I am on a mission, accompanied by several buddies and some others, whom I do not know. We are underground somewhere, in an expansive, but low-ceilinged stone place with many pillars connecting the floor to the ceiling. The others suddenly turn on us and begin firing. My friends fall dead around me. I take cover behind one of the pillars and return fire. At this point, there is a change in the nature of my dream. I am accustomed to being chased, but until now I have never been the hunter, the aggressor. My friends are dead. Anger wells up inside me, choking me, setting raw every nerve. Then hatred. I feel a violent hatred that I have never before felt for anyone. The others are advancing on my position. I step out from behind the cover of the pillar and advance on them, shooting them all, one after another. Their deaths quell neither my anger nor my hatred, but they make me feel good. I want nothing more than to kill them and then to kill them again. I want them to die and come back so that I can keep on killing them until I can go no farther. I don’t fear their bullets. They all miss me, anyway. I advance on the last man left standing. I shoot him in the chest and he goes down. I advance until I am standing over him with my weapon pointed down at his body. At no point do I stop firing. Round after round sinks with perfect but unsatisfying precision into his chest and his face. He is dead, very much dead and I keep firing. I empty the magazine, exchange it for a full one and continue firing. A high-ranking officer grabs my arm and pulls me into a long, brightly lit hallway. He tells me that this was all just a training exercise, that I can stop now. I am confused, enraged and panicked. I stammer, asking him questions, tears running down my face. My heart is straining against the prison of my ribcage, my blood is acid. I wake up, panicked and confused.
