December 3, 1985
I have trouble looking in the mirror. I hate myself for what I did last time. I want to believe, as I did then, that it doesn’t matter, that nothing matters, but…the things I did…
It took many lifetimes to gather the necessary intelligence to put my plan into motion. And though some things change each time, most things stay the same – including routines, habits, weaknesses…passwords.
Once every detail was squared away, I managed to launch a single ICBM at Hong Kong. I chose the target because it was important enough to the Chinese to warrant full nuclear retaliation, but not important enough to reduce their ability to retaliate. And retaliate they did…once the dominoes started to fall, everyone with a missile launched at someone. By the time I crawled out of my hiding spot, I emerged into a hot red world that I loved far more than the old blue one, and I killed every person I met – military, civilian, men, women…children. I didn’t last long, only a few days really – then a group of soldiers surrounded the building I was in and started lobbing grenades. I was happy to die by then.
But those few days…they left a horrible imprint on me. And every time I look in the mirror, I don’t see a young boy – I see a man’s face…my face…covered in her blood.