Flash Fic Party, Day 14: Verdus!

It's Friday (yaaaay!) and you know what that means (boooo). Or maybe you don't. But I'll tell you.

Today marks the last day for flash fics and my lovely guest authors. I know, it's the saddest news ever, please don't cry--wasn't it was fun while it lasted? I've saved one of my favorites for last, written by Verdus the emo-tree (still shocked at how prolific he was for this challenge. It really blew me out of the water).

Thanks to all my guest writers who contributed fics, and to everyone who stopped by to read their stories over the last couple weeks. You are awesome!

Happy reading!

Author: Verdus
Word count: 418
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Even from hundreds of meters away, the blast sent me sprawling onto my face. One second I'd been walking away from the latest settlement to run us out of town. The next I was flat on the asphalt with half my face scraped off by road rash.

Struggling to recover my wits and the wind knocked out of me by the shockwave, I pushed myself over onto my back. Surprisingly, this didn't help much as I thought it would. Sure, I could desperately heave my lungs without being constricted by the pavement, but the shockwave had kicked up so much debris that I was gasping down more dirt than air.

Nina was already standing by the time I came to my senses. Whether she'd simply recovered faster than I had or just hadn't been flung down in the first place I'd never know, and she wasn't likely to tell me. Shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun, Nina gaped in astonishment back in the direction we came, seemingly oblivious to the wind whipping her chocolate curls into a frenzy.

Following her gaze, I just barely saw the smoke trail before it finished dissipating. Stabbing down from the heavens like the finger of God, it led straight to the ruin where Graywall used to be. Even looking at it right in front of me, I could barely believe my eyes. Where just minutes ago there had been homes and shops, broken and crumbling though they may have been, now there was only a choking cloud of dust expanding from an impact crater. The settlement's eponymous concrete barrier had been strewn across the landscape like a sand painting, completely shattered by the impact blast of... what, a meteorite? A satellite whose orbit had decayed since all the radios had gone silent? It didn't much matter at that point. Fifty people had lived in Graywall, maybe sixty. Now they didn't, and though no science of man could ever prove it, I knew that it was because of me.

Tearing her eyes away from the vista of devastation behind us, she looked down at me, still flat on my back. She continued to stare for a moment, her dust-streaked face a shifting mix of incredulity, black humor, and just the barest hint of fear as I looked back up at her, dumbfounded. When she spoke, her voice was one of gentle, almost teasing reproach.

"Jesus, Peter... Now look what you did."

Flash Fic Party, Day 13: Me!

Bika's Flash Fic Party is winding to a close. Tomorrow's post by Verdus will be the last in this challenge, and I was so happy to host it for you all. I love seeing how you all wrestle your ideas onto paper (actually, it's probably more like cramming into a word processor, screaming--though it's possible it can be a gentle process? I've just never seen it happen that way).

Today's fic is another one of mine. I wrote about some of my NaNo characters; spoiler, Caleb dies even before the novel begins.

Author: Bika
Word count: 579
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I didn’t want to be the one missing out, but some things can’t be helped. All the neighbor kids were older than me. They spent most of the summer nights out in Caleb’s tent with the glow-lamps Papa loaned them, shining them in each other’s faces or at their own. They looked like ghouls in the dark, my brother told me, and I wanted to see for myself.

But Papa wouldn’t hear of the wee one going out to fill her head with tales an’ nonsense, so instead I’d sit on my bed in the dark all through the warm seasons and listen to their giggles and shouts, the silences when Caleb or one of the others would tell a ghost story, the gleeful screams when the horrors came. They loved to be scared.

It was hard being the little one at night. The days, though, Caleb saved them just for me; when there weren’t chores to be done he would call me outside and I’d come runnin’, burst through the tent flap and flop down on the sleeping rolls left from the night before. We lay on our backs and looked up at the moving patterns of leaf shadows on the canvas, and it was too warm but we stayed in anyway, sweating while he talked about the other side, things he wouldn’t tell the others.

He told me the things Nana said to him out behind the field where the old barn burned down. “Be good, mind your Da', watch your sister,” he’d say in a gravelly old pipe-smoker’s voice. I could hear her in my head clear as day whenever he talked about her, though she died long before either of us were born. He said it was the real thing. I’d got the gift, he said, just as he did and Nana before us.

