GI JOE Pornography Story: Aint War Hell Chapter Five

PART
FIVE

—–

Chapter
Seventeen – Resignation

—–

Clever
girl,
thought Bludd as he made his way (at a normal pace, so as not to
betray his urgent errand) through the twisted bowels of Cobras
underground New York City base (the largest of two in the state, and
the second largest of the five east of the Mississippi).
Indeed, hed always likened the decaying complex (comprised in
part of long-forgotten subterranean passages and long-unused sewer
canals) to the labyrinthine intestines of a dead man. A cobra was
feared for its poison and this place was poisonous, if only
in an aesthetic sense. Well, actually, Bludd wouldnt be surprised
if everyone stationed here was slowly dying of latent poisons left
over from when these corridors were in use for the publics greater
good. But his thoughts at the moment were not of his
surroundings. They were of Wildcat. Clever,
traitorous, backstabbing girl.

But
Bludds anger wasnt really focused on the girl. She was the
scapegoat for his self-reproach. She had done what was necessary,
and the simple, embarrassing, dangerous fact was that he hadnt
been prepared for such an obvious possibility. He cursed himself
for his laziness in this matter. This highly-important matter. Why
had he trusted her so implicitly? Had pride exposed in him so large
a fault? What was the basis of this pride? Sexuality? Had he
considered himself superior in ability and intellect
because he was a man and she wasnt? Did he think that her being
female required her to carry out his male commands? Or was it more
sinister? Had the girl planned this ahead? Had she been leading him
on? Using him to further her own career?

No,
now he was definitely bending to the easiness of laying blame at the
doorstep of sexism. He was not particularly sexist, at least not any
more than was inherent in the belonging to one particular sex, and
discounted his musings as the wild manifestations
of his anger that they were. Focusing inward to that place in
himself where he always found FACT (not TRUTH, as the pursuit of that
mythical entity could be quite the dangerous – and unwinnable – game
indeed), he came to the necessary conclusion. Fact:
He had chosen Wildcat for her abilities. Fact: He had pushed
Wildcat into a corner. Fact: Wildcat had used her wits to fight her
way out of that corner. And that was that.

Your
ingenue, Destro had growled, using the term as dramatically as
possible to spell out Bludds bad direction of this scene in what
was now a quickly-unraveling Passion play, has bought her own life
with ours. Your misplaced trust could cost us both our
careers, if not our very necks! Destros messianic rise was in
serious jeopardy, and Bludd was now in a scramble to avoid being cast
in the role of Judas. And so he was on his way to Odems cell.

He
had pulled, pinched, and plucked every string he had any influence
over to arrange the cancellation of surveillance over Odem, so that
it might be possible to free him. Bludds last desperate chance
was to free Odem (blame could be manufactured later if
the gamble was successful), making it possible for the Commanders
plans to be thwarted quite conventionally.

Bludds
pace slowed upon realizing that his influence, potent as it may be,
was no match for the true puppetmaster of Cobra Command. He turned a
corner, the last before coming upon Odems cell, and saw that he
was expected. Two of the Commanders men, easily
recognized by their powder-blue uniforms, stood just ahead in the
hallway, facing him. One of them acknowledged his presence with a
nod of his head and a curt address: Major Bludd. They both
stepped aside, giving Bludd room to pass. After a moment
of hesitation, he did so, heading for the cell. He noted that the
door was open. It was now necessary, however, to continue.

Several
sketchy possibilities fluttered through Bludds mind as he
approached the cell, and it was a grim combination of the
least-desirable elements of each that he found upon entering. The
Commander (wearing his helmet/faceplate instead of his more casual
hood) sat on Odems cot, one leg crossed over the other in perfect
nonchalance. To his left stood one of his personal guards, who
stared at Bludd with just the right mix of suspicion and spite. To
the Commanders right, crumpled in the corner, was Odem.
Dead. He had died quickly, one bullet through the dimple separating
the forehead from the nose. Above him, clinging to the wall and
creeping down to the floor where Odem lay, was that important – now
useless – matter that had once been housed so conveniently
in his head. What had given the man life was now splashed most
unceremoniously on display to any who happened into the cell, whether
they cared to see it or not. His position wasnt unlike that of
hundreds of other men Bludd had seen shot to death.
Not agonized, as were the many false corpses so prevalent in movies
or other such dramatic media. Merely still. Lifeless. It might
have been a dummy, if not for the fresh blood (still red instead of
the brown color that it would become with time) clinging
to the expressionless face, the still-lifelike coloring in the flesh
(which would also change with time; he hadnt been dead long).

