The ships appear swiftly on the coast, flying flags of commerce from distant lands, but their clip betraying a deeper urgency. The assembled tribes, signatory to this peace summit and thus bound against acknowledgement of ill omen in the presence of these law-kin. Their leaders are not prideful, but chosen for wisdom in staying the course of rational consideration. Thus, they know something is amiss, and feel their pulse quicken, but they cannot contextualize their betrayal. They lend each other comforting pleasantries, asserting what lovely delicacies these traders surely bring.
The Tribes of War have chosen a novel approach to the Tribes of Forgetfulness banding together, obviously unable to respond in kind; They will be trades to the albino agents of Ghost Tribe, who promise weapons even the Gods might fear to take the field against in exchange for a lesson in the hubris of peace for the Tribes That Forgot War. As the War Chiefs spy sails through the glare on the water, they call their men to arms and charge, to push the Summit of Surrender to the sea.
The spears of their own. The nets and shackles of the Island Ghosts. It is an easier decision than one might think, for those who see the folly in serving Death, but harder on the Chiefs of Peace. The taunting sneer of Tribe That Forgot War comes into sharp relief for these wise ones. Their naivete, their humanity, has cost their tribes the world.
He is a selfish young man, like most of his age. But tonight, it is his belief that he is in the grip of empathy. He is mistaken, and aggrandizes his sympathy, but the effect is much the same; he is distracted from the reality of the road he walks at midnight. His destination is the Sacred Heart hospital, where his roommate is likely receiving pain killers and being queued for X rays of his broken leg, the slowly quieting and tear streaked face of the roommate’s girlfriend nestled in his shoulder.
The Ambulance only allowed one civilian ride along, and the choice could not have been more obvious. Still, an error of accumulating effect was made.
Our subject does not truly know the way, and a sign across the street calls out it’s siren song of guidance. He steps out to better glean the wisdom offered.
He can’t really be said to see the taxi, but he does try to leap out of the way on pure muscle reflex in reaction to sound and light, to little avail. The passenger side mirror picks him up at his left hip, the centrifugal force of the illegal speed dashing his skull against the windshield. Each sustains two cracks. Two airbags go off; the one in the driver’s steering wheel, and the one in the pedestrian’s skull.
Fade to red, then white, then black.