Later on I’d have my doubts, but back in those days nothing he did or said was ever wrong to my worshipful eyes. Caleb was my sun and moon and I would’ve given him the very last breath in my body if only he’d never leave me, never leave me.

When I was in my seventh year he packed his things and went to apprentice at the Llewellyn Museum Fellowship, leaving me alone with Papa and the cows. “Wisht I could take ya with me, Bobby,” he said in his deep, gruff tryin’-to-sound-grownup sort of way, and then he was gone. I cried, but not till he was well on his way and I’d gone out to Nana’s place, a place marked with a stake in the ground, to to be alone and drop my tears where it was safe. I dirtied my face with snot and cried into a hollow in the earth that held the charred stubs of her old butter churn, the relics of a generation lost he’d dug up himself when I was in still in clouts.

I cried because I loved him; I cried because I missed him even before he left; I cried because there’d be no more stories and no more Bobby, c’meres. Without Caleb, I was just Roberta, and even at seven I knew it all too well.

Out at Caleb's secret spot I begged Nana to comfort me, to protect my brother and promise me he’d be back. She never answered, and though Caleb wrote, he never came home again.

I guess there’s only so much the spirits can do.

Flash Fic Party, Day 11: Oh, Dir

Today's guest writer is Dissonant, writing a short 'n sweet story for Dir. That boy has a lot of unresolved issues to be messing with someone as capricious as Ysani. I feel bad for him.

There are only a few guest posts left. I hope you’re enjoying them; it’s been fun for me to see everyone flex their writing muscles. Be sure to let the guest writers know what you think in the comments!

I’m keeping this intro short, to save my brains. Why? They’re f-r-i-e-d, FRIED. But the good news is, my NaNo novel’s now well over 13,000 words long. That’s about 50 standard book pages! Now... I just have to do that ~4 more times. Huuuuurk.

Author: Dissonant/Dir
Word count: 212
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He had nothing to offer her but a sordid past and ugly truths. Still, he whispered it in her ear.

“Stay.”

She turned her lips to his and he could taste the sweetness of the candy she’d eaten just a short time before. The golden light of afternoon shone like fire in her hair.

He knew why she was here, why she kept coming back. He was the forbidden and the dark, wrapped in a glamorous package. He was blissful retreat and erotic delight. She could stretch out and be her in some endless now, unburdened with future expectation. Hard lesson had taught him that only a fool could ever expect more. It didn’t stop him.

When their sweat mingled and their eyes glazed, when she would agree to anything he said as long as he spun out this wild pleasure just a moment more, he could not help but ask again.

“Stay.”

His answer came in the silent, empty dusk. She had dressed in a hurry, a regretful kiss lingering on their lips. She had returned to the man who had her heart and the life she had built, leaving only candy wrappers on the nightstand and her scent on the sheets to show she had ever been in his room.

Flash Fic Party, Day 9: Verdus!

Verdus is really racing along with NaNo so far. It's awesome to watch his word count climb; those rare times I catch up and get ahead of him while he's doing silly unnecessary things, like sleeping or going to work? Also awesome.

(Sorry, Verdus, you already got the long intro last week. Plus, my brains are fried. Would you like ketchup with that?)

Author: Verdus
Word count: 901
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I screamed as I woke up, sitting straight up in bed. My heart was beating so fast and I couldn't catch my breath no matter how hard I tried. For a second I thought I was gonna have a heart attack like Grandpa had, and that just scared me even more. After a minute or so, though, my heart started to calm down a little, even though I was still scared.

But what of? I couldn't remember! I knew I must have had a dream or something, seeing as how I was still in bed and all, but I couldn't remember anything about it. Running from something, maybe? Whatever I'd been doing in the dream, it must've been pretty tough, otherwise why would I be so drenched in sweat like I was? It was all soaked into my sleeping bag too, yuck. Probably all the way through to the mattress padding underneath, even.

That's when I noticed my mom standing in the doorway, staring at me. It was dark, but I could still see a little bit thanks to the starlight coming in through the cracks in the wall patches. I couldn't understand why she was just staring at me like that, with her mouth hanging open, looking so scared.
"Mom? What's wrong?" I asked her.

