough. We had a couple of Asian kids in our year, couple of other people that might have had foreign blood. How'd they get treated? Like crap, like complete and utter crap. And guys like me? We just stood there and watched. Because that, that, people, is the American way.

Let's suppress people from abroad just because they're from abroad. That makes sense. If you weren't born here, you clearly can't be a real person. Because... because why? Because your worth in life is determined by how American you are? A couple of folks at my school were 100% USA and were the lowest scum I've ever seen. I guess they've got that in common with the boss man, The General."

Tyler nodded curtly. "Yeah, I goddamn said it, America. We've got a guy in the White House calling the shots on everything that he wants to, deciding to kill off fifty kids every couple of months just for kicks, and you all lap it up like good little bitches because you've never known anything else. Maybe it looks like I'm stood here crying because I got picked for the Program, saying 'why me?' and all that, you know? Folks I'm not saying 'why me?', I'm saying 'why anybody?', why do any of us have to go through this? How can it possibly make sense? I loved my country, and this is what broke my faith in it."

A buzzing sound began to echo overhead. The helicopter stationed at the nearby encampment was in the air. Tyler looked back to the camera, shrugged and ran a hand across his buzzed head. Maybe it was somebody being sent to shut him up.

"Fuck The General and fuck what he's doing to America. As long as this goes on, we can't be the country we claim to be. We can't be a nation of hope and justice. We can't even be the good guys against the people we're fighting. We kill hundreds of our kids a year. You ever wonder why we're always getting 'backstabbed' overseas in all our wars? Think about that. Why prod the bear unless the bear is an asshole?" Tyler glanced up again, heart pounding. Every word he said was committing another crime. Treason on top of treason on top of treason. The guys running the Program let the contestants vent their frustrations, but not like this, not so directly.

"Looks like it's about time for me to check out. You don't get away with saying shit like this, after all," Tyler smiled crookedly. "Freedom of speech at work, huh? When this show is over and they're gearing up for the next one, think about why I'm about to die. Maybe you've got kids yourself. Hell maybe you're my age and there's a chance you'll come up in the next lottery. Do you want them to be killed - do you want get killed on the say-so of some kind of psychopath who employs guys like that maniac Adams to murder his own people? America's bleeding, folks, but the wounds aren't coming from the outside."

The chopper was directly overhead. Tyler could see a soldier perched in the main compartment, holding a rifle. Tyler placed a hand across his chest, bowed a little.

"God bless America. I hope I didn't take up too much of everyone's day," he smiled for the last time. "But... please..."

"Please don't let this keep happening."

There was a deafening crack as the soldier fired and his bullet destroyed Tyler's skull.

M27, TYLER BLAKE: DECEASED
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