Nothing But The Rain

Chapter Seven: I Want You To Know It's A Little Fucked Up

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: And back to Kyle, yay. Now, for the record, I don't endorse what Kyle's doing, nor do I subscribe to his way of thought. I spent much of this semester enamored with a class on Terrorism/Counter Terrorism. We studied profiling, psychology, and well, all kinds of things. It was in this class that I came up with the idea for this story.

-Kyle-

They say one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. I like to think that's true.

The thing is, I know it's not. I've read the books. I know the score.

Did you know that terrorism has no actual set definition? It's a word that means a lot of things, and nobody can actually say what terrorism is and what it isn't, because it's a word that has no boundaries, either.

I like that.

Well, not the word. Because without boundaries or not, it's still a word that tastes foul in my mouth. The day they branded me, and what I stand for as terrorism, my stomach nearly came up. It was the day I realized that what I stand for isn't what everyone else stands for. I'm an anomaly. Abnormal.

But I like the idea of not having boundaries. Of being able to do whatever I want, without limit. Maybe I like it because it's an impossible thing, and impossibility, to me, is the goal. You know? It's something to strive for; doing impossible things.

Back to that thing, that word that makes me puke. Our fangy friends branded me as a terrorist exactly a year ago. Of course, they don't know that I'm me; they branded their fictional idea of me. If they knew who I was, I wouldn't be living to talk right now.

My organization, which doesn't have a name; they protested it. Craig, Clyde, Wendy, Christophe, and the rest. They tried to make me feel better. They said, Kyle, you're not a terrorist. You're a guerilla. You're a freedom fighter.

I knew the truth.

As far as fighting goes, we're not guerillas. We know we're not saving anyone from this hell.

They say that terrorism is an urban weapon, that the bastards aim for non-combatants, work clandestinely, and blend easily into the civilian sphere. Just like everyone else.

Meanwhile guerilla fighters work rurally, recruit civilians rather than killing them, and are more visible. They also try to work with ranks.

Gee. Which definition sounds more like me?

In one I'm a murderer and one I'm a hero. I'll pretend I'm the hero, any day of the week.

Except…I don't do self delusion.

I'm a killer. How many people did I kill, just today? How many people will I kill tomorrow? All in the name of unseating a few vampires? All in the name of taking back a town that's overrun by monsters? I know what's going to happen. Even if I succeed, even if I get rid of this government, a new one will pop up. Everyone wants a little power. Everyone wants a little control. Civilization is a distant thought. We're degenerating, back to the caveman days. We're gladiators in an arena.

Soon we'll be nothing. Soon we'll all be dead.

And I'm contributing to that, and it's killing me.

The books tell me that terrorism rarely succeeds outside of democratic countries. Park County definitely isn't a democracy. Yet we're succeeding. Today, we succeeded. We gained a little bit of ground.

Maybe it's because the fascists running our little piece of this hellhole are inexperienced. They haven't learned to use their fangs and claws yet, despite all their bluster.

Christophe's dead. The thought haunts me. He's not the only one. I didn't just kill everyone in that building, I killed a friend.

But he knew what he was doing. He knew the second he strapped explosives to his body what he was getting into. I wonder what was going through his head.

He wasn't supposed to be a suicide bomber. He wasn't supposed to be a martyr.

He was supposed to be a normal kid, with a normal life.

The plague stole that from us all. And then the new regime came and stole it all again. Maybe it seems stupid. Why kill each other over a couple of rules? A couple of laws?

Because it's not right. The way the world is now, it's skewed. And nothing will ever be right again if I don't achieve order once more.

I know I'm being extreme. I know that hurting innocent people isn't the way to get what I want. We tried assassination. We offed the original leader, Mike Makowski, a year ago. I thought it would send a message. It wasn't just symbolic, it was a damned neon sign. Stop what you're doing, or die.

All that happened was fucking Ryan Ellis stepped up to take his place. They don't get scared of dying, because there are always more of them.

So I decided to send a new message.

If we can't get rid of them, we'll get rid of their supporters. We'll kill off their public bases, one by one by one until they step down.

At least, I thought we would.

Then Stan cornered me.

He kissed me. Do you know what it was like?

It wasn't our first kiss. That was on a day with sunlight. A day with happiness. A day where my mother's cooking made the kitchen smell like heaven, and we were sprawled out on the carpet watching TV. I remember he was laying on his belly, and then he looked at me cockeyed. I thought he had some idea, some prank to play. Mom said we were always up to mischief.

But it wasn't a prank. He stared at me, considering, and then his lips were on mine.

There were a lot of kisses after that.

The thing is…Stan's kiss is fire. Stan's kiss is passion, fury. It cuts me like a machete.

When I'm with him, I'm powerless. I had to stop being with him.

