Eternalem
(Time is mine.)
The unnatural slide of tooth into jaw – such a tiny body part, such an inconspicuous object made to bear the mechanism that allows you unbelievable power. (I wonder if it will remain after I die. Will I ever die...? Some of me has already gone.)
They say that you disappear from sight while the rest of the world continues to echo with fight - flight - fear, but for you it is as though they are flash-frozen, without even the fraction of a moment needed for facial muscles to assume an expression of surprise. (Balance. Ying-yang-yoyo of time and space; isn't that part of that mumbo-jumbo G.B. uses to break the ice? Maybe I understand a little of what it means.)
It's...much too easy. Too easy to pretend, just for when all is still around you, that everything is a target, that they are not alive, that you are killing a 3-D cardboard cutout rather than a living breathing person. It keeps you from fatal hesitation at memories of bloodwashed gore. (Electrical sparks and shrapnel right underneath their skin and mine...machines are alive.)
Before conscious thought takes over, the deed is finished, and you've done it once again, the task that makes bile rise heavy and sour in the back of your throat. Murder does not make you any less human, but it pushes you just another millimeter towards the edge that looms in none - too - distant thought, and the horror that lies beneath. (Ohgodohgod not again bless me Father for I have sinned, this is the confession I will never be able to make to you or to anyone else because they're dying all around me, they're killing each other and I'm killing them! We will never be forgiven; what is speed, in the end? You can't run away from hell. )
The only thing that makes it go away, just for a little while, is having someone else who understands. He's the same as you are, he knows what it's like to have the world printed out on a piece of paper and laid at your feet for you to burn. Nothing ever changes the histories that make him treat it like an inconvenience and see you as a naïve little child, but there's a crack in the wall where your fingertips touch during the void that only the two of you, out of this shredded-patchwork quilt of soldiers, will ever suffer. (Jet. Jet. Jet. I don't care if you hate me, you have that expression in your eye that says we're exactly the same when we pull that trigger. You need this as much as I do. Don't think, thought is not what we need here, because sometimes it's an illusion, and we can't stop this act yet because otherwise everything will end for both of us. Look at me. Hold me, touch me, feel, know, need. I'll do the same for you. )
(Time is mine. Share the horror with me.)
500 words. I only got addicted to the Cyborg 009 fandom recently, but reading a bio of 002 and 009, and seeing Joe use Acceleration Mode in the show, and everyone angsting...well, the authoress-bunny bit and wouldn't let go—DON'T CALL ME A BUNNY! -split personality proceeds to maul- ;o; Owie.
JET/JOE FOREVER. Even if this is a bit more...pained than is usual for the two.