She stared at me for another second or two, then stuttered out, "N-Nothing, dear, it's fine. Go back to sleep, Brian." She still looked like she'd seen a ghost or something, though. Why was she lying to me? I tried to ask her again what was going on, but she just motioned for me to stay put, then swung the broken door closed. I was so confused, confused and scared. Was it my dream, was that what scared her? How could she know what it was about? I didn't even know!

I started hearing my mom and dad talk from their room down the hall, but I couldn't make out the words yet. Our house was one of the less-damaged ones in the village, but even it had plenty of cracks and holes in the walls to hear through. At least our roof was mostly intact, not like Jimmy and his parents next door.

They started talking louder then, I guess now that my dad was starting to wake up more. I still couldn't hear most of what they were saying, but he was definitely scared too. My dad wasn't scared of anything, though. What did I do?! I wanted so badly to run over there and ask them, but I was scared that I'd start to cry.

"...saw it, Gerald! It was... dream, I'm... right there!" I only got bits and pieces of what my mom was saying. I'd never heard her this scared before, and it sent shivers up my spine.

"This can't... only twelve for God's..." my dad answered sadly. The only time I'd ever heard him sound like that was when Uncle Ron had died.

After a few moments of quiet, my mom said, "What are... to do? ...remember what... to the Rylands..." If they said anything else after that, I didn't hear it. I knew then what they were talking about. Oh God, no, I'm sorry, no, please.

A long time ago, everyone in the village had gotten angry with Mrs. Ryland about some dream she'd had. Some of them wanted to run the Rylands out of town, but the rest of them were scared what would happen without Mr. Ryland around as a doctor.

Two nights later, everyone could hear screaming coming from their house. I wanted to go out and help them, but mom and dad wouldn't let me. They got me and my sister in their room, and we sat up and prayed all night. I don't even remember whether we were praying for them or us, I was so scared. The next morning, we all found their house melted. Not burned or smashed or blown up, but melted like a chocolate bar left out in the sun. Nobody would tell me where Mr and Mrs Ryland were. I was too young to know at the time, but they must've died in there, melted with the house maybe.

"Is that going to happen to me too?!" I thought. Was I going to melt my family and my house? All because I'd had a stupid dream, like Mrs. Ryland had? I didn't even know what I'd been dreaming about! No, I couldn't do that to them, I wouldn't!

Mom and dad were still in their room, and had changed from talking to arguing. They didn't hear me filling my backpack with my clothes and other stuff. No, I wouldn't hurt my family, not like that!

With my backpack stuffed full, I dashed out of my room, running headlong towards the front door. I thought I heard my dad call out and start to come after me, but I didn't listen. I'd take my chances with the wasteland and the monsters, I thought. Better that than turn my family to goo. Better this way. I kept telling myself that as I sprinted off into the night beyond the village, tears streaming down my face.

Flash Fic Party, Day 8: Ebonthunder!

Ebon Thundermoon, a tough-ass tauren lady, is something of a Horde champion. Her player, Sean, runs an RP/PvP guild comprised of battle-ready Thundermoon tribe adoptees of all races who defend Horde resources and holdings from the evil, evil Alliance (moo-hahahaha).

Sean's been raiding with me for quite some time and I can tell you two things for certain: the man makes the most awful groan-inducing puns I've ever... herd (!), and he is dirrrty. He loves his cow ladies, but he ain't exclusive. He likes ALL the ladies, and some of the men. Hot?

A side effect of Sean's lady-love? Ebonthunder has big ol' boobies and wouldn't you know it, they feature prominently (hee) in this udderly awesome holiday fic. (His fault! I never made puns before I met Ebon! You can't prove anything!)

Author: Ebonthunder

Word count: 593

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Pawe Mistrunner loved the Midsummer Fire Festival. A fortnight out of the year where something interesting actually occurred on the otherwise tedious Spirit Rise, where visitors of all the various races of Azeroth, whether invited or uninvited, would arrive and bring her momentary amusement. The greatest joy she could have however, was explaining the festival customs of the various Tauren tribes to the “haloyakee”. Tourists.

