My name is Karma. My pantry's empty, and I'm out of groceries. Looks like I've got to hit the mall to restock. Something feels off, though—the mall's different, strange. My instincts are screaming, but I don't know why. I step forward, boots echoing, when chaos erupts. Armed men with pentagrams on their chests storm in, rifles raised to the sky. They grab a little girl, holding her hostage. My heart stops, and memories flood back—a battlefield, cannons roaring, tanks rolling, bodies falling.
I move, calm as death. My training kicks in: act first, emotions later. I walk to the man holding the girl, press my gun to his head, and pull the trigger. No remorse, just purpose. He crumples, and I scoop up the girl, running to her mother. "One down," I mutter, tossing the child to safety. Movement catches my eye—terrorists on the balcony. I fire, shots hitting close to their chests, but their vests save them. I need a better weapon.
I sprint to the dead terrorist, grabbing his rifle and vest. It's decent gear. Then I spot it: the gleam of a sniper's scope. Amateurs. Snipers should know better than to let their scopes reflect. These guys must be rebels—sloppy, overconfident. I count twelve of them. I break into a run, dropping to my belly, then rising, weaving to throw off the sniper's aim. I fire when I can. On my third shot, I hit him in the head. He drops. "Two down," I whisper. Only a few more to go.
I see a grenade on the dead sniper's belt and snatch it, along with a combat knife. Then I spot a woman, held hostage, a gun to her head. I tuck the knife in my waistband, drop my weapons, and pretend to surrender. When the terrorist gets close, I slash his neck, freeing the woman. "Run!" I shout. "Hide behind anything concrete!" I roll across the floor, grabbing my guns, firing shots that drop the last of them—or so I think.
One gets up, screaming, "If I'm going down, I'm taking someone with me!" He aims at the girl. I throw myself over her, and a bullet rips into my back. Pain explodes; my legs go numb. He hit my spine. I grab his leg, pull him down, and crawl onto him, knocking his gun away. "Everyone, hide behind the concrete wall!" I yell, pointing to a barrier a hundred feet away. My hand finds the grenade in my vest. I pull the pin, pressing it close. "You want to take someone? Let it be me. Not those innocent souls who don't deserve this."
I don't understand monsters like him, but if this is how I end, I won't complain. I died saving people—those smiles are everything I fought for. That's why I went to war. "Sorry, Spot," I murmur, thinking of my puppy waiting at home. "Looks like I won't be feeding you." As my eyes close, the grenade's heat engulfs me, ending both me and that disgusting pig. It's hot at first, then nothing.