small rationing

08.01.45
There is no deceiving myself into believing that, as mere pawns of the Starsnuffer, the Mavericks are somehow less in their evil than Sunstar. At least, to me, personally, they have been no gentler masters than he ever was. Inexpert torturers they may be--they are more used to prying free information than breaking one whole to their will--but they are eager in the pursuit of whatever single tool they could use as influence. Psychic, sexual, physical, emotional, whatever little lever might be used to exert force, they endeavor to find.
I will give them no joy of me; let them with their mortal tools try to break what held for centuries. Sunstar never bent me to his will; nor shall these pawns. Even with a second-hand substitute for the Severance, they cannot bind a malleability that is of intangibles they no longer believe. It took the last rogue seventeen hours to break--and they thought that was something special.
And yet torture remains torture, and evil evil, for all I find it in smaller parcels of less subtlety here than ever I did on Starhaven. Pain and sadism and the pleasure thereof remain analogous, whether the torturer is an ageless destroyer of suns or an overeager scion of a misborn computer flaw.
Hermes laughs; asking why I obscure what so obviously causes me this much agony. I say screw him--it isn't as if you care, nor as if I will wish to read of my own misery when I next to decide to retrieve this. It isn't as if I require sympathy from the faceless--for what purpose would I break my self-imposed blocks, only to have my words met with a dispassionate reader?
Nor is Hermes the most interested companion to have in this sordid little venture--sometimes I believe us mismatched, I too much of a crusader and he too impassionate. For someone avowedly on the side of Life, he is as uncaring as they get--but then, perhaps he must be, to be an effective Messenger, to deal properly with the painful changes that he must effect to prevent stagnation.
Moreover, perhaps it is not my place to accuse him of dispassion--after all, have not the Powers already lived through enough pain in their own short lifespans, and is this not a part of the reward? I begin to have a new respect for the bonds of the Nine, given their choice to resume life with all the myriad pains it has, even after looking forward to an eternity of peace.
Not my fault that they made such a choice, though I must give Hermes credit for more loyalty than he is wont to show. Such perhaps is life--mortal or immortal.
To conclude, I have been being imperfect as a lackey. So consummate spy as I, I know, must not allow an ounce of disgust to show for the enemy commander he falsely serves, no matter how foul. Even with the Virus riding me, I remain defiant enough that Lord Sigma sees fit to command his troops in horrors that few humans he so despises would perpetrate. So I must take more care--Sigma seeks Quicksilver to be submissive, so much so that he would fall to excesses as base as rape or gang-beating to bring the wayward newcomer in line. Malleable, yes--that is what he wishes; I will not bend, but I will give the seeming of it.
Again we tread the razor's edge; how delicate a line is there between the appearance of submission and truly being submissive?


Contents of this document are © 2002 Kim Kondratieff.