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To
fight
them
,
we
use
machines
to
make
ourselves
stronger
.
We
climb
into
mechanized
armor
Jackets
-
science
’
s
latest
and
greatest
.
We
bundle
ourselves
into
steel
porcupine
skin
so
tough
a
shotgun
fired
at
point
blank
wouldn
’
t
leave
a
scratch
.
That
’
s
how
we
face
off
against
the
Mimics
,
and
we
’
re
still
outclassed
.
Mimics
don
’
t
inspire
the
instinctive
fear
you
’
d
expect
if
you
found
yourself
facing
a
bear
protecting
her
cubs
,
or
meeting
the
gaze
of
a
hungry
lion
.
Mimics
don
’
t
roar
.
They
’
re
not
frightening
to
look
at
.
They
don
’
t
spread
any
wings
or
stand
on
their
hind
legs
to
make
themselves
look
more
intimidating
.
They
simply
hunt
with
the
relentlessness
of
machines
.
I
felt
like
a
deer
in
the
headlights
,
frozen
in
the
path
of
an
oncoming
truck
.
I
couldn
’
t
understand
how
I
’
d
gotten
myself
into
the
situation
I
was
in
.
I
was
out
of
bullets
.
So
long
,
Mom
.
I
’
m
gonna
die
on
a
fucking
battlefield
.
On
some
godforsaken
island
with
no
friends
,
no
family
,
no
girlfriend
.
In
pain
,
in
fear
,
covered
in
my
own
shit
because
of
the
fear
.
And
I
can
’
t
even
raise
the
only
weapon
I
have
left
to
fend
off
the
bastard
racing
toward
me
.
It
was
like
all
the
fire
in
me
left
with
my
last
round
of
ammo
.
The
Mimic
’
s
coming
for
me
.
I
can
hear
Death
breathing
in
my
ear
.
His
figure
looms
large
in
my
heads
-
up
display
.
Now
I
see
him
;
his
body
is
stained
a
bloody
red
.
His
scythe
,
a
two
-
meter
-
long
behemoth
,
is
the
same
vivid
shade
.
It
’
s
actually
more
of
a
battle
axe
than
a
scythe
.
In
a
world
where
friend
and
foe
wear
the
same
dust
-
colored
camouflage
,
he
casts
a
gunmetal
red
glow
in
all
directions
.
Death
rushes
forward
,
swifter
than
even
a
Mimic
.
A
crimson
leg
kicks
and
I
go
flying
.
