[ IP ] Trilobites

There comes a time in every man's life when he is forced to reckon with something unimaginable. To somehow take in a concept that he never wanted to admit the existence of, to find himself at a loss with regards to any future action. 
 
 For James Madison, that time was right now. Eleven hundred hours, on the dot, and the war machines were flying over his head. He could have tried to ignore them, forget about their perpetual presence. Pretend for another day that this moment was n't coming, that he was n't doing what he was, that he had never participated in a war crime or been one of the tiny cogs in a horrible machine. 
 
 It was n't much use, any more. Not after yesterday. 
 
 Ah, yesterday. 
 
 When someone looks into the future, they should have hope. They should be able to dream of what they might achieve, one day, of a brighter future with endless possibilities. Perhaps it is directly because of those endless possibilities that one *is* able to have hope; because, in the end, no matter how doomed a situation may seem, there is always a way for things to go well. And even if there is n't - what human can claim to know the future? What mind can possibly say they have seen what is coming, if only to dash those hopes? 
 
 They could. See the future, that is. Or so Adams had told him, before he disappeared off the face of the earth. Apparently they'd created a supercomputer with the power to predict the future within certain parameters, and were actively using it in their war effort. Breathtaking scientific breakthroughs, all to kill other people? Huh, now that sure was surprising. 
 
 So he could say that he had lost hope about the future. And, unfortunately, he had nothing but regrets about the past. 
 
 Oh, he had n't done anything too terrible. In the end, he'd be forgotten, like the thousands of others that worked for their war machine in the tireless effort to end the lives of half the world's population. Any record of his existence would disappear within years, and he'd be absolved of all blame for the admittedly small part he had played. 
 
 But when he thought about yesterday, it did n't sit right with him. He'd been there, seen what they were doing to *her*. The resistance fighter, as much as that name implied the opposite of what the so-called'resistance' was. It invoked ideas of some small group of guerrilla fighters. Not quite the continent-spanning army that it was, but still. 
 
 Ah, yesterday. Tomorrow was hopeless, and yesterday was full of regrets. 
 
 Yesterday, when he had watched them torture her to death, and then revive her just to continue - he had been complicit in that. His work to maintain the machinery that they had used, to smash open her head and practically dissect her. Had he done it? No. Would it have happened without him? Most probably, yes. 
 
 But he was still consenting. He was okay with what they were doing. And that *wasn't* okay. 
 
 The piece of equipment in his hands rumbled. He shook it, and it seemed to purr in response. This moment, this pause in work, would probably be stuck in their records for an eternity. Perhaps it would make the difference in a promotion, not that he ever wanted one. Not anymore. 
 
 Would he continue working for them? Would he keep doing what he had been? 
 
 He knew it was n't any better on the other side of the war. Perhaps it was propaganda, but some of it *had* to be true, the way the'resistance' was rumored to eat their opponents alive. The way they experimented on their own people to create the destructive forces that could rival one of the machines that was flying over James' head at that moment. And, of course, for the war to continue this long, they *had* to have resorted to torture for information. 
 
 Perhaps, one day, the wheel of war technology would allow them to avoid such necessities. Maybe *that* was something he could hope for. 
 
 He smiled, but it was bitter, almost caustic. Happiness was a hard thing to curate in this world, what with the constant destruction, but perhaps he could find peace. 
 
 The war machines were physically strong, but they still relied on their shielding systems to protect from impacts. James raised the machine in his hands, still humming, and aimed. It was a glorified nailgun, made for work on the massive construct that his side of the war effort used as a headquarters. Perhaps it would work as a missile. 
 
 He took a breath. This - this was him saying he did n't consent. That he was done with their crimes, he told himself. It was over. 
 
 A pull of the trigger. 
 
 Nothing happened. 
 
 `` Oh well,'' said James. A group of men was already approaching, almost casually. 
 
 They would certainly be consenting to his death.