A young orc, obviously attending the festival for his first time, stood speechless and gawking at something that Pawe couldn’t help but grin. “You are a part of the Warsong Offensive, are you not?” Pawe remarked, drawing his attention. The orc glanced her way and then down at himself, the emblazoned sigil of the Warsong stitched into his tabard giving him away. He gave a faint nod, obviously wanting to return his attention to the festivities.

“You must know miss Thundermoon from the battlefield, I imagine.”

Another nod. This time, however, he found his voice. “I’ve never seen her out of her armor, but … dancing?” He seemed to have difficulty wrapping his tongue around that last word, let alone his mind. “And in … that?”

Pawe drifted her gaze towards the maypole, the center of the festivities. There, weaving about and around the wooden pillar with a long and streamer-entwined baton in each hand, was Ebon Thundermoon. A Champion of the Horde, veteran of countless battles, leader of dozens of brutal and bloody assaults against the Alliance, and there she was, garbed in nothing but an earthen colored kilt whilst prancing about a festival maypole. Pawe wagered it was certainly a shock to the orc’s system, even considering the initial hormonal jumpstart from staring at Ebon’s fully exposed chest as it bobbed and bounced before him in fluid harmony to the music in the air.

Suppressing her laughter for a moment, Pawe stepped to the orc’s side and rested a hand on his shoulder, hopefully keeping his attention. “You’ve seen her on the battlefield plenty of times,” she noted, eliciting another silent nod from him. “I want you to imagine her as you see her now, but instead of those colorful batons she holds,” Pawe paused a moment, letting the orc prepare his imagination, “I want you to imagine her wielding her weapons.”

Blinking in momentary surprise, the orc glanced sideways at Pawe, who gave an encouraging smile and nod in Ebon’s direction. As he focused on the Thundermoon warrior, he recalled the massive weapons she would haul into battle, wielding them with nonchalant ease as she cut through opponent after opponent. As he remembered, he could picture her movements – she did not so much cut and slice through her enemies, but rather twirl and sweep those monstrous blades about her with every step, as if she was …

As if she was dancing. Eyes wide and jaw hung slightly agape, the orc could picture it clearly as the Thundermoon twirled about the maypole for another pass. Instead of those festive batons in her hands, a monstrous sword or battle axe; instead of the colorful streamers fluttering about the ends of those batons, sprays of blood, freshly hewn from the unfortunate souls caught in the path of her carnage; instead of a harmless, joyous dance of festivity and reverence, a whirling Taureness of indescribable violence.

Pawe smiled again, figuring that the orc come to the proper conclusion in his imagination. Giving his shoulder a light pat, she chuckled softly, “Be careful, if you ever ask a Tauren to dance.”

Oh, how Pawe loved the Midsummer Festival.

Flash Fic Party, Day 7: Dissonant!

Oh, Diss. I don't know how she came up with the time to write one fic for my party, let alone two. Between her college courses, a full-time job, and being a full-time mom, she's busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. (Is that even kosher? I guess it's not. My upbringing betrays me. Sorry, one-legged people who kick asses.)

Like I said, I don't know how, but I'm glad she did. This is a rare look into the comings and goings of Dissonant and the creepy death goddess she serves. Maybe I'm biased towards priests (okay, very definitely biased towards priests) but this is just awesome. And kinda grossly violent, in a righteous sorta way.

Which is also how I like my priests.

Author: Dissonant
Word count: 703

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The tattered hem of her cloak dragged in the dry dust of the road, kicking it up in swirls. The woman was hunched over, the old cloth draped across her head and a painfully thin frame. Her gait was slow and uneven, as if arthritis plagued her joints.

She was being followed. A slow glance back and she saw them. Two human men, drunk and with the hard edge of those who made a living by less than honest means. One squinted at her with little piggy eyes, his hand resting on the hilt of the dagger at his hip. Nervous, the woman clutched at the neck of her cloak before attempting to limp along even faster. The second, taller man let out a nasty chuckle. The heavy sound of their boots picked up, coming closer.

She could hear their harsh breath as they came near. There was no escape for her. A whispered prayer slipped her lips.

“What’s that, grandma?” said the shorter man, his tone nasal with a nasty edge. His hand reached out, curving around the cowering woman’s bone thin upper arm and jerking her back. She stumbled and bowed her head, another whisper coming from her cowl.

