Project Mayhem Chapter 1: Prologue, a sherlock fanfic

A/N: This story is written in the style of Chuck Palahniuk, if you don't know who he is, do check out his stuff, he's an awesome writer. For those of you who don't know, this is written in first person, like all of Chuck's works. I know that's not everyone's cup of tea, but do give it a try. :D

No beta, all mistakes are my own. Reviews are as always, greatly appreciated.

Cologne, some Hugo Boss bullcrap, that's the first thing I notice as he holds a gun to my temple. I don't flinch; I don't try to move away. I'm on a chair, those office types, you know, the one with the wheels. Spin around in it fast enough and you'll vomit out your whole day's worth of food. When you think about it, how an office chair can become some sort of torture device, makes you wonder what other everyday items can be used that way.

I tug at the bindings, my arms tied to each armrest so tight that the circulation cuts off, my wrist numb. All this while all I can think of is how disgusting the cologne smells. The scene before my eyes was breath taking, we're on the highest building in the city, glass panels stretching up dozens of storey high, I'm looking down at a maze of streets and buildings, of people as small as ants maneuvering through.

When I say we, I'm talking about the person holding the gun, Jim. 5 feet 8, black hair, brown eyes – walk past him on the street and you wouldn't take a second look. Like how in the past, you could walk past the assassin of Martin Luther King, Jr. without knowing what crime the person was about to commit, gun tucked snuggly in a black leather bag.

I get a strong whiff of the cologne as Jim leans in close, a hair's length away from my ear, I sniff, my nose itches but I can't do anything about it. Jim's voice comes out as deep and scratchy as gravel, and he says, "You won't die, not really."

I nod and say, "You wouldn't let me."

Somewhere way down below, in the busy streets, people continue walking, unaware, playing with their cell phones and eating snacks they had gotten from the convenience store, talking with their friends, laughing, drinking. Cars zoom past even faster, the drivers don't even notice the buildings in their surroundings, it's just them in a metal box with wheels, the center of their universe.

Right now, Jim is the center of my universe. Jim and his mouth so close to my skin, the horrid fruity smell of cologne and that barrel still pressed up cold. "There are worse ways to die than dying," Jim's voice sounds like he's been screaming for weeks.

"Was this really necessary?" I ask, looking down at my hands, "tying me up."

Jim smirks, places the gun in my lap, and of course I can't get to it so it stays there, dead weight. He walks towards the glass panel, breath so hot that a small circle of mist clouds the cool glass. "I get it," I say, "The point you're trying to make, I get it."

He shakes his head, doesn't glance back at me as he raises his right hand to tap his finger against the window. He thinks I don't understand, but I do. The wave of people below, living their lives on an endless loop – sleep, wake up, go to work, get back home, rinse and repeat. They're never truly living, like zombies, time revolves around them and they're trapped in it, a vicious cycle. Sometimes, it's better off being dead.

Do you ever wish you'd never been born?

Sometimes, death is freedom.

The air conditioning in the office had already been turned off, I wonder, was anyone monitoring this? Despite the lack of man-made cool air, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing. I wonder, does anyone else know what's going to happen?

The building we're in, it's not going to be here for long. This, and five others, all in view of the big glass panels, I could point them out to you, but my hands are tied, quite literally. When Jim's done, all this will be a pile of dust.

Improvised explosive device, that's what the authorities call it. In layman term, that's a homemade bomb. Mix together stuff you can get off the shelf, everyday items, and you'll be able to make one. Makes you wonder what other things you could do with plain everyday items.

You take acetone, your daily run of the mill paint thinner, mix it with hydrogen peroxide, that's hair bleach, if you didn't know. Then cool it to 5 degrees Celsius, and slowly add drops of sulfuric acid – lead-acid batteries, acidic drain cleaner – and you get acetone peroxide, a high explosive ten times as sensitive to friction as nitroglycerin.

I know this because Jim knows this.

But this time, Jim had said, this time it's important, no screwing around. So the buildings have been lined with Semtex. I never asked where he got the explosives from, didn't dare. Military grade, I wonder, if any military personnel are working with Jim on this.

"You don't have to do this," he's still not looking at me, but I can sense him rolling his eyes, "No really, you don't have to."

One hundred and eighty floors up, everything below seems so insignificant. It works both ways, this, rich and poor, powerful and powerless, no one really cares about each other, because why does that matter?

I used to care, you know. Used to be some sort of saint, before I met Jim, I still believed in heroes, in dreams and hope. It depends on how you look at it, you might say that Jim has ruined me, or you might say that he's saved me, either way, what does it matter? I have a gun in my lap, I can't pick it up.

"Call it off," I say. "Don't," I say.

Everything is just a matter of perception, the pros and cons; you're the one that deems it to be. You're the one who makes the decisions; you're the one who tells your brain to separate right from wrong. Life from death.

The first man to walk on the moon, everyone knows his name, and yet no one knows the name of the first man to ever be in space. They're both first, but sometimes, first isn't everything. Sometimes, people just see things differently.

Why not remember the name of the first guy who died while attempting spaceflight? I guess when you fall from the sky at 125mph, all you get after you die is a small black column built in your memorial. A structure so insignificant, that when you ask someone on the streets, "Do you know what's at Komarov?" They'll shrug and move on.

Ten minutes to take off.

"We'll be legends," Jim's voice filled with pride, his work, now almost complete, "You and I, immortals."

To give people something to remember, now that's close to impossible. It's not about doing the right or wrong things, it's not about doing something magnificent or tragic – it's just about doing something and hoping that others will remember. Hoping that people will perceive your deeds as something that's worthy of remembering.

Nine minutes.

I shake my head even though he can't see, twist my arms around, trying to get out of the ropes. "What makes you so sure?" One jerk too hard and the gun falls on the floor, I glance up at Jim but he's still staring into the night sky. I push, "What makes you so sure that this will be worth remembering?"

Go on; ask someone you see on the street about what happened in Sheffield, March 11, 1864. After they give you that "What the fuck are you talking about?" look, ask them about what happened Ukraine, April 26, 1986.

He turns back then, but not as I expect, he doesn't glare at me, doesn't shout, doesn't get ticked off. "Maybe it wouldn't, maybe it would. All I know is, if it doesn't make it into the history books, I'll try again."

September 11, 2001. April 30, 1945. What makes those days so special?

Eight minutes.

I say, "How would you try again if you're dead? Blown up. Gone. Ashes."

"Like I said, you won't die." He's going around in circles. My head hurts. I don't even attempt to comprehend his riddles. He picks up the gun that had skidded across the floor. "We won't die." He holds the gun to his head, from my distance, I can see that the safety is off. His finger is on the trigger.

Seven minutes to take off.

"Don't!" I yell, frantic now, "Please, James, don't!" Funny, how when you're tied up and helpless, the fear that surges through you when something causes you to panic, your heart skips a beat, breath caught, time stands still.

Six. Five. Seven. Six.

These parallel universes, wormholes, string theory, all that crap about time and space – you spend your whole life researching, trying to understand and yet you know nothing. Knowledge might be empowering, but it isn't power, not really. Experience is power; first hand experience is the only thing that counts.

At that moment, I'm suspended in a void. Some people say that when you die, you see your life flash before your eyes. It doesn't, trust me, I know. All that happens is, scarily enough, absolutely nothing. Everything stops, in that split second that spans on like an eternity.