[font=Lucida Sans Unicode]The muscle known as the human brain processes many thousands of thoughts per second, fleeting thoughts most of them, leaving the human host to digest them thoroughly, more leisurely over time. Many of these thoughts take the form of impressions and suppositions manifested through imagery. If this imagery is shocking it can result in short or long-term disorientation. Whether short or long-term depends on the person.
Every human psyche has its limits however; the child that has faced one abuse too many; the woman that lives with cruelty one day too long; and -- of course -- the warrior who sees one too many battles... But, even so, the resulting fall-out of such psychological overload is as varied as the different character types. How does it affect a person? Some get mean, some more compassionate, some become disfuntional, some don't survive... How we handle life's visceral barbarities is, after all, what makes us... us...
Such was Rage's tortured state of mind as he watched the young woman die. His sanity crept up to its boundary, peaked over, hung there for several heart-wrenching seconds, riding the line... The unimagineable imagery seared his very soul. How does one unsee what he is looking at? How does that not change you?
He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He snapped around, baton out in a flash...
"Captain," said the raider sergeant. "You okay?"
"Okay... okay... okay..." he repeated softly, shaking his head in simultaneous contradiction. His eyes returned to the mess that had been a lovely female body. Rage wondered how anyone could do that to another person, especially one so young and beautiful... God of Creation, how can You be and allow this?
"Captain?" It was the sergeant again.
"Right." Rage stated bluntly, spinning around, purposefully placing his back to the scene of carnage. "Right, let's just head on out. No need to worry too much about the mess in here."
"Yes sir," the combat-seasoned sergeant agreed. He knew the key: you can't become fixated with the scenes of blood and guts or they'll destroy you. You let them wash off you... like washing your hands of the blood. He knew through experience that you had to just move past it, get beyond it. But it was something that couldn't be taught to someone else. It was something each man had to come to grips with internally, work out within himself. "...where to?"
"Follow me..." said the captain, who then strode brazenly out the door, like he suddenly owned the station. The sergeant gave swift orders to his men and they followed him out quickly.