“Answer him!” the tall man growled, grabbing at the hood of her cloak. The threadbare fabric pulled away easily, leaving bare short, black hair. The woman raised her face and straightened her spine, standing nearly as tall as the ruffian. Her skin was sallow and deathly pale. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes glowed with an unholy yellow light.

“I said, you prey upon the weak. The Goddess will show no mercy upon your souls.”

The Forsaken’s eyes flared and she spoke. Just a few syllables and the tall man felt as if a cold rush of air blew over his body. And then the pain came. As it crawled through him in unstoppable waves, he fell to his knees, screaming. His fingers became bloody as he tore through his own flesh; unbroken skin becoming scratches, scratches becoming gashes.

Fury replaced shock as the shorter man reached for his dagger, unsheathing it, but the priestess had already broken his grip and stepped to the side. No sound came from her throat but he could hear the scream inside his head. Layers and tones of fear and horror filled his mind and, suddenly, the terror was his. He screamed and lunged for the woman blindly but his aim was off and the dagger passed through air. Overcompensating, the man fell to the hard-packed road and the dagger fell from his hand.

The exposed bone of her knuckles gleamed like ivory as the woman picked up the blade. With deceptive strength, the frail looking woman pushed the blade smoothly through the man’s exposed neck. Blood and air pushed from his mouth in a burgundy foam as the dying man gurgled and bled. His eyes took on the far away look of one who no longer sees. Dispassionate, the priestess prayed.

“May you find your true purpose in service to the Goddess.”

The woman straightened to her full height as she turned her intense focus on the first man. His whimpers were ragged and rough as he continued to tear at his own body. His eyes full of terror at the clean manner in which she had dispatched his friend. Blood mixed with the dust of the road as it flowed from his wounds and soaked into his rough, homespun clothing.

The woman sighed. Vengeance, it was a strong emotion and she had left such things behind long ago. Still, she was not one to leave a mess behind. Another word, another prayer, and holy fire seemed to come from the sky. It scoured the man as fresh screams tore from his damaged throat until they were silenced. His still body slumped to the ground.

She bent down and dipped her fingers in a puddle of congealing blood. On each dead man’s forehead, she painted a circle with a symbol inside.

“In death you will find your rebirth.”

Standing, she pulled the tattered cloak around her once more and walked briskly away, a voice echoing in her head.

“Well done, Dissonant. I am pleased.”

[NaNo] Day 3

Now that the fun's started and I'm writing every day on this tiny hatchling of an idea, I think I'm qualified to say OMFG what hell Bika why didn't you start earlier on your plot WHY? My book's run though so many phases by now that I'm tempted just to throw up my hands and label it paranormal post-apocalyptic action-adventure dystopian zombieland mystery thriller fiction and consider all my bases covered.

I'm at just under 4000 words at this moment (why yes, I'm writing a blog post instead of working on my novel, why do you ask?) and while it's going to be hard to hit the 50k mark by the end of the month, I'm pretty sure I'll be able to do it as long as I keep pushing myself to write something every day. The best thing to come out of this so far is the absolute certainty that I can and will write books, even after NaNo is done. Maybe they won't be pretty, but they'll be mine.

I hope y'all are having fun with the flash fics. I enjoy seeing other people's work and all the supportive comments that go along with them! Once they run out, Hammy and I have a story arc about Libby and Fenniel that's just full of wtf-ery, and after that, perhaps there will be excerpts of NaNo writings (mine, certainly, and from others who want to share).

Now I'm going to go write what I'm supposed to write. 1000 words before bed, GO!

Flash Fic Party, Day 6: Me? ME!

Here's the story that started this whole thing. It's not much to look at (and, like many others, is on the violent side, with vulgar language to boot), but it's the first thing that came out of my head when I decided to try writing a random flash fic out of the blue.

There are no familiar characters, no familiar setting. It's Just Something Different, a short teaser of a scene to give my brain something to focus on for a half hour.

More people have responded than I expected, and it's really exciting to see what they came up with--there are enough fics to post every weekday for another week or so, so drop in and check them out when you get a chance. The comments section is great for letting the guest authors know what you think!

Author: Bika

Word Count: 564

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Breathe.