In
the three or four seconds it took for Bludd to intake the scenery, he
came to the realization that he was on his own. Destro had expected
this, and that was why he was not here witnessing it. Bludd was now
the picture-perfect patsy for the betrayal, and,
like a fool, had delivered himself willingly into the frame. He
alone would be held responsible. Wildcat was Bludds agent. Her
defection had been a result of the circumstances forced on her by
Bludd alone. Destro would deny having been connected with
either of them. Sure, Destro would remain a suspicious character,
but he would offer his crocodile tears and continue to hunt in the
swamp among the snakes. While Destros leash would definitely be
reigned in a bit, only Bludd could concretely be singled
out as the mastermind behind this gross disloyalty to the Cobra
Commander. And now he alone would face the proverbial music. He
found himself (oddly possessed by a strange sense of humor)
considering which instruments were ugliest, for it would be those
that performed this concert.

The
opening strains sounded, conducted with appropriate dissonance by an
electronically-filtered version of the Commanders already-bizarre
voice. You disssapoint me, Major Bludd, he hissed calmly.
But, though antisssipated, your coming here iss bold.
I will give you that, at leasst.

Bludd
gave a half-hearted shot at playing naive. What ever do you mean
by that, Commander?

The
Commander humored him (which was most generous, as there was little
humor to be had from Bludds point of view): Your agent Wildcat
hass bowed out of your camp and entered mine. She brought with her a
sstartling bit of evidence that would sseem to prove
you dissloyal to me.

Oh?
Why Bludd continued to play the fool was beyond him. Perhaps he did
it now because it was the only part left to him to play. (Maybe he
had miscalculated before; the part of Judas was at least more
sensational than that of the common fool, more rewarding
to the actor and thrilling to the audience, if in a melodramatic way.
After all, was it not the pivotal role to which the great martyr
owed his ultimate power?)

The
Commander segued into the next movement of his ominous symphony. If
there wass time to continue the more usselesss ssegmentss of thiss
dissscusssion, I would revel in continuing, but I will sstick to what
iss pertinent. He took a small pause, the equivalent
of an orchestra winding up to crescendo, and then not climaxing,
instead leaving the listener to wonder what might come next.
Wildcatss sstory iss believable, and probably iss the truth.
But I will admit that her sservisse to me will never be
as usseful as yourss hass been. That iss why I offer you one lasst
opportunity to prove your loyalty to Cobra.

Most
unexpected! And, yet, nothing was changed. Whatever this offer
might be, Bludd was still at odds with both Destro and the Cobra
Commander. Being at odds with one was dangerous enough. Being at
odds with both was the quickest way Bludd could think of
to be marked for death. But he had to hear the rest of the music, if
only to finally catch up with the time signature. Timing was
everything. How may I disprove these false allegations,
Commander? Bludd asked with all the humbleness he could muster.

I
like nothing more than groveling, as you may know. The Commander
stood. But, again, we havent the time. Tomorrow, the plan
goess forward. Forty-three sstrategic pointss acrosss the country
have been chosen for poissoning. It iss your ressponssibility
to be sure that all forty-three operationss are carried out with no
hindranssse. If any one of them should fail, I shall hold you
perssonally accountable.

Ridiculous.
That was the only way to describe the final measures of this awful
symphony. Any number of things could cause the failure of just one
of forty-three simultaneous operations, none of which Bludd had any
tactical information about yet. Of course,
the most likely cause of any failure would be enacted by either
Destro or the Commander himself, just to have Bludd out of the way.

