In your dreams you 're a soldier that is holding out against AI forces that want to sterilize humanity . When you wake up everything is normal , but every night when you go to bed the AI get closer to their goal of eliminating humanity . You do n't know what will happen when they get you . [ TT ]

They flock together in masses, running forward from over the hills and down the steeps, approaching the bunker fast. In this storm of lifeless grays with blurry faces, I am the one in the bunker with the machine gun, spewing the hot and heavy bullets that tears into their masks. There's something bitter on my tongue as I hold the trigger down. The chain of bullets rattle, but never end. The grays never stop advancing until their limbs of metal are torn into bolts, and they collapse only to crawl. 
 
 Then, I wake up suddenly. There's no trigger to it -- my gun did n't run out of bullets, the grays did n't get me, an explosion did n't occur by my feet. I just open my eyes, and awake to this reality. There's no gun in my hand, there's no everlasting sea of gray pushing down the plain hillside, and there's no bitterness on my tongue. I get ready for work, go to said work, talk to boss of said work, then leave said work to go home and eat. It is a routine of my life, but now pushing itself into it is this dream of grays with blurry faces. Inhuman despite their bodies resembling my own. Their faces are all I can see, just a blurry mask of what should be -- the sockets of eyes are just smooth indents of the face, yet there's faint lights in those indents. As I fall asleep to end the routine of the day, they all are that I see. 
 
 And when I awake in the bunker, they are all that I see there. It's not so much awaking as it is blinking, seemingly the trigger which prompts the grays to charge over the hill. They run like people do, they falter like people do, they fall like people do. My tongue is bitter. My finger is aching from pressing the trigger so hard, and the vibrations of the gun rattle my heart against my body, thumping it louder than before. They never waver, and instead fluctuate like an actual sea of gray, only forming shape when torn by bullets. 
 What truly scares me though is that they advance closer each time. It's not a matter of them running faster or changing tactics, for they actually commit the same acts each dream. Instead, it's only a matter of the dream extending itself. It looks like they advance several feet each time. Then I awake, commit to my routine, fall back asleep, and awake to replay a horror in my brain. 
 
 Blinking is instinctive, as is pushing the trigger down. My tongue is burning, but I ignore it. That dream they close in nearly five feet towards the bunker. In the next dream they close three feet. Yet, they still are twenty feet away from the walls of the bunker, walls that I've actually not seen. All I can see in those dreams are the small square window I blast out of, and the grays that fall and rise. 
 
 My life in reality is a consistency of how much I fall and rise. Rise from the bed, weave into society to work, fall back on to the bed, and cross myself still to play gunshots in my brain overnight. No matter how closer they advance, when I awake, there's nothing there. I never feel afraid in my bed, but I still see their lights for seconds at a time. 
 Sometimes, I see their blurry faces, too. When I pass by a coworker or a customer, their face looks so gray and smooth, as though perfected by another machine. Their eye sockets are smooth indents, with red lights beneath. The grays reveal themselves only a moment at a time, yet I do n't fear them. My tongue sometimes tastes bitter at work. 
 
 A string of dreams ends. They run the same pace, in the same direction, and it all feels so familiar. It's like I know the grays, as though I've befriended them as a creator and destroyer. The gun feels so light, so void of all strength and power, and they fall as though they are playing an act. It feels fun, like we're friends reenacting a great war scene. All of the grays that run from the top of the hill to the bottom, broken and destroyed with each burning bullet, I can almost see a smile in their blurry faces. The dream extends. They approach, but not fast. 
 They reach the walls. They slam their fists against the wall, creating a loud cry of metal to concrete. Even now that they're pushing through the bunker, more of my gray friends run over the hill to meet me. I smile. My tongue is as bitter as it has ever been, and their cold metal hands grab mine. They pull me through the window. 
 
 I awake. My body is covered in cold sweat, and my shoulders are trembling. Reality is distorted. The cosmos are falling and rising, trembling with me. The room is so dark, but I do n't feel the need to get out of bed. I do n't rise from the sheets, I only lay there and try to find it. A blurry face in the room. And there I would see it through my window. It stares in, its lights blinking emotionlessly. I blink with it. Within minutes, the face is gone. The world has settled back into place, and the sweating stops. I close my eyes. 
 The dreams have ended. No matter how much I sleep, the grays do n't return, nor do the hills, or the bunker. Reality overtakes my life again, but it is all so odd and distorted. Every face is a blurry mess devoid of all its color, those including my very own in the mirror. And every time I see it, my tongue gets bitter in disgust and nostalgia. 
 
 One day, I went to a mall. A crowded mall, where people clumped and crammed against one another, and the scene felt so familiar. The sea of grays, their faces smooth and clean, perfected by their creator -- me. And as I pulled the gun from beneath my coat, I ca n't help but smile. The trigger feels like nothing.
