You're running again.
The voice nagged him. He ignored it, like always. Besides, he wasn't running;
simply avoiding the inevitable truth.
You're always running.
That wasn't true. He stopped to catch his breath every one in a while. But,
somehow, the rest just made him more tired. He grew dizzy when he stopped; the
oxygen never seemed to make it to his brain. He grew numb when he stopped; his
body longed from the heat of motion. He grew sick when he stopped; the
adrenaline withdrawal was painful. He could stand stopping. It was painful when
he stopped, too painful to bare.
So, he just started to run again. He forgot about everything he had to do,
everything that needed his attention, and just ran. It was his medicine, his
cure all, his drug, his addiction.
You can't run forever
Maybe he couldn't, but he could try. He had been coming down to the stadium
from months now. He always rented the same Zoomer -- number twelve, since
eleven had been blown up. He took it down to the track, and just drove, as fast
as the thing would let him. It worked too kill the pain. But each time, the
pain grew stronger and stronger; the adrenaline was loosing its effect. He
would pay any reward to the man who made a faster Zoomer.
It'll still be there, no matter how fast you go.
He revved the engine, draining out the voice. He had never been to fond of the
races, no, but he had had a sudden change of heart.
It wasn't only his love of speed that had changed that day.
They had been in the Training Academy together -- best friends, roommates. He
was the scapegoat for the other trainees there. They didn't see him as a
human being. So many times they had left him there bleeding that he lost
count. He had always been the underdog. Even his parents didn't
care. That's why he ended up in the Academy in the first place.
They had met there, wide-eyed and innocent. That would change soon enough. The
training was hard, and the older students harder. He personally had no
problems, but he couldn't remember a day when he wasn't tending to his
roommates knew cuts and bruises.
"Why?" he asked on day while getting his latest batch of
scrapes cleaned.
"Why what?" he replied, putting ointment on an opening above his
eyebrow.
"Why do you bother? No one else does," He had given up on
looking him in the eyes, "You're the only one that's ever looked at me
twice."
He blinked, "I believe everyone is worthwhile,"
He smiled. That was the first he had ever seen him smile,
"Thank you," he said quietly. He nodded.
He made himself sick just to get out of going to class and
training. He didn't belong there, we both knew that. There was no
backing out once you signed up, though. That's how Praxis worked; that's how so
many young and unready men and women had died -- not in fights against the
Metal Heads, but in training to fight the beasts.
He missed two days of classes and training just to make sure he got
better from his self-brought sickness. He brought him soup,
cleaned the wounds he had gotten the day prior, and just talked to him,
probably something he needed the most.
He talked about his early years. They, like his current ones,
were unpleasant. His father had been Commander of the Guard in his
prime. Now he was simply a drunkard with a bad temper. His mother did
care; not about herself, her life, her family, nor her son's fate. They sent him
to the Academy against his will without a word of good luck. The holidays were
coming up, but he wouldn't return home, even if they kicked him
out of the dorm.
"You can always come spend them with me," he had said jokingly. He
hadn't taken it as such.
"That'd be nice..." he smiled, not looking him in the eyes
again. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.
"Hey..." he went over to him. He rubbed his back, like
his mother had when he was a child -- it always made him feel better --
"It's all right. I'll make sure no one hurts you again, okay?"
As he looked back on it now, it was a wonder that he hadn't noticed it before.
He wrapped his arms around his waist. He sobbed himself
to sleep.
Racing had always been an escape for him . It was the one thing he
had been good at. Everyday after training, he rented a Zoomer -- he
didn't have enough money for his own -- and drove, sometimes hours at a
time. Afterward, his face and hair were windblown and hardly
presentable, but he was smiling.
He came to watch one day. He was amazed at how this boy, who had about as much
grace in his movements as a certain Ottsel, could handle the curves of the
track. He was a fish in water. He went down onto the track to meet him.
He seemed surprised to find someone watching him. He noticed
tears in his eyes. Whether they were from the winds or troubled
thoughts, he couldn't tell.
He bought him the mask because of those tears. As he looked at the wind
whipped face of his roommate and the broken down Zoomer he was forced to
ride, he thought it was the least he could do. From what he had hear, the boy
hadn't gotten any presents in his life. He didn't seem to know
what to do with the mask when he got it, but soon in sank in that it was
his to keep, and he smiled wide.
Now, despite all the setbacks, both boys excelled in the Academy. Soon they
were over with training and out protecting the city. They flew through the
ranks. He became Commander, and his old friend became a Captain.
It stayed that way for years, until the day they retreated.
The battle had been long. Both sides lost so many. The city was being destroyed
in the process. Praxis called for a retreat, leaving Guard and citizen alike
for the Metal Heads.
The troops had to drag him off the battle field, not because he was injured,
but because he refused to leave. He wanted to fight. He couldn't just leave
those people there.
He couldn't, but Praxis could.
He resigned that day. He tore off the armband that designated him as Commander
and walked out.
"You can't do this," he sighed in disbelief. He shoved him
to the ground, proving that he could. He stepped over the Guard and stepped
into another world -- one that fought against the Baron, not for.
He stayed on the Guard and soon replaced him has Commander. Their paths
crossed many times in the years to follow, though their past was nonexistent.
Why do you care now? You didn't care then.
He didn't know. Why did it matter? The day he resigned from the Guard,
he resigned from any kind of relationship with him. None of it mattered.
It had all gone up in cloud of smoke and Eco.
Then why do you run?
Damn it, he didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore. He couldn't tell
night from day, black from white, love from pain. Everything was just a blur of
tears and blood. He was lost.
Running just made it better. Everything was going too fast for any of it to
sink in. he didn't want it to sink it. He wanted to hold on to the past, like
he should have so many years ago. But it slipped through his fingers, he
slipped through his fingures. These memories evaporated when he stopped. They
were gone.
He was gone.
The turn was sudden. He didn't see it through his tears. He lost control of the
Zoomer, and slammed into the wall.
That's what happens when you run for too long; you crash.
Torn opened his eyes, vision fuzzy. A figure stood above him.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed, "I couldn't protect you."
The figure smiled.
No, you can't ever protect someone himself.
"I love you, Erol..."
The figure nodded knowingly.
Then stop running
