I was on my back looking up at the bank of flourescent lights overhead. My ears were ringing. I could smell something that was like burned meat.

I propped myself up on an elbow and saw there was blood on my hands and my shirt. I couldn't move my legs because there was a body on them. My brother.

The side of his face was melted, blood oozing from where his cheek used to be. His right arm was cut off above the elbow, his bright red arterial blood pumping out, slower with each beat.

The man who shot him, the man who tried to shoot me until my brother jumped in the way to protect me, was walking towards me and aiming his pulse rifle to finish the job.

I couldn't move, I couldn't scream for help.

And then I wake up.

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