This
was not a way out. It was only confirmation of Bludds belief that
his days serving Cobra were at an end. For now, at least. Perhaps
it could be possible in the future to… No! Cobra be damned! He
vowed that the serpent, no matter how seductive
its offers might be, would never again tempt him. He felt his hand
clench (had they both clenched? Having no sensation in the right,
and not really knowing, he now focused a small portion of his
consciousness into making sure it too was clenched) with resolve
never again to reach for the fabled apple.

Bludd
cocked his head in a snide imitation of a respectful bow. Thy
will be done, he spat. (It was quite bold, actually, for a man
whose next move was to go into paranoid hiding.)

The
Commander nodded slowly. Desstro will inform you of what iss to
be done. Report to him immediately. Followed by his guard, he
walked past Bludd, leaving him alone. Totally alone.

Bludd
would not report to Destro. Now was the time for flight.

—–

Chapter
Eighteen – Transport

—–

The
incessant throbbing of the helicopters propeller blades had become
by now a comfortable sound; so prevalent and dominating that it would
be missed when it came time to disembark from the helicopter (a fat
transport type, not unlike a large penguin or some
such obese and flightless bird) and take to that mode of travel still
(after centuries of war and the technological advances connected to
war) so prevalent and necessary among organizations of fighting men:
Hoofing it. Actually, Low-Light had nothing
against traveling on foot. He rather enjoyed it, in fact. It was
much more… honest, he supposed, was the word. There was a worlds
worth more freedom, that was for sure. In all the twentieth-century
wars (and even earlier ones; they were no less dependent
on the technology of the day), how many men had died in the targeting
(or even random stroke of luck resulting in the happily accidental
destruction) of their transport before they had a chance to affect
the outcome of a battle?

Conversation
among those being transported (Low-Light, Snake Eyes, Airtight,
Grunt, Breaker, and the now-seemingly-ubiquitous Scarlett who had
begged, shouted, pleaded, demanded, and done whatever else was
necessary to be reactivated for this mission) was at
a bare minimum due to the overpowering sound of the engines.
Low-Light hadnt spoken to Scarlett in the couple days since
their… well, whatever it had been. He also hadnt had a drop of
liquor or a cigarette since then. Mistake,
he
now thought, feeling his hands tremble with a compulsive need to
strangle the closest object, which was his sniper rifle. In an
attempt to keep his hands occupied, he began to check the weapon
again, to be absolutely sure (perhaps hed missed something
the first seven times) that it was all in order.

Snake
Eyes gloved hand came down over Low-Lights. He looked up at
the concealed face and saw his own reflection glaring back from those
deep, black goggles. Scarlett, sitting beside Snake Eyes, spoke
(shouted, rather, to be heard over the din of their host
transport) for the mute man: Youve checked it already.

Youre
makin the rest of us jumpy, man. That was Grunt, sounding
not-at-all amused. His expression was dark, his complexion pale.

You
picked a bad time to stop smoking, Scarlett added with her
annoyingly attractive smile. (She either was making a guess or there
was a peculiar gossip circle that included Low-Lights activities;
an unnerving prospect.) The constant wind coming from
the opening in the aircrafts side (there was no door, for ease of
entrance and exit) whipped her ponytail against one side of her face.
She didnt seem to notice it.

The
night was beautifully dark outside the opening. The black mass of
forest below was not unlike a shadow cast by the comparatively pale
mountain peaks haunting the horizon. The scene lulled lazily, then
desperately, as the helicopter banked. The mountains
twisted out of view, and the forest was replaced by neatly-segmented
farmland. Another fluid lurch and the forest now dominated the
landscape. The second helicopter containing the five members of Team
Bravo could be seen for an instant, already dropping
under cover of the trees.

Breaker
brought his hand up to cover the microphone branching off from his
headset. He shouted to the rest: Were descending. Theres
been some movement seen on the ground, both in the open and at the
edges of the forest. No enemy transport has been spotted.
Bravo will sweep from the northwest. Well move up to meet them
from the south.

