A rose in boston

Prologue

CLARIFICATIONS: I HAVE DECIDED TO REWRITE THIS STORY, BECAUSE I FEEL IT WAS NOT RIGHT, IT STAYS AS I WANTED: CUT CONTENT, NEW WEAPONS AND MORE DEPTH IN SOME AREAS.

Prologue.War, war never changes.In the year 1945, my great-great-grandfather served in the army.He wondered when he would return home to his wife and the son he never saw.And he got his wish. When the United States ended World War II.Dropping the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.The world expected Armageddon, and instead something miraculous happened.We began to use atomic energy not as a weapon, but as a new inexhaustible source of energy.People enjoyed luxuries thought of only in science fiction: home burglaries, fusion-powered cars, laptop computers.But later.In the 21st century, people woke up from the American dream.Years of unbridled consumption led to a major lack of resources.The whole world collapsed.Peace became a distant memory.Now it is the year 2077.We are on the brink of total war and I am afraid.For myself.For my wife.For my young son.Because my time in the military taught me one thing.That warwar never changes.

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When the steam cleared from the mirror and cleared my vision in it, I saw a man who had finished shaving looked tired in the mirror. He had tanned Caucasian skin, hazel eyes, graying hair, a shaved beard exposing exposed skin and groomed hair. He wore a white shirt with jeans.

My usual self.

"War, war never changes" I said wearily. I had heard it from a soldier who hated being in Alaska. Even though I had finished my military service, I felt inside the cold trenches, listening to explosions, screams and gunfire.

"You're going to tear it up at Veteran's Hall tonight, honey," my wife said. Fair skinned, black eyes, eyebrows and light brown hair, he wore his hair cut to his neck in a wavy hairstyle, his wife Nora. He said as he approached him to give me a kiss on the cheek, I just smiled as I received the gesture. Perhaps he was a man traumatized by the war, but he was still stable enough to lead a normal life.

"You think so?" I asked looking at her with a smile.

"Of course," she said. "Now finish it and stop hogging the mirror." I heeded my wife to leave the bathroom and go to the kitchen for breakfast.

I turned right into the dining room where there was a shiny silver, three-eyed Mr. Handy with the same number of pliers he used for housework; he had a saw, a blowtorch and a regular clamp. He called himself Codsworth so that the family would recognize him, and in his tongs he had a coffee pot. He poured the contents into a white cup on the table. He turned one of his eyes to look at me.

The house had white and light blue paint, a blue kitchen, wooden furniture, red couches, a television, a bathroom, his bedroom with a double mattress, two pieces of furniture, a sofa, an American flag, a radio, a picture and a camera. His son's room had a tapestry with a spaceship, a carpet with the same design, a crib with a mobile, a red sofa and a piece of furniture with his clothes.

"Ah, good morning, sir!" said Codsworth in a British accent. "Your coffee. Eighty degrees centigrade. Unbeatable!" He said to stop pouring. "And today's paper, just delivered!"

"Thank you Codsworth" I said as I picked up the cup and drank its contents. "Not bad."
"Of course sir!" He said to retire and go to the laundry room.

I sat down in a chair at the table to continue drinking my coffee. I saw next to me a blue plastic plate with two holes in it. I lowered my head at the sight of it.