Phewww, this was not an easy chapter to write, the version before you is
the third one that I wrote. Anyhow, to the questions. I don't want to
give anything away, but I am a hopeless romantic (hint, happily ever after
ending may be in the works). Also, to Sorrow Reminisce, I would love to
post my fic on your site. Sorry to keep you all waiting so long, I have
been so short on time that I finally resorted to penning this on a notepad,
while riding on the El train (it's not easy, I personally don't recommend
it). So without further ado.
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It's always the little things that stick in your head. Not the important memories, but the silly irritating details. They say it all flashes before your eyes, but then it isn't really the absolute end is it? I'm like the actor who has finished his lines, but still has to stand on stage watching the action. I'm not bitter about it. They say that the mark of a true actor is the one in the small role who does not distract from the action, but fills out his role quietly, and to the best of his ability. It's her show now. My people will live out the grand drama of a nation gaining independence, or of a population slaughtered. Throughout it all I will watch through the eyes that will no longer dance with my laughter. Hoping the entire time that my purpose is not ended. Hoping that I have one line more to speak.
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"Clear your head."
"That shouldn't be hard."
"Shut-up ass."
"Focus on the sound of my voice." Biggs begins to tap his foot at exacting five second intervals. I match my breathing to his beat.
"One." I picture myself walking down a long narrow corridor. Funny that I had never noticed, but the way I imagined the interior of my mind bore a remarkable resemblance to Manticore. Pale grey walls surround me, not claustrophobically, but with an aura of strength and structure. My mind's eye shuts as I take another deep breath. When my subconscious opens its eyes again, the hallway is lined with twelve plain doors.
My hand pauses on the knob of the first one. All the while I can sense my body tensing in preparation for battle; but that world is fading against these grey walls.
Don't turn back. Creaking slightly, the first of the doors gives behind my push, and I enter a world of angles and reds. A faceless man stares back at me from the center of the room. Funny really that I had never known his name. He had simply been The Target; a criminal, a dirty thief, and an interloper into my world of order. He didn't seem so tall anymore. When I had killed him the first time, at the age of seven, he had seemed far larger.
Hardly winded, I towered over my fallen enemy. Wiping the blood that didn't exist onto my pants, I walked to the next level.
"Two." So the levels progressed from orange to yellow, to green, blue, and indigo. From my very first drill sergeant, to the old Manticore guard that killed 472, to my first assassination target, the head doctor in psy-ops, and finally Madame Renfro. Thus went the first six levels of my mind, representing the first half of my life.
"Seven." Violet was for Rachel, something vibrant and glowing. Our fight was soft and slow. It ended when I pinned her, fingers seeking the delicate nerves of her neck till her head drooped in false sleep.
"Eight." Now the room burst form single flaring colors into the cacophony of a rainbow. I faced Cindy and Sketchy, both at once. All the colors and varieties of human life.'
"Nine." Chased the rainbow, until it turned a steady brown for Biggs. My oldest friend sticking beside me, having the solidity of the earth beneath my feet.
"Ten." I knew what would come next; my mind could sometimes display a stunning lack of originality. Best friend to deadly enemy. Among a backdrop of blinding white, I faced the colors namesake. Insubstantiality dulled my pain; that and the knowledge that here in my subconscious, the structured maneuvers of the katta would inevitably lead me to victory.
"Eleven." The sudden switch to black dizzied me. My black cat, my dark angel. If my fight against Rachel had been slow and gentle, this was the antithesis. Pale heads and hands blurred like chalk across a black slate. We ended vice-gripped in each others arms. I never could beat her.
"Twelve." Twelve snaked across blackness, emptying it like the heaving of an ill stomach, becoming a void with neither sight nor sound. The figure in my arms shifted, and I needed neither sense to know my final opponent. My shadow, the enigma my mind had created to channel the predator and the deadly beast. I smiled ruefully, this opponent would not be tied as Maxie had been. It was the soldier, I was the man; and though I had let bits of it out before, now it was clamoring for control. Its hold on me tightened, the void sucking the air from my lungs.
It faded, but I felt no relief as the grey walls took shape around me, an endless sea of loss.
