"The baton was a bloody mess."

  The man had been video-documenting four days straight.  He crumpled.  The woman crawled past the few objects flying off a plywood table shaking this way and that.  Removed the heavy PRESS vest from the crumpled man who was yelping as the mortar rounds sailed in and pocked the area. 

  "PUT IT ON." 

  A slide on hands and knees through blood to a low-lying cot.  The hands that would not let go of the baton.  A bloody tug-of-war. 

  "It was this or that, down the line in corp." 

  "It seems it's all the same now." 

  "I haven't warn a suit since that day." 

  That day.  "He's lost his mind," top execs announced to security.  "Don't put your hands on me," he told them.  Then he spit on the flat turf-carpeting in the hallway like he was still at the farm.  Everybody stalled everybody until another guy came out.  We'd done it too.  One way or another botched the precision strike simulator test. 

  "It doesn't have to be this way," a young millie tried to explain. 

  Just skin and bones face stretched mouth to reveal really long teeth as an almost visible toxic cloud came from the man.  "It would help you out there." The "thing" comes with its own luggage.  Set up anywhere and strike away.  "That's beyond callous."  

  "Let me tell you something.  The enemy gets into cubicles and orb-armchairs and does the same fucking thing.  Like video games." 

  "We're not interested," said our little team's lead.  "We'll get our news the hard way."