Can I request a fluffy Pietro one? Maybe she’s a spy not necessarily an avenger and every day she gets a gift but doesn’t know it’s from him
Again, sorry for the long wait. But here it is, finally. Enjoy!
word count: 2232 (I’m sorry. I got carried away)
“You know, when you asked me to babysit you, I didn’t necessarily think it was to cover your ass so you wouldn’t get killed,” Natasha threw her body against the abandoned car, ducking behind it for cover as she shot down a member.
“Well,” you cocked a brow as you aimed at the street lamp that was illuminating the area a little too well. “You should’ve known since that’s apparently all you complain about whenever I’m out with you,” you pulled the trigger on the gun as the bulb exploded loudly, causing the street to dark.
I am about to admit something society tells me I shouldn’t. My age.
I was born in 1990. One of those odd years where your not quite sure if your Generation Y or a Millennial. Whenever a millennial pulls out the Selfie Stick, you roll your eyes and try telling them what it was like to sneak into your dad’s closet and dig out the old polaroid that cataloged your childhood; like wise, when your helping a Generation Y access certain aspects of technology, you wonder whether or not you can count that as assisting the elderly. Like I said, 1990 is an odd year. You might be one Apple Update away from becoming the aforementioned elderly.
As I’ve read the reports coming out of Brussels and listened to the BBC world news (2 points to the elderly), I’ve thought of another term that may properly define those that were born between the Berlin Wall Falling down and 2000. It’s not as catchy, and it doesn’t pay tribute to our first edition Furby’s or the VHS Recordings we made of Dawson’s Creek. It’s not a nod to the Green Slime that was on Nickelodeon, or the screeching of Dial Up Internet. It’s something that defines us. That continues to define us. That every generation hereafter may be the inheritor of:
We are the Terrorized Generation.
We have faced terrorism from our cradles. I was too young to remember the first attack on the world trade center, but I can vividly remember the Oklahoma City Bombings. The image that came on our TV in our little house of the Federal Building stuck on in my head because it looked as though someone had carved the building open , as though they were going to make a doll house but quit and left the mess behind.
When I was 8 Columbine hit close to home. We lived in a neighboring state and I remembered walking into my library wondering where I would hide if I had to. I can remember my parents talking about the USS Cole, but it was far away. As the reports of renewed tensions in the middle east led us into the millennium, my dad always comforted my sisters and I by saying we’d be all right. The bad guys were oceans away. We were safe. We believed that, until 9/11.
The list goes on. Operation Afghan and Iraqi Freedom. The London Bombings. Mumbai. The Boston Marathon Bombings. Fort Hood Shootings. The Aurora Colorado Dark Night Shootings. MH17. Flight 9268. Sandy Hook. Chapel Hill. Paris. San Bernardino. Ankara. In this last year alone in the US, we’ve seen over 40 school or university shootings. And now, Brussels.
We go to work not knowing if a bomb will prevent us from coming home. We send our children to school not knowing if someone will prevent them from coming home to us. When the lights dim in a movie theater, there is the chance a mad man maybe a few rows down. We go to a Sunday school, the stranger may be more than a stranger. A marathon is now, never just a marathon. We catch our breath not just as our planes take off, but also as it lands again. As Paris has shown, a cafe, a rock concert, and a soccer match can also end in tragedies. A bus is never just a bus. Dropping a friend at the air port up the street can now be just as dangerous as dropping someone at the airport in a war zone .
It is not just our generation whose face these disasters. Terror doesn’t discriminate age groups. But it is our generation who will continue to face it. To raise our families amongst it. To be reminded of it every time we take our shoes off at the airport. To have it called back to memory every time a news alert comes on our phones.
Winston Churchill once said “For defeat there is only one answer … victory.” As the smoke clears and we seek to understand the coming days, let that be our answer. Victory for the dead. Victory for those left behind. And Victory for a generation that must keep fighting on.