So I left him to the dogs, getting mad when he became what I'd made him. When he became a part of the damned institution. At least it made it easy to hate him.

And then, today I killed his sister.

Well, technically Christophe killed his sister, but the order to attack the Department came from me. I think maybe I was hoping Stan would die. I told him so.

But not for the reasons he thinks. I saw him glaring at me. Hate. Accusing eyes. He thinks I'm a cold, uncaring bastard, and it suits me. I need him to think that. If he didn't, he'd come back to me. He'd come back to the fight, and then he'd die. Everyone around me dies.

The questions remains, why don't I just stop? It'd be so easy to lay down my proverbial gun, to end the violence. To let the injustice of the world run rampant.

I'll tell you why not.

I keep going because if I stop there's nothing left.

It'll be the end of me.

I'd rather cause the end of the world.

I walk into my kitchen. Wendy's waiting, wearing jeans now, dangling her legs over the counter.

I ignore her, instead walking over to Ike, whose face is red.

"Are you okay?"

I touch my hand to his forehead. It feels like ice. The pink in his cheeks is from the cold.

"I think I'm infected," he tells me cheerfully.

"Do brains seem like a tasty alternative to pizza?"

"No."

"Then you're fine," I roll my eyes and smile at Wendy. I try to pretend that everything's good. I try to pretend I'm not a killer.

"You missed Miss Gelsa's speech," Ike tells me disapprovingly. Like I care what that vampire cunt had to say.

"I did," I agree, searching the cupboards for food. You would think we'd have a shortage in the county, but not yet. It's provided by the government, the real government, outside these walls. Sometimes I worry they'll cut off our food supply. Then what will we eat? Each other?

It wouldn't surprise me.

Ike frowns at me, his voice sad, "You might get in trouble for skipping. They kept a roster. Why can't you accept things the way they are?"

"Because I've already gone too far," the words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. Wendy gives me a disproving glare.

"What do you mean?" my little brother asks.

"I don't know. Everything. Nothing," I mumble, keeping my eyes trained on the cabinets.

"You're so fucking cryptic sometimes. I don't even know you anymore."

Yeah. I can empathize. I don't even know myself anymore.

Ike tells me he's going out. I shrug and refuse to watch him leave. It's better this way. I need to distance myself from him. Christophe died today, but one day soon, it'll be me. Nagging Ike, mothering him; it won't help him when I'm gone.

I pull a box of cereal off a shelf and turn to Wendy, "You're not dead."

"I'm not," she replies with a grin, "Everything went without a hitch."

"You shed that disguise."

"Yeah. Wearing a dead chick's clothes is mega gross, thanks for asking."

"At least you didn't have to dig them out of the dumpster," a voice calls from the living room. Craig.

I pour myself a bowl of cereal, and then Wendy and I leave the kitchen. Craig has made himself comfortable on my couch, wearing jeans and an old hooded sweatshirt. His black hair is shaggy, deeply in need of a cut. There's a familiar brunet boy languishing with his head in Craig's lap. Of course. God forbid Clyde stops touching Craig for a single minute. The two are one living, breathing unit.

I used to be like that with Stan.

Until I surgically cut him from my life.

Its better this way, I remind myself, taking a seat on the floor beside the couch.

"So Christophe croaked," Craig starts casually, never one to mince his words.

"That was part of the plan."

The fact I can say it without my voice shaking is sick. Even though we all braced ourselves, Christophe was a friend. My friend's dead. I sent him to his death. And I can't even fucking grieve for him because then I'd be weak. That's the one thing I absolute cannot do, not even for Christophe.

"What next?"

"We wait. We see how they react. If they don't give in, we hit them again."

"And when do we stop?" Clyde asks, rolling over so I can see his bright eyes. He's been crying.

Didn't I just ask myself this?

Craig sees the look in my eyes and takes over for me. He leans down, kissing Clyde on the cheeks. I ignore the twinge of jealousy that spikes through me. He whispers, "We don't. We don't stop until they surrender."

"And if they don't?" Clyde asks, rubbing at his red rimmed eyes. He's staring at Craig like he's the whole world. I hate it.

"Then the city burns. And we burn with it."

Clyde buries his face in Craig's neck. He's crying again.

And I think it doesn't matter if they surrender or not, because at this point everyone in this room is going to go up in flames either way.

A/N: Okay. Yeah. So, real scared about how this chapter is going to be received, because it's a sensitive topic. I mean, like I said, I took a class on terrorism, and I told a friend that I was taking the class and they basically turned on me and said 'Why? Do you LIKE terrorists?' I was like, what the hell? So yeah. All kinds of nervous. Be gentle.

Next chapter is Kenny again, and some k squared goodness, FINALLY!