I am not there, or I am a cameraman. There is a reporter in front of me. He is speaking,
I may or may not understand. The visuals are enough, should be enough for anyone at home watching this.
This a different world, red and blasted. We are on a beachfront. It is a warzone. They emerge from the water. They are dinosaurs, all of them. There are Tyrannosaurs and Triceratops, and they are warring, with other Tyrannosaurs and Triceratops. Thousands. Living tanks, all. It is a war between factions. Territorial? The fighters rush at each other, are gored, bitten, slashed. Blood is everywhere, pours in tiny rivers. Do you remember watching hosewater down a driveway back home? It leaks into the red dust, feeding it.
We are losing.
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Hope is not lost. Reinforcements have arrived, they are long-necked and long tailed, and their bulbous stomachs are cut into vertical sections along the side. Each slice swings individually as the sidle to the front. These cuts are not injuries, they allow them their function. They bear the pain with pride, that much is evident. The lungs inflate in barely controlled gasps, but the eyes see with terrible clearness. The impression is of single-minded purpose. The commander demonstrates this purpose now, a swerving locomotive towards the wounded. A minor explosion bursts the already-perforated stomach, opening it further. Deft hands work quickly, reaching inside to replace the organs of the fallen fighter with his own. He finishes his work and falls. The soldier comes to consciousness and rises. Others now rush out. The camera pulls back. We see the battlefield as a whole, suicide medics rushing out in every direction, crimson bursts staccato across the landscape.
I turn my camera back towards the reporter. He is gesturing wildly and excitedly. This is what he was here to see. This is novel, the peak of their technological progress, the new secret weapon. One has the impression that all of their technology is like this - wildly and voluntarily self-sacrificial. I regret my purpose as soon as it becomes clear. The reporter and I are propagandists. This is our side.
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There has not been one gunshot throughout this battle, only the clash of muscle and bone. It is a matter of pride for them, seeing us, that their civilization has never known metal. I throw up.