Droplets of sweat mingled with coin-sized spatters of blood on the cracked pavement. More of both ran into her mouth. She tasted something vaguely electric in the flavors of salt and copper, sparking odd memories of summer days spent counting and collecting pennies for candy, of forgetting to wash her hands before peeling the wrappers.

Breathe, goddammit!

Her lungs refused to work.

The gritty asphalt kissed bare skin; her knee stung and her jeans were ruined. She didn’t care. There were other pants.

“Gonna stay down there all night, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you, Carl.” Finally able to draw in a wheezing breath, she spat, hoping to get rid of the lingering rancid-metal taste. Wobbly, winded, Bonnie rose to her feet.

The evening air was fresh and sweet to her starved lungs. There was no hint of the baked-garbage smell that late summer usually brought to the borough, just cool, wonderful air.

“Such language. Are you ready to cooperate or do you need more encouragement?”

Carl’s tone was warm, companionable and friendly. Concerned, even. But she know better, that wasn’t what Carl meant, and while it might not do her any good to know it, that was his you’re on my shitlist, fuckface voice.

“I don’t need any encouragement from the likes of you.”

“Is that a no, then, darlin’?”

“Save the pet names for your sister, fatass.” She flashed him the brightest smile she could manage. It hurt like hell. Her split lip reopened and a fresh trickle of blood ran down her chin. At least three of her teeth felt loose in their sockets.

Saints be fucked, he actually looked hurt.

“Now now, love, swagger doesn’t suit you. Mayhap it looks good on the boys down Lorimer, but comin’ from you it’s just tacky.”

“Tacky. Tacky like lawn flamingos, or tacky like grown men hittin’ girls half their size?”

He shoved her shoulder-first against the alley bricks, hard enough to peel skin from her upper arm, and used his considerable weight to hold her there. She laughed, and he pushed. Her impudent laughter rose into a shrill cry of pain, and he looked into her madwoman’s face with his cheeks burning a dull crimson.

All the tough talk and posturing in the world couldn’t cover the blood-smeared tear-tracks and streaming eyes that met his own, refusing to break.

“You need help, Bonnie.”

She spat in his face with a simultaneous cackle and sob. “You’re a bully, just like Ted. Fuck you, and your mother, too.”

“I’m taking you home,” he said, twisting her arms behind her back and holding them there, tightly, with both of his hot, meaty hands. The shining gob of spit under his left eye, that was real. She knew for sure that was real. “To your mother.”

“NO.” Her stomach flopped. She was horizontal, the ground cold and slick beneath her, mint-green tile reflecting florescent light. She howled.

The tile was real. The tile was always real.

“NO!”

Carl’s face was a wreck. His lower lip was split and bleeding and his jaw was swelling rapidly. Bonnie raised her broken hand to strike out in protest but was pinned under Carl and both of the pink-suit orderlies; the needle went in, the fight went out of her like piss down her legs, her pants ruined again, real, not-real.

“Teddy, please don’t tell mama.”

She closed her eyes and slept.

Flash Fic Party, Day 5: Verdus!

Ah, Verdus. The emo tree. He's been running with my Anvil peeps for a few years now and he's a pretty awesome guy, even though he's self-deprecating to a fault and his trademark phrase is a mopey, Eeyore-like "Not that it matters anyway."

I'd never seen him write anything before (though he roleplays ingame, I'm pretty sure that written RP isn't really his thing) so imagine my surprise when he wrote not one, but TWO flash fics for the party.
Not only that, they're pretty good stories. A bit violent, but that's kinda par for the course with the submissions I've seen so far.

It should be mentioned that I have punched Verdus IRL before. It was fun, though most of the time it wasn't deserved, and he was a good sport.

Enjoy the read!

Author: Verdus

Word count: 999 words

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I had to fight to stay conscious.  For centuries I sat there, sprawled against the clear, cold cylinder behind me, conspicuously ignoring the enraged and incoherent screams of the dead man I'd trapped inside.  

There wasn't a single part of me that didn't hurt.  Simply breathing felt like someone was prying open my ribcage with a crowbar.  That meant at least one cracked rib, probably more.  Crimson blood oozed from the lacerations on my chest, arms, and legs, dripping down through the metal grille comprising the floor; I stopped counting after two dozen gashes.  The bruises were already starting to form.  I figured that if I managed not to bleed out I'd probably be a solid mass of purple within three hours.

