Chapter III – Doesn't Stop There (Equilibrium Fan-Fiction)
The blood ran down his face, his jacket, his trousers. It was spattered everywhere, as he decimated whole groups of Resistance members. He didn't realise the strength that he had, as if his mind had been playing tricks on him. His body lacked the injuries that he possessed before, feeling the skill and agility as he managed to shoot two members at close range at once.
He had no idea where he was going, but he kept running. Kept killing, kept going. He had a horrible feeling inside, but the overpowering control of his movements kept going. It was like a poison, as if there was more to it than he thought.
His vision began to shift hazily in front of him, and as much as he wanted to stop, the idea of being overpowered again terrified him. He had already killed plenty of the Resistance members, with some of them screaming from him to stop.
As he reached the blinding, cold light of the sun outside, it hit him like a brick. Not just the outside world, breathing in the refreshing air where for so much at a time, he had been imprisoned indoors. But the poison was more than metaphorical, and he finally crumpled to the ground, powerless, sobbing. It was so excruciating that for every movement he made, he wished he was dead.
As if part of a dream, hopeful that he was still back at his apartment. Whoever was left may have dragged him back and imprisoning him much more harshly to prevent another rampage. At least he could sleep.
Much of his body was numb as he awoke with a grimace. Harsh light echoed on the four walls, but it was almost as if he wasn't surprised that it had come down to this.
"Preston," an unnerving voice called out, "I see you've pleasantly woken up."
It had been longer than he'd thought when he was called by his last name. That's what unnerved him. John, yes, Dad, by his children, but Preston? Only the people who worked with him or for ever called him that.
When he saw the voice, it was almost as if he was about to pass out. Doubt clouded his mind, but fear choked his throat. Or should I say, physical restraints choked him simultaneously, with one even dangerously threaded close to his neck.
"Don't look so scared," DuPont said, "as if I were you, I could just as well tighten what's around your neck. You probably want a more dignified death, though. Selfish to be honest – why should you get a better death than the rest of us?"
Even without the physical touch, John's body was nervous, desperately tugging against the restraints in hope of relief and freedom. He had been taunted by DuPont before, but that was when he had as much control and power as his opponent or more.
"You woke up from your own nightmare – going back on yourself after the Revolution and searching for the one thing that you had freed yourself from: the ability to feel. And yet you were judged and taken down. You noticed how much chaos feeling could be. Your friends didn't trust you as much as you'd hoped-"
"Friends?" John cried, "There was no such thing as friends before the Revolution! I still as much hope that I thought that, because of what you'd done. My life is still a nightmare, and life is abounding with chaos. Somebody like you ought to know!"
"Preston, there has been no Revolution. You were too dumb to understand since I'm still here," DuPont remarked, patronisingly, "since how would I know that assassination would spark revolution?"
John felt his body tense up, DuPont's expression something both of sarcasm and power. He felt the sly smirk burn him in a suffocating manner. After the simple infiltration that had been discovered, DuPont had to witness his guards and officials get mowed down by him. If this was some kind of set-up, John knew it sounded ridiculous. But who was the one restrained to a table, and who was the one standing over them?
"It was a set-up, wasn't it?" John felt his skin prickle with sweat.
"Ridiculous," DuPont sighed, "you're trying to change the subject."
"What you must understand is that all you perceived were my weaknesses when you walked through that door, yet not my strengths. You were agitated, but I could see you had the skill in hiding it. I had the mercy to let you live. The reality of it was that I shot you as soon as you walked in. What was the point in just sitting there if I could torture you with mercy?"
The quote from last night echoed in John's head. Although it wasn't last night, because last night only existed in his mind. His vivid thoughts only seemed to be reinforced by DuPont's words, which overpowered him. DuPont was the poison, and his reality was his nightmare, and his nightmare was reality.
"There's no shame in this, Preston. I haven't planned on killing you. But seeing as where you have landed in reality, you need to understand the consequences. You thought this game was easy – you manage to infiltrate my office and assassinate me. But that's not going to happen, as the mercy I am showing you is turning you back into the emotionless drone you always were – safe, quiet and tranquil."
Although his nightmare showed him asking for the drug, taken down by his friends because of his selfishness, it left John without rational behaviour or reason to argue the opposite. The manipulation wouldn't leave him alone.
He let out tears that were useless, forcing him to breathe. He was letting out emotion, since the regime wouldn't let him go. Why didn't they just kill him? DuPont slammed the door behind him, leaving his torturous words to sink in their bare fangs.
"Emotion is only chaos for the minority," he said, as he left the Palace of Justice, "at least Preston should have been able to realise that he wasn't at all part of the majority. Selfishness itself is simply chaos."
