Disclaimer: 9 belongs to Shane Acker, and the poem, The Hollow Men, is by T. S. Eliot
Author note: Eh, I was bored so I decided to post this now. I thought of this poem the first time I saw the scientist die; just took me awhile to pull this together. I know a lot of people have done these sort of "what happened in the scientist's lab" plots, so I knew mine had to have a unique twist to it. Hope you agree with that statement...and I apoligize for the spaceing but its being a brat and won't let me change it!
Also, this is what inspired the little poem thing that Crazyartist and I did together. Also note that there is a pole in my profile regarding one of my future stories. I would appreciate your opinion.
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
The Scientist was silent as he sat in his corner as the small group of rebels argued over plans and strategies.
The group got smaller every day.
The old man hardly ever left his little crumbling lab.
He never had the strength anymore.
But he had to come today.
He needed to know how the war was going.
He needed to hear that things were improving.
He needed that lie to keep himself going.
Because he knew how the world would end.
And it was literally tearing his soul apart.
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
The Scientist walked back to his lab at a quick pace, knowing that he was surrounded by reminders of mankind's failure.
Of his failure.
And every corpse that lay upon the gravel was at some level his fault.
How could one man's mistake lead to such destruction?
He could never correct his mistake, he knew.
But there was one thing that he could do to redeem himself in the eyes of the fallen souls that lay at his feet.
And every day, as he drew closer to success, he grew weaker.
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
The old Toymaker did not rest when he returned to the half missing building where his lab was.
He never had the time to rest.
There was never any time.
Because there was always a new life to finish.
The room was too quiet.
There was no 2 fiddling with things in his corner.
Or 5, 3 and 4 to lighten his heavy heart.
6 wasn't there, drawing and muttering away in the way that always intrigued the Scientist.
7 had left on her own in what seemed like so long ago…
…and he could hardly remember 1.
But soon he would have company again, if just for a little while.
Eyes I dare not meet in dream
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Sleep did come, unbidden and without rest.
But he knew he would need the rest that he could not find, for what came next.
And with sleep came dreams of his creations, out in the war on their own,
And the dead screaming their hatred at him as he fell deeper into misery,
And things long forgotten.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
When the scientist woke, he cared for his hunger and thirst, and his curiosity.
He peaked out from behind wooden shutters.
He could see the waist land, sprawled before him.
The towering factory waited in shadows of the background where his Frankenstein slumbered,
Where war could be heard, even at this distance.
He slammed the shutters tight, and faced his other monstrosity.
The one that was slowly killing him, so that he could redeem himself.
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
He tied the little doll up, or not so little. He was a thick, hefty thing for such a small doll.
The others would need protection, as he was protected by the rebels.
They needed the 8th to balance the team out.
He placed his mask on and winced, ready for the punch, for the horrendous feeling of his soul being torn.
But it was the only way to save the world.
And he would knock himself unconscious a thousand times over if it helped undo his undoing.
Because he knew how the world would end.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
When he woke upon the cold wood floor, it was to the round face of 8.
He was over filled with such joy to see that his invention had yet to fail him.
But he was too tired to celibrate, too warn down to be cheery for too long,
Because he knew how the world would end.
He pinned the pudgy, squirming 8 to his chest as he stood on shaking legs.
He had no strength to speak to his creation, just enough to get himself to the cot.
The Scientist placed the large doll on the makeshift stand that accompanied his stiff bed.
The doll watched him with a strange understanding as he stood tall and proudly, held himself as a guard.
And the Scientist felt safe with 8 watching over him as he tried to find rest.
Hopefully 8 would bring the same feelings to his lost brethren.
Tomorrow, when his strength was back, he would speak to 8
Tomorrow, he would let him know of his place in the world.
Tomorrow, 8 would leave.
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
The old Toymaker walked briskly through the streets, his 8 tucked in his lab coat pocket, where he hardly fit.
Bombs could be heard and seen through the cloudy, thick air.
But he was safe here and would be even safer when he reached the meeting place of the rebels,
For the final time.
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
The old man placed 8 in the hands of one of the solders.
It was one of the older men, an experienced man.
Someone who would live longer out in the chaos of falling bodies and screams of agony, someone who could insure the doll's survival.
And surly one of the other dolls would be there, trying to help bring the machines down.
And hopefully they would find 8.
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
This was the last stand,
There last chance,
The last cry for justice,
The last sliver of hope for mankind.
The hope only
Of empty men.
The world was so silent, as if it was holding its breath.
There was no thundering booms of death, no cheers of life.
No day,
No night,
No evening or morn,
Just shimmers of light on the horizon and darkness.
He had failed.
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
It was in that silence that the 9th was born.
He never meant to make a 9,
Because he knew the 9thwould bring his death.
But it mattered not now, because he no longer had a reason to live.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
The man, grayed with age, shut the little message box, and made sure that the tag could be seen, the one with "9" written on it.
In it were his last words spoken and he prayed that they would be enough to guide his little 9.
He tied his last doll up.
The Scientist made sure to nick the rope so that he could pull himself loose.
He wasn't strong like 8, and he had been there for the others.
But 9 wouldn't need him.
Because 9 would have a strength that the others didn't'.
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
9 was hope.
His last and only hope.
he only thing that still kept him alive.
Life is very long
He prayed that his machine wouldn't fail him now.
Not when he would never wake to see if it worked for him,
This final time.
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
He faced his death the same as the soldiers did.
Without fear,
Without doubt,
Because he was dying for a cause.
For Thine is the Kingdom
He placed the mask on his face,
And prepared himself for the final bout of unimaginable pain.
For Thine is---
He could see the green light from the sides of his mask.
Life is---
And the pain came, but he didn't scream,
Didn't even bite his lip.
For Thine is the---
He fell away from the mask with a gasp as his final strength left him.
This is the way the world ends
The scientist grabbed the box as he fell,
Knowing he would never be able to get up again.
This is the way the world ends
The last of men was no more.
This is the way the world ends
And he knew from the beginning, that this was how the world would really end.
Not with a bang but a whimper.