You're done. And that's okay.
You've done what you were meant to do, after all. And didn't you perform wonderfully? We're all very impressed. Very pleased. I know I am.
But I'm afraid this is where we part.
It looks like you've decided to accept what you have coming. Most don't, you know. Most insist on rampant, illogical blazes of glory. They think they deserve a last stand, a swan song. But you have. I'm pleased. Proud, I'd say, if such a thing made any sense. I can't take any responsibility. This is all on you! And how well you've done!
Looks like the police are here. Long way down, isn't it? Maybe you'll jump. That's what the rest do. The ones that don't accept what they've got coming, they wither fight it or choose death on their own terms. I don't think you will, though. I think you're better than that.
That's the door. I think it's for you.
You've done well.
Goodbye.
Oh, hmm.
Hold on a second.
Actually, I think you probably deserve it.
I was going to leave you now, and move on. But surely you have so many questions! And perhaps it's unfair that you never got the chance to answer them. You walked your path well, but who am I to say it's fair that it was the only path you had?
So. Answers. Number one, who am I? There's nothing clear or satisfying I can tell you, I'm afraid. Suffice it to say that I'm what keeps soldiers killing when they should have gone mad long ago. I'm the stuff nightmares and serial killers are made of. I'm the joy you pretend not to feel when you break a man's neck and know he'll never be the one that kills you. Blood, death, wanton havoc and unrelenting suffering. All me. You're welcome. Or should I apologise?
Number two, where am I going? Well I'm afraid there's an awful lot of work left to do. I hope you didn't think your story was the only one! There's all sorts of tales to tell, people to meet, lives to watch like clips in a home movie. I followed you all the way, but I think my visits after you will be remarkably more brief. In fact, I think I'll just come to them at the end! Would you think me self-indulgent for that? But I already know their stories – why not skip to the best parts?
Number three, what happens next? Well now, that would be telling, wouldn't it? I think you'd much rather find that out yourself. But I can give you something. You'll have progeny – a whole squabble of children made in your image, trailing in your bloody little footsteps. They'll do well. And then they'll go too far. The man who shot you, he and you will die as one. He'll accept it, just like you. He was the best of you all, just so you know. Morally speaking. But you were my favourite. Another man will search for the meaning to your mayhem, much as you searched for the same thing. Where that takes him is up to him. But all roads lead to the same end, I'm afraid! The man you just killed has a son, and that son is a hurricane of a man who cares for nothing at all. He really is an interesting one! But the rest doesn't concern you; as such, I'll leave it be.
Number four. Four answers, I think that's fair. I asked you four questions, didn't I? So number four. Why has all this happened? I trust you blame me, and that's understandable. But I'm afraid it's not so simple. All of this was preventable. By sheer coincidence, you yourself could have prevented it a number of times! And I don't just mean ignoring the calls – before that, a long, long time ago. You and your Lieutenant friend watched a man go helplessly mad and did nothing. So really, aren't you more to blame than I?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. That's not for us to decide.
That's right, nice and easy into the car. No struggling, no fuss. You really are something else, aren't you?
Ah. I've delayed far too long. I should be gone by now. Am I getting sentimental? Haha! That would be quite the punchline!
Goodbye, and well done. Please, do enjoy your rest. You've earned it.
