Hogarth

Long ago, the many countries of Earth lived in a peace we all worked hard to build. That peace was precious, but strong, like the powerful flow of rivers that mark the edges of our lands. From every corner of the globe to the skies above, people enjoyed a calm life together. Nations traded, cultures shared their riches, and technology advanced in harmony as we reached for the stars with hope and curiosity in our hearts. Yet, peace can sometimes be deceiving, hiding the storm that's about to come. Twenty years back, our peaceful life was torn apart by Martians from outer space. They came without warning—a fleet of ominous ships that eclipsed the sun and cast long shadows across our cities. With weapons that seemed ripped from the core of nightmares, they destroyed everything we held dear. Their lasers cut through the steel of our skyscrapers like a hot knife through butter, and their massive iron feet crushed the hope that had been building for centuries. The unity that our nations had so carefully knitted together came undone in an instance. Borders that had once been lines on maps became chasms too wide to cross. Governments crumbled as if they were made of sand, their leaders either fleeing, falling, or failing to stand against the unforeseen threat. The new leaders who rose from the rubble were often as ruthless as the aliens themselves, trying to wield power in a world that no longer made sense.

I was lost, adrift in a sea of uncertainty. I wandered through the destruction, the remnants of our civilization surrounding me. It was like walking in a nightmare, except I couldn't wake up. I could still see their faces—my neighbors, friends, my family—all haunted by the same question: where do we go from here? The tears came. Not just for my losses, but for all of us. The world wasn't just different; it was gone. I barely noticed the rain mixing with the dirt on my face as I looked upon what was once my city. It was a grave now, and the sky was its cold, uncaring stone. Then, one day, as I scavenged for something, anything, to hold on to, I overheard a hushed conversation—a rumor of a group gathering strength, fighting back against our oppressors. The rebels. They said it was a cause worth fighting for, a chance to make a difference, to maybe find a purpose amid the chaos. Something inside me stirred. With nothing left to lose, I followed the whispers. I traveled through back alleys and underground networks, away from the destruction, toward a glimmer of hope. The journey was long and hard, but every step took me further from my past and closer to a future I hadn't even begun to imagine. What should I do now? The answer was becoming clear. I would join them. I would become a rebel. It was time to fight back, time to reclaim what had been stolen from our world. Time to stand with others who refused to give up, refused to let Earth go without a fight.

Staring into the ruins of what once was, By then, i had repeated "What should I do now?" It was a whisper lost in a sea of destruction, but it carried the weight of my very soul. With nothing but memories haunting me, and the will to reclaim some semblance of the past, I followed whispers of a growing resistance. They were just known as "the rebels," a title as straightforward as their mission. Supposedly No fancy names or symbols, just a determined collective of individuals with a common target in their sights. The journey to find them was a hard one. Through shattered towns, over fields marred by conflict, I traveled. With each step, the pull of something greater than myself kept me moving forward. The occasional glimpses of others on similar paths reminded me I wasn't alone. My journey was just beginning

My journey was just beginning, and I was aware of that, but I couldn't shake off the feeling of being a hypocrite. There was a sense of anger brewing within me, as if I were forgetting a significant part of my life. "But what am I forgetting? Wasn't that my story?" I pondered deeply. One night, during my travels, I collapsed from lack of food and water. All alone, I fell unconscious. In that vulnerable state, I remembered what had slipped my mind. I vividly recalled the day the sky collapsed, when my world shattered. The screams, blinding flashes, and the fire that devoured everything I cherished—it was etched in my memory, but was that the full extent of my loss? No, it wasn't. My family and I had been torn apart. Whether they are still alive, I cannot say. Whether they've perished, I have no way of knowing. What I do know is that they entrusted me with the care of my brother's child, my little nephew who was yet to be tainted by the darkness of this world. "Where is my nephew now?" They took him—rogue Martians, unaffiliated with the main forces, snatched him from me, and I believe they also planted the seeds of forgetfulness about him in my mind. I remember their lair; I will go there, retrieve my nephew, and together, we will join the rebels. "I want to rescue him, but how?" I am not strong enough, not yet. I suppose I'll need to undergo basic training. And so, I trained relentlessly. Every day, I would complete 500 push-ups, and every night, I practiced boxing. This rigorous routine made my body so resilient and nimble that I became swifter than before. Throughout this all, I couldn't stop thinking about my family, how we were separated, and my resolve to reunite with my nephew in the rebellion.

It was finally time. Gasping for breath in the oppressive silence of Rockwell, my eyes locked onto the six Martian peasants. Visceral tension hung between us, and I knew the quiet was about to shatter. With a primal shout, I charged, my training kicking in instinctively. My fists cut through the air, connecting with the hard skin of the nearest Martian. They were strong, but their movements were lumbering and slow; I blitzed around them, a blur of motion, delivering calculated blows. "Come on!" I taunted, narrowly dodging a clumsy punch that would've done serious damage had it landed. Adrenaline surged through my veins, honing my senses, as I spun and landed a solid hit on another's jaw. The fight was unyielding, each movement reverberating through bone and sinew. My mind was ablaze, strategizing on the fly, exploiting the weak points in their defense. A kick here, a hard block there—I was keeping my own. But fatigue was a cunning adversary, eroding my performance. The peasant Martians noticed and pounced on the opportunity. A heavy fist slammed into my ribs, wrenching the breath from my lungs. Another clamped onto my arm, twisting painfully. The once-weak Martians were now armed. "What the actual fuck?" I shouted, my anger flaring. How had I found myself bringing fists to a gunfight? It wasn't fair. My resolve was ironclad; my journey couldn't end like this, or so I thought. With a roar of defiance, I wrenched myself free, attempting to unleash a barrage of punches with what little strength I had left. My arms felt like lead, my vision swimming. The world became a blur, the cacophony of the battle ringing in my ears, until the unmistakable sound of gunfire cut through the chaos. I stared in disbelief at my body. "MY HANDS!" "MY HANDS!" I cried out. They had shot both my arms! The Martians stood there, laughing at my agony. I was handless and on the verge of bleeding out. This, it seemed, was the end for me…

"i did not achieve anything"