Obsession
He had hidden in the dark that night. And when they came back to finish it, he would make them pay. When they came back to finish what they started all of those years ago, he could bring about the end of their pitiful existence. They would meet the ruins of their kin, and they would suffer.
And he would enjoy every moment of it. He felt the wall press against the skin of his palm, felt the cold beneath it and curled his fingers into a fist. They scraped against the dirt and grit, but all he felt was a dull numbness where the pain should have been. It had been years since he had truly felt pain, and he cursed them for it. It was there fault. Everything twisted in this world was there fault.
He was a warrior of light, of righteousness. He knew it, the government knew it. Others may have condemned him for his work, but they did not understand. They could never understand that what he was doing was the right thing, the good fight, the only way. The only way to create a world where these monstrosities were not given free reign, where people were safe.
But people could never understand, could never understand the horrors and agony that these beings inflicted, unless they had gone through it themselves, and by then, it was too late. Too late to stop them, too late to make it right, too late to make it better. Far too late. He understood that, and he curced the world for not understanding it too.
Once, the rational part of his mind had understood- people could not understand and believe what they did not know, had not experienced. That was obvious, that had always been part of being human. But the years had turned him bitter, cynical. The taunting, the outcasting, the strange looks and the sneers. They had turned him into something else, something more, something determined to prove himself at any cost.
At any cost. And he had. He had won the support of the government, the president, won the support of the people, and the best research team that money could by.
But still, they existed, still they plagued him, still they kept him up for hours, pacing the halls and wishing, hoping, praying, that they would be wiped out once and for all. There had to be a way, there had to be a way to do it, and he swore he would find it. One day, he would find it, and he would destroy them all.
But for today, just for today, he would be content with this. He would be content with this destruction, this ending, this demolition. He would crush them, grind them into the ground and destroy the home that they had made in the earth. His earth.
Some people called it an obsession, but what did they know? What did they know about the burning feeling deep within his heart that chilled everything else to stone. Nothing else mattered, nothing else could matter anymore. There was only this, only ever this. The cold calculation, the ruthless mind. There had to be, because anything else would lead to failure, and that was not an option. Not now, not after so long. Not an option. He gripped the wall and felt it give way in his fist. This body gave him power, gave him strength, but was that all that he needed? Was that all there was to defeating them?
No, he needed more. More technology than the earth provided him, more power than the men he had. He needed more, and he would stop at nothing to get it. It was not an obsession, it was a necessity. It was needed, required, and the world just did not realize how desperate it was.
That is why, one raid at a time, he would get them, he would not stop until he got them, destroyed them all. His men glanced at him, and for a moment, he did not realize that the chunk of wall had fallen from his fist. Thankfully his prey was not there yet. He would have to be more careful in future.
No mistakes. No failure. He could not afford that.
They did not have long to wait, and for once, he thanked the clock for its haste. There was no room for bloodlust, there was no room for relishing revenge, or the strong desires that coursed through him. But it was the only thing he allowed himself to feel, so he felt it in its entirety, letting it cloud his vision and the rationality of his thoughts for just a moment.
But only a moment. He needed to be level headed. He needed to remain calm. And he did. He was in control, in complete control and he always would be, just like he always had been. He had only lost that control once, and that had been their fault. Their fault and they would pay for it most dearly. He would not rest until he had fulfilled his mission. He would not die, not sleep, until it was done.
With a flick of his wrist, he gave the signal, feeling rather than hearing the movement of his men as they sped towards the entrance. They were trained well. They knew what to do. If they did not get it right, they would meet with bitter consequences, and they knew it. They knew it well. He had made sure of it.
They moved into the home of the aliens. Their nest. This was it. Something like glee, but far closer to hysteria bubbled in his chest, and he fought to keep down the sounds, face impassive. It didn't take the men long to spread out, deposit the bobs. But all John heard was the screech of metal as the creatures, the utrom technicians that had been left behind fought, fought for their lives. He struggled to draw breath, chest constricting with the stench of alien, the stench of utrom. He wanted to stay, to linger, to watch them burn, but as the bomb countdown started, he left, into the cold of the night that he could not feel, walking while everyone else ran. He wanted to hear their screams, wanted to hear the screams and know that these foul distortions of nature were burning, writhing, dying.
As it blew up, Bishop felt the wind pull and tug at his coat, saw his skin blister, but he could not feel the heat on his skin. It had been years since he had felt it, felt anything at all. The curse of this body. The blessing.
He stared back on the smoking remains of the plant, the destruction that he had left in his wake, and smiled. When they returned, they would find nothing but smoking husks of their comrades, and an ambush. Turning, he walked into the night, a laugh bubbling in his chest.
No one else understood. They called it an obsession, but what did they know? He was the only sane one.
A/N: An introspective of Bishop. Written for character exploration practice.