![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Outside Syndicate Headquarters
Jul. 2nd, 2006 09:40 pmThere's not a single damn moment in his whole short and sorry life where Spike's considered himself to be a soldier. Even now, with pockets full of bombs and detonators, grenades and clips, spare guns and more, he's no soldier. No, he kind of feels more like some misguided knight on a personal quest; nothing about this has anything to do with saving the world or bettering society or standing up for what's right. It has one purpose and one purpose only: to get the fuck back to where he needs to be and this is his last chance, his last effort. When he did this before -- it feels like a million years ago, like he's watching the memories through a pool of molasses, they're so slow -- he did it for different reasons.
Last time, it was about freedom more than revenge because he's seen enough death to know that revenge is really fucking stupid. Doesn't make a person feel any damn better in the long run; it just makes them even more miserable because there's nothing else to live for once the revenge is exacted. And it escalates: he thinks of Mao's death and all it brought about and to say the thoughts make him sad would be... like calling the Swordfish a scooter or like calling Beth just another woman. Gross understatements, all of those. Revenge is just a trap for all of them and while fuck yeah, Vicious has to pay for what he did, he's not here so much out of a need for payback as he is out of a need to reclaim what's his.
Reclaim his place in the stars, in the universe. He's as out of place and time on Mars now as he is in Cooksfield when he's there with Beth
(let me go back there, if that's where she is, or let me go to the bar if that's where she is, or if she's someplace new, let me go there; I have this little problem now in that I can't see clear to living without her)
and that's a hell of a thing to realize.
So this is all or nothing. It's a gamble and the odds are shit. They're worse than shit, but it's the only chance he's got. Landing the Swordfish, he walks the last few blocks to Red Dragon Headquarters and stands outside for a moment looking up at the building. It's tall but he knows it real well; he spent a lot of time here a lot of years ago and building interiors don't change. He runs through his mental checklist one more time. Grenades. Clips. Explosives. Remotes. Jericho. Spare handgun, it's his Barak, the one he gave to Beth and he figures if anything's his lucky charm, it's that and just for one fucking minute he's thankful that time's so fucked up because Beth, Beth, Beth. Love you, Slim. You're so beautiful. Want some potechi? Let's go upstairs. He has one more phrase to add to that collection, even though it's way fucking more than three words: Every minute of every day, Beth Durand, I love the hell out of you and if there's a single damn way in the whole fucking universe to get back to you, I'll find it. I'm a resourceful guy. No matter what it costs, I'll find my way back to you. Trust me.
He takes a deep, deep breath. The double set of sliding glass doors opens, revealing the inlaid red dragon in the entryway. With a little internal sorry, building, don't take it personal, he lets the grenade fall from his hand and kicks it through the doorway.
And smiles: time to get this goddamn party started.
Last time, it was about freedom more than revenge because he's seen enough death to know that revenge is really fucking stupid. Doesn't make a person feel any damn better in the long run; it just makes them even more miserable because there's nothing else to live for once the revenge is exacted. And it escalates: he thinks of Mao's death and all it brought about and to say the thoughts make him sad would be... like calling the Swordfish a scooter or like calling Beth just another woman. Gross understatements, all of those. Revenge is just a trap for all of them and while fuck yeah, Vicious has to pay for what he did, he's not here so much out of a need for payback as he is out of a need to reclaim what's his.
Reclaim his place in the stars, in the universe. He's as out of place and time on Mars now as he is in Cooksfield when he's there with Beth
(let me go back there, if that's where she is, or let me go to the bar if that's where she is, or if she's someplace new, let me go there; I have this little problem now in that I can't see clear to living without her)
and that's a hell of a thing to realize.
So this is all or nothing. It's a gamble and the odds are shit. They're worse than shit, but it's the only chance he's got. Landing the Swordfish, he walks the last few blocks to Red Dragon Headquarters and stands outside for a moment looking up at the building. It's tall but he knows it real well; he spent a lot of time here a lot of years ago and building interiors don't change. He runs through his mental checklist one more time. Grenades. Clips. Explosives. Remotes. Jericho. Spare handgun, it's his Barak, the one he gave to Beth and he figures if anything's his lucky charm, it's that and just for one fucking minute he's thankful that time's so fucked up because Beth, Beth, Beth. Love you, Slim. You're so beautiful. Want some potechi? Let's go upstairs. He has one more phrase to add to that collection, even though it's way fucking more than three words: Every minute of every day, Beth Durand, I love the hell out of you and if there's a single damn way in the whole fucking universe to get back to you, I'll find it. I'm a resourceful guy. No matter what it costs, I'll find my way back to you. Trust me.
He takes a deep, deep breath. The double set of sliding glass doors opens, revealing the inlaid red dragon in the entryway. With a little internal sorry, building, don't take it personal, he lets the grenade fall from his hand and kicks it through the doorway.
And smiles: time to get this goddamn party started.
