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.