Taking stock of my injuries helped.  One of the things that Nathan had taught me all those years ago was the simple mind-over-body power of a calm, detached analysis.  "Keep the mind working when you're injured, Peter," he'd told me once during training.  "Quantify, analyze, extrapolate.  Focus on facts, assess the situation and risks dispassionately.  Let the fear and the pain and all the rest of the emotional baggage fade to the background, then get back up and get back on mission."  He'd punctuated the lesson by breaking my arm, which seemed a little extreme at the time, but he'd been right.  Of course, Nathan was always right, just like he was always so damned focused.  Stay on mission, always stay on mission.  

Judging from the battering on the containment cylinder wall at my back, though, Nathan seemed to be having a little trouble taking his own advice.  A mirthless grin spread across my rapidly-swelling face of its own accord and I let out a chuckle before I could stop myself.  The skewers of burning agony that simple act shot through my torso nearly put me out, and I couldn't afford that.  The job wasn't done, not yet.  

Clutching the cold stainless steel of the guardrail with both hands, I slowly, carefully forced myself to my feet.  Somewhere in the dim, pain-addled haze of my mind, I registered a voice yelling at me from behind.  Words, even.  Whether I consciously ignored him or was simply incapable of comprehending anything more at the time, I can't honestly say.  As I shuffled my way towards the control platform a foot at a time, clinging to the rail to keep myself standing, those words gradually started to assemble themselves into coherent thought.  

"...don't know what you're doing, Peter!" I half-heard Nathan yell from a lifetime away.  I idly wondered, as I inched closer to the gantry stairs ahead of me, how he managed to project his voice through three inches of whatever the hell that cylinder wall was made of.  By the time I'd reached the base of the steps, I'd decided that I didn't want to know just how loud he was making things on the inside, or what kind of... alterations he'd made to himself to make such a thing possible.  

Five steps or five miles, it was all the same climbing up to the control platform.  Crawling up those metal grille steps on my hands and knees ravaged my open palms, one of the few parts of my body which had, until then, been relatively intact.  Might as well be thorough, right?  By the time I reached the top, the traitor's words were getting difficult to tune out completely.  I think he was trying to explain why he'd done it.  Yes, that was definitely it.  One last desperate rationalization to save his own skin.

"Dammit, Peter, it was necessary!  Even you have to see that, now that you know what's at stake!"  Having crowned the stairs, I pulled myself back to my unsteady feet and resumed stumbling to my goal, mere meters away now, amazed and bewildered at what I was hearing.  After all the lies he'd told, all the damage he'd done, all the lives he'd stolen...  After Nina...  He was actually trying to reason with me.  With me!  The rage began to build anew in my chest, a raw, vicious, and infinitely cold hatred, driving me towards my destination with a renewal of something bearing a passing resemblance to vigor.

By the time I finished shambling my way to the control console, Nathan had fallen silent.  I didn't turn to look at him, but I could still feel his stare pressing down on me.  Back in the beginning I would have quailed under the intensity of that laser-bore gaze, just as so many others had broken under it since I first met him.  Part of me still wonders what would have gone differently if I'd actually tried to meet his eye then.  I guess we'll never know.

As he drilled holes in me with his eyes, I worked the controls by rote memory, albeit much more slowly than before in other, near-identical labs.  No steps of the checklist were skipped as I executed the power-up sequence.  I wasn't taking the chance of botching this by rushing things.  Pressure levels, capacitor charge, safeties on the exotic elements...  I overlooked nothing and the pain seemed to recede as I gave my mind over to familiar routine.  Systems throughout the vast chamber came to life, a symphony of hums, whirrs, and whines.

As I neared the end of the sequence, he spoke one last time.  "I'll give it to you straight, Pete.  If you do this, if you kill me like this, here in this place, you'll be damning the human race to extinction.  Billions of people will die, Peter.  Billions, with a B.  Is it worth that, Peter?  Is she worth that?"

I knew he was lying, of course, just like all the other lies.  It was obvious he was lying, he had to be.  And yet my hand hovered over the final button which would unmake the monster, atom by atom.  At the time, I felt ashamed for hesitating.  

Now, I'd give anything to have listened.