Title: Fire In The Gut
Author: brista
Rating: T
Characters: The Current Middleman; The Former Middleman.
Summary: A Middleman in training reflects on a difficult mission.
Author's Notes: thebluefenix told me I should ditch class and write this instead. Comments/critiques/etc., welcome.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, no infringement is intended, etc., etc.
Spending every day narrowly avoiding the unflinching cattle gun of death could really bring a man down if he stopped to think about it long enough. He's prepared for it, to be sure, as prepared as one possibly could be. He's been prepared for death for a very long time now. One doesn't become a Navy SEAL without considering the very real possibility of a very permanent discharge. He isn't looking forward to the inevitable conclusion of his life, but he's fighting for a larger purpose and if that means he has to sacrifice himself to save another, he's prepared to do so.
Ida finishes bandaging up his arm and smacks his butt as he walks out of the room. That's about as close to a sympathetic shoulder as he will get. His arm is fine – just a scratch, really, he had insisted. Some blood, a little bit of torn skin. Nothing more than a superficial wound. Ida had glared at him and demanded to stitch it up before he high tailed it out of HQ. It's really remarkable how human the android's expressions could look; if he didn't know she was devoid of human emotion, he'd almost say she was concerned.
He knows he ought to change out of his uniform before heading home but he's about three minutes from collapsing and he doesn't want to be anywhere near this place when it happens. He heads toward the lobby stairs, creaky and worn with age. The old stairs sag under his weight and he really hopes they don't give way underneath him. He can't deal with Ida and The Middleman digging him out of the stair rubble.
"Rough day, Navy?" The Middleman leans against the door at the top of the stairs, the ever-present cigarette in his mouth. A smirk plays across The Middleman's weathered face.
To call it a 'rough day' is a blinding understatement. The Middleman had saved his skin, no doubt about that. But he'd rather be tangled up with a pack of genetically enhanced possums again than have a heart to heart with this man. In fact, he'd prefer to never speak with him about anything.
"I'm off the clock," he mumbles.
"You leave when I tell you to leave." The Middleman stomps down the stairs, pushing past him, and reaches under the reception counter. He fishes a silver lighter out of a shoebox full of odds and ends, then leans casually against the counter as he lights his cigarette. "You fucked up today."
He shifts his feet. The last thing he wants to do is be called into the gin-swilling, cigarette-puffing, temperamental principal's office. He had not made a mistake. He had directly disobeyed an order because the order was wrong. It wasn't even ambiguously wrong. It was black-and-white wrong. And if he was put in the same position again – forced to choose between his own life and that of an innocent civilian – he'd make the same choice every time.
The Middleman takes a drag on his cigarette.
Even before, when he was a Navy SEAL, he had never had any real interest in the cigarettes his buddies used to bum off each other. Smoking always put him on edge, made him antsy and nervous about their dangerous missions, and didn't relax him a bit.
He's still standing motionless at the bottom of the stairs when The Middleman strides over to him. "I'm not your daddy and I'm not your little girlfriend. Next time I won't be so quick to save your white bread ass, is that clear?" The Middleman exhales, a cloud of smoke swirling around them.
His fists clench reflexively. He wants to separate himself from the person he used to be but one good swing is all needs. The Middleman deserves it; he's practically begging for it. He would be doing the world a favor. With a man like that defending its safety, it's almost better off unprotected.
"Try. I dare you." The Middleman takes another puff on the cigarette. "You won't win," The Middleman says with a crooked grin.
Unadulterated rage bubbles through him and it's all he can do to keep his fists at his sides. He doesn't want to be like that anymore. "A leader doesn't leave his men behind, whether or not they put themselves – "
"You are expendable. When your heart stops beating, I'm gonna replace you. And when your replacement stops breathing, I'm gonna replace him." The Middleman glares at him. "You are not a special little flower."
"You let her die."
The Middleman takes the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it between his fingers. The smoke wafts from the lit end towards the ceiling. "I saved the world."
He shakes his head. That isn't good enough. "Saving the world means nothing if –"
"Our job is to save the world. Not the girl." The Middleman sticks the cigarette back in his mouth and marches up the stairs. "Get out of here."
He doesn't need to hear it twice.
He leans against the bridge's railing and watches the river slowly flow towards him. Beneath the trees on the bank, a flock of ducks rest for the night. The moon reflects on the quiet water. He had forgotten to grab a loaf of bread before heading here, but he figures the birds are better off left to sleep.
He's never expected life to be easy but he always thinks that if he just sticks to the rules and does his part, the universe will work everything out. He would isolate and eliminate the problem to the best of his abilities and somehow, by the skin of his teeth, everything would come together. The world would be saved without ever knowing it was in danger. No civilian casualties, no injuries for bystanders in the wrong place at the wrong time. The threat would be neutralized and everyone stays safe.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of change. He chucks a penny into the water. A plunk echoes and the coin swallowed by the water. The ripple spreads across the river. He goes back and forth on the concept of God. He's seen a lot of things so far to convince him there isn't one and just as much evidence in support of a god existing. He knows for a fact that vengeful archaic gods existed and can, at times, be summoned from obscurity to wreak havoc on the universe. So if one god exists, doesn't that mean they all exist?
He hasn't seen much of anything to prove any of them are good. He can't help but think that if there is a good and caring higher power out there somewhere, he would've gotten a message from it by now. If anyone is capable of intercepting a message like that, it's a Middleman – a Middle-apprentice. Whatever he is. They're able to communicate with alien creatures on distant planets so God should have no trouble getting in touch.
Another coin goes into the water. He tries not to think about the young woman's desperate screams as the bullets riddled her small body. Barely five foot, probably not even a hundred pounds soaking wet. She hadn't stood a chance.
He hasn't always been good. But he doesn't leave his men behind and he doesn't let civilians become fatalities. A leader who does is no leader at all; he's an assassin for hire. A murderer with a paycheck and a God complex.
He flings another penny in.