"State your designation." The voice of the man who had been my friend continued on. I tried to speak but was too tired. Better to let the beast speak, better to give him everything. The tiredness was too much for me; I curled my body up on the cold grey floor, and surrendered.
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It's always the little things that stick in your head. Not the important memories, but the silly irritating details. They say it all flashes before your eyes, but then it isn't really the absolute end is it? I'm like the actor who has finished his lines, but still has to stand on stage watching the action. I'm not bitter about it. They say that the mark of a true actor is the one in the small role who does not distract from the action, but fills out his role quietly, and to the best of his ability. It's her show now. My people will live out the grand drama of a nation gaining independence, or of a population slaughtered. Throughout it all I will watch through the eyes that will no longer dance with my laughter. Hoping the entire time that my purpose is not ended. Hoping that I have one line more to speak.
}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{
"Clear your head."
"That shouldn't be hard."
"Shut-up ass."
"Focus on the sound of my voice." Biggs begins to tap his foot at exacting five second intervals. I match my breathing to his beat.
"One." I picture myself walking down a long narrow corridor. Funny that I had never noticed, but the way I imagined the interior of my mind bore a remarkable resemblance to Manticore. Pale grey walls surround me, not claustrophobically, but with an aura of strength and structure. My mind's eye shuts as I take another deep breath. When my subconscious opens its eyes again, the hallway is lined with twelve plain doors.
My hand pauses on the knob of the first one. All the while I can sense my body tensing in preparation for battle; but that world is fading against these grey walls.
Don't turn back. Creaking slightly, the first of the doors gives behind my push, and I enter a world of angles and reds. A faceless man stares back at me from the center of the room. Funny really that I had never known his name. He had simply been The Target; a criminal, a dirty thief, and an interloper into my world of order. He didn't seem so tall anymore. When I had killed him the first time, at the age of seven, he had seemed far larger.
Hardly winded, I towered over my fallen enemy. Wiping the blood that didn't exist onto my pants, I walked to the next level.
"Two." So the levels progressed from orange to yellow, to green, blue, and indigo. From my very first drill sergeant, to the old Manticore guard that killed 472, to my first assassination target, the head doctor in psy-ops, and finally Madame Renfro. Thus went the first six levels of my mind, representing the first half of my life.
"Seven." Violet was for Rachel, something vibrant and glowing. Our fight was soft and slow. It ended when I pinned her, fingers seeking the delicate nerves of her neck till her head drooped in false sleep.
"Eight." Now the room burst form single flaring colors into the cacophony of a rainbow. I faced Cindy and Sketchy, both at once. All the colors and varieties of human life.'
"Nine." Chased the rainbow, until it turned a steady brown for Biggs. My oldest friend sticking beside me, having the solidity of the earth beneath my feet.
"Ten." I knew what would come next; my mind could sometimes display a stunning lack of originality. Best friend to deadly enemy. Among a backdrop of blinding white, I faced the colors namesake. Insubstantiality dulled my pain; that and the knowledge that here in my subconscious, the structured maneuvers of the katta would inevitably lead me to victory.
"Eleven." The sudden switch to black dizzied me. My black cat, my dark angel. If my fight against Rachel had been slow and gentle, this was the antithesis. Pale heads and hands blurred like chalk across a black slate. We ended vice-gripped in each others arms. I never could beat her.
"Twelve." Twelve snaked across blackness, emptying it like the heaving of an ill stomach, becoming a void with neither sight nor sound. The figure in my arms shifted, and I needed neither sense to know my final opponent. My shadow, the enigma my mind had created to channel the predator and the deadly beast. I smiled ruefully, this opponent would not be tied as Maxie had been. It was the soldier, I was the man; and though I had let bits of it out before, now it was clamoring for control. Its hold on me tightened, the void sucking the air from my lungs.
It faded, but I felt no relief as the grey walls took shape around me, an endless sea of loss.
"State your designation." The voice of the man who had been my friend continued on. I tried to speak but was too tired. Better to let the beast speak, better to give him everything. The tiredness was too much for me; I curled my body up on the cold grey floor, and surrendered.