****
THURSDAY
I just watched two people die.
Two human beings vaporised by forces almost too powerful to imagine. One split second they were standing there and the next Pouf! – nothing but scorch-marks and the incongruous but oddly evocative set of dog-tags, a reminder of the purported reason for today's whole charade.
And you know what? I didn't care. Not at all. Not then. Then, I was too angry at how close they'd come to getting away with it. Too angry at how they played us – me. Used me and my abilities to help them feather their own nests. Abused my trust. Took advantage of my damn stupid naiveté – no other word for it. They - *she* suckered me, and I have only myself to blame for what nearly happened afterwards. For putting myself in that position in the first place, as I'm sure Adam will be quick to tell me, if I give him the chance...
I thought I was going to die. I sure felt like I was going to die. It had been such a struggle to control the phase in and out of the central core with the Xiraxium, those nerve gas molecules trying so hard to make me tear myself apart that I doubt I'd have been able to get up off the floor anyway without Soph... without that woman's help. Like I told her, I was completely wiped, what with the way the whole thing drained what was left of my energy reserves, and the pain... well, that didn't help. But then Gaumont turned up, and she showed her true colours and I realised that I'd been had, big time, so that it didn't matter anyway.
That's when the anger started. Which was good. The anger made me risk one more phase, even though my nerves and muscles still had me twitching from the effort it had taken to get myself back together again. Even though I had no idea what was below me and didn't have enough control left to do anything other than drop through and hope there'd be something to stop me. But then, of course, if I hadn't she'd have shot me. I haven't told anyone else, though, that there was a moment there when that prospect seemed preferable to the alternative – the total lottery phasing has become for me right now, the desperate, terrifying, pain-filled battle to retain enough cohesion to make it back one more time instead of dissipating into nothingness. It was short-lived, though – the anger saw to that. The anger couldn't let them get away with it that easily. And I have to say, if things had ended differently, the anger would definitely have been a better final memory to take to the grave with me than the knowledge I was just a dupe.
Not that there'd have been a grave as such. You can't bury a bunch of dispersed molecules, can you? But I'd like to think maybe Shal would make sure there was something to mark my existence, somewhere.
Like someone, somewhere will probably do for those two other corpseless casualties. But better them than me, right?
Though I haven't actually told him in so many words yet, I guess I have Brennan to thank that I'm actually here to write this, for creating the electrical shield that held me like a shroud until I finally won my war with my own body. But the anger is still here, eating away at me. So much so that since we got back I haven't wanted to let anyone near enough to see it, to question its obvious existence and the cause of it. Haven't wanted to be forced to explain beyond the sketchiest of descriptions, just sufficient to deflect if not completely avert further query, what happened out there – both at the plant and later on the street – and how I feel about it. Not until I can understand it better myself, anyway.
But now there are other emotions to contend with as well – elements of regret, remorse, horror that I could have just let them die like that when I could have saved them, instead of just massing and protecting myself.
They deserved it, my anger says. They were going to kill me without a second thought once I'd done what they'd lured me there for, jumped through the hoops they held out for me, in my naïve belief I was doing good.
On the other side, though, I now have my sense of right nagging at me, telling me that what I did makes me no better than them. That it's not my place to pass sentence, play executioner. And I know I should listen to it, even though I'm not ready to yet.
But I didn't actually kill them. Honestly. They really did do that themselves, in their arrogance and belief in their own superiority and invulnerability.
Nevertheless, I did let it happen.
And I don't really feel bad about it. Not really, although I know I should, which makes me wonder whether the small twinge of guilt I have is for that and not them.
Does all that make me a murderer?
I don't know. And I'm too exhausted and sore and hurting right now to care. Maybe things will seem clearer in the morning...
****
THURSDAY
I just watched two people die.
Two human beings vaporised by forces almost too powerful to imagine. One split second they were standing there and the next Pouf! – nothing but scorch-marks and the incongruous but oddly evocative set of dog-tags, a reminder of the purported reason for today's whole charade.
And you know what? I didn't care. Not at all. Not then. Then, I was too angry at how close they'd come to getting away with it. Too angry at how they played us – me. Used me and my abilities to help them feather their own nests. Abused my trust. Took advantage of my damn stupid naiveté – no other word for it. They - *she* suckered me, and I have only myself to blame for what nearly happened afterwards. For putting myself in that position in the first place, as I'm sure Adam will be quick to tell me, if I give him the chance...
I thought I was going to die. I sure felt like I was going to die. It had been such a struggle to control the phase in and out of the central core with the Xiraxium, those nerve gas molecules trying so hard to make me tear myself apart that I doubt I'd have been able to get up off the floor anyway without Soph... without that woman's help. Like I told her, I was completely wiped, what with the way the whole thing drained what was left of my energy reserves, and the pain... well, that didn't help. But then Gaumont turned up, and she showed her true colours and I realised that I'd been had, big time, so that it didn't matter anyway.
That's when the anger started. Which was good. The anger made me risk one more phase, even though my nerves and muscles still had me twitching from the effort it had taken to get myself back together again. Even though I had no idea what was below me and didn't have enough control left to do anything other than drop through and hope there'd be something to stop me. But then, of course, if I hadn't she'd have shot me. I haven't told anyone else, though, that there was a moment there when that prospect seemed preferable to the alternative – the total lottery phasing has become for me right now, the desperate, terrifying, pain-filled battle to retain enough cohesion to make it back one more time instead of dissipating into nothingness. It was short-lived, though – the anger saw to that. The anger couldn't let them get away with it that easily. And I have to say, if things had ended differently, the anger would definitely have been a better final memory to take to the grave with me than the knowledge I was just a dupe.
Not that there'd have been a grave as such. You can't bury a bunch of dispersed molecules, can you? But I'd like to think maybe Shal would make sure there was something to mark my existence, somewhere.
Like someone, somewhere will probably do for those two other corpseless casualties. But better them than me, right?
Though I haven't actually told him in so many words yet, I guess I have Brennan to thank that I'm actually here to write this, for creating the electrical shield that held me like a shroud until I finally won my war with my own body. But the anger is still here, eating away at me. So much so that since we got back I haven't wanted to let anyone near enough to see it, to question its obvious existence and the cause of it. Haven't wanted to be forced to explain beyond the sketchiest of descriptions, just sufficient to deflect if not completely avert further query, what happened out there – both at the plant and later on the street – and how I feel about it. Not until I can understand it better myself, anyway.
But now there are other emotions to contend with as well – elements of regret, remorse, horror that I could have just let them die like that when I could have saved them, instead of just massing and protecting myself.
They deserved it, my anger says. They were going to kill me without a second thought once I'd done what they'd lured me there for, jumped through the hoops they held out for me, in my naïve belief I was doing good.
On the other side, though, I now have my sense of right nagging at me, telling me that what I did makes me no better than them. That it's not my place to pass sentence, play executioner. And I know I should listen to it, even though I'm not ready to yet.
But I didn't actually kill them. Honestly. They really did do that themselves, in their arrogance and belief in their own superiority and invulnerability.
Nevertheless, I did let it happen.
And I don't really feel bad about it. Not really, although I know I should, which makes me wonder whether the small twinge of guilt I have is for that and not them.
Does all that make me a murderer?
I don't know. And I'm too exhausted and sore and hurting right now to care. Maybe things will seem clearer in the morning...
****