The van screeches to an abrupt halt and one of the men says that it is time. I am the last to be strapped on. My wearer looks so young, nascent facial hair betraying his age. I am sickened by what we are about to do. The leader of the group, much older than the other three, goes through the plan with them again and makes sure that they know how to detonate us. An empty socket where his left eye should be steals my thoughts for a moment. I realize that he has done this before. Yet he has returned where these young men shall not. If I had gods to pray to I would pray that my wearer is killed before he can detonate me, or by some miracle, maybe a fault in the wiring, my explosion is never triggered. Can miracles occur without gods?
I feel useless, unable to stop what is about to happen. I ask my wearer’s machine gun if he really wants to kill innocent children. There is a pause, and I think he is ignoring me, or maybe not heard, then he says belligerently, that he does. He gets a thrill from the violence and death that every press of his trigger discharges. Child, adult, man, woman, it matters not to him. What could I expect, he is only acting true to his nature? I am the abnormality, a weapon of war who abhors the destruction he was created to inflict.