If this looks familiar to you -- it should. I'm moving many of my one-shots to this account.
Never Giving Up
Black. Sudden, endless black. Am I dead? Wouldn't that be ironic. I probably deserve to die. And the people who should die, never seem to. The ones who die when they should live become heroes. I'm no hero. I'm dying like a damned coward. He didn't shoot me, he wasn't even fighting fair. Throwing me off---now that was cowardice. It was all about him the whole damned time, wasn't it? It always was all about him. Anything for a good ego-stroking, anything for money. I'm not saying I'm a saint, but at least I got something out of science class. Like, say, the world revolves around the sun and not me. . . . .
I'm not going to die. Funny how that thought creeps into your mind when every stinging pain starts to throb dully. I still won't die. I'm stronger than that. I've always been strong---physically, mentally---emotionally, man, I'm hard as diamond. You'll never see me cry. Crying symbolizes weakness, and I am not weak. I've never been weak; I've never allowed myself to dissapate into weakness---into dependency. I would sooner die than depend on somebody. Die. But I won't die. I've taken on everything and beaten it---how hard can the Grim Reaper be? I won't back off. I've never backed off. The strong survive, and I am strong. But what if I. . . .what if I do live, and my body cannot be healed? God, I can't think about it. I cannot defeat death only to live on in a useless body---a depending body. If that's the case, I will die, and gladly.
God, it's freezing. Why is it so cold? Atlantis was a paradise--tropical and warm. It was. . . .full of life. Full of people. People who don't deserve to meet their ends. . . . .I didn't have a choice! What was I supposed to do, act like some kind of damned martyr and die with the rest of them while Rourke became a millionaire? Just surrender and give it up to him? No! That's not me! I had a choice of winning or losing, and I did the smart thing. I always win. . . . .I'm not winning now. I've lost the most dangerous game. I don't lose. I never lose. The bastard beat me.
But we were on the same side! We were fighting for the same thing. All this time, he. . . .I've been nothing more than a puppet to him, all these years. He thought all he had to do was tug on a few strings and I would dance. I did dance. Every time, all he had to do was twist his finger. God, he makes me sick! I'm not a puppet! I've got a mind! Nobody owns me, nobody can stop me. I am unbreakable, unbeatable. I am. . . . .dying. I'm coughing. . . .blood.
I was wrong. I'm never wrong. But I'm wrong now. I let greed take control of me, and greed ended me. Rourke thought he had me, and he was right. He made me an unrefuseable offer, and it was too good to turn down. I'm dying. But not just me. It's not about me. It's. . . .there's people, an entire race of people, dying. Dying because of my greed, of the greed of a bunch of mercenaries with a no-name linguist. God, if he hadn't have cared. . . .We'd have been fine. I'd be a millionaire. . . .or would I? Would Rourke have killed us all, figuring there'd be more for him? He still thinks he's got it. Pompous ass. He can kill me, but he cannot kill Atlantis---he cannot kill the one man who can save the entire civilization. He cannot win.
Where's my gun? Thank God, it didn't fall out. My arms are shaking. It's not that big of a gun! Why are my arms shaking like it's a cannon? Open my eyes. . . .aim. . . .
"Nothing. . . .personal. . . ."
Squeeze the trigger. . . .My arms fall in exhaustion and pain. What has happened to me? I'm strong! That Atlantean princess who took out all those so-called "mercenaries"---I could contain her with one hand. I am strong---physically, mentally, emotionally---and I am never giving up. To my last breath, I'm fighting, because I'm strong in every possible way. I'll tango with the Grim Reaper in a second, and I'll battle until he beats me, fair and square. I don't give up, and I'm not giving up now. That balloon is going to fall, and when it hits the ash, it will explode. I'll hold out until then. I'll die my own way, and it will be memorable. Fire, explosion, the whole nine yards---but no weak coughing and painful moaning in a blanket of ash. That's not me. It takes more than a fall to kill Helga Sinclair. Lt. Helga Sinclair. That's me. The soldier, not the merc. The woman, not the lady. I will breathe again. I will breathe again and again and again until that balloon hits bottom and kills me. But not before. Just try and take the air filling my lungs. I am never giving that up. I could hold my breath and sufficate quietly right now, but I will not. I will be blown into a thousand pieces, because that's the only way to really kill me. That's the only way I will allow myself to die.