Airtight
gave breath to the question that sprang into all their minds: Did
Intelligence come up short on this one?

Well
find out soon enough, replied Breaker. Stay sharp.

After
the search for Odem had proved useless, the Intelligence division had
been scrambling for alternatives. Suddenly, the order came for this
excursion to a small stretch of farming lands in the southern reaches
of New Yorks Appalachian Plateau. What had
prompted it was mysterious to Low-Light, as well as the others, but
orders were orders. If Odems poison was to be introduced here, it
certainly would be one of the least strategically-profitable areas
for such a venture. Unless it was to be a test site.

As
the helicopter descended, Breaker, with a frown caused by whatever
was being reported in his headset, made another announcement: Were
still not sure whats down there, but Bravos already committed,
so we are too. Stick with the gameplan.

Airtight
spoke just as the helicopter halted its descent, hovering about five
feet over the ground. Anyone finds anything chemical, contact me
immediately. Same goes for unmarried heiresses. There were a few
chuckles, and then everyone was on their feet.
Grunt was the first to hop out. Low-Light was the last.

—–

Chapter
Nineteen – Eleventh Hour

—–

I
really musst find a better speech writer! complained the Cobra
Commander as he let several sheets of paper fly from his hand.
Destro, just entering the room, wouldve found amusement in the
scene, but he was still consumed by his lingering anger over having
lost such a perfect opportunity to be the worlds master.

Cobra
Commanders conference room was busy, doubling as it was now as a
television studio. Several men rushed about (one of them knocking
over the camera tripod, causing more activity to repair than was
necessary) in preparation for… what?

The
Commander, tuning out the disturbance around him, turned his
attention to Destro. Ah, Desstro. I havent had a chansse to
thank you for your rather mersssenary cashiering of Major Bludd.

A
Shakespearian reference if Destro had ever heard one (which wasnt
often; how many people were pompous enough to speak with
Shakespearian overtones?). But Destro was not Iago to the
Commanders Othello (and Bludd was certainly no Cassio). After
all, Othello
was written as a noble creature. No; if there was a living
embodiment of Iago, it was the Commander himself. And his Othello,
that noble creature he sought to discredit, undermine, and eventually
destroy, no matter the cost (and no matter if it discredit,
undermine, and destroy Commander/Iago in the process), was the world.

As
always, I serve Cobra, Destro answered impotently. Bludd was a
danger to us. It was my duty to report his disloyalty. Not
enjoying playing the lackey, he quickly changed the subject. You
are preparing to make a statement?

Obvioussly.

You
are moving forward, then? There is every probability that Bludd will
sell any knowledge he might have.

The
Commanders hooded head lifted in its version of curiosity. What
knowledge doess he have, Desstro?

Ah!
thought Destro. He
officially doesnt trust me. Good. Let it be in the open.
What Bludd may know, I cannot say.

Cannot
ssay or will not ssay?

The
ensuing moment of silence was interrupted by one of the Commanders
men. Everything is ready, Commander, he said before returning
to his tasks.

The
Commander shrugged. If Bludd knew anything important, he would
already be holding it over my head. Before we hear from him again,
he will sspend ssome time licking his woundss.

What
are your plans? Destro asked. His bluff had been called. He knew
for fact what the Commander could only suspect: Bludd could not stop
Cobra from undertaking this project. Destro had been careful not to
allow Bludd to remove anything from the greenhouse.
The one flower hed taken had been immediately given to Wildcat,
who had promptly turned it over to Cobra Commander. Destro had
quickly scrambled to recover from that embarrassing exchange. He had
distanced himself from (by turning in) Bludd and
his damnable agent. Bludd had escaped into hiding. Wildcat was
still in the employ of Cobra.

I
am moving forward, replied the Commander. And alsso I am doing
a bit of houssecleaning. We have alerted the Pentagon already. As
they move to sstop a few diverssionary activitiess, we shall do our
real work.

Destro
was appalled. You have alerted the Pentagon?

You
will be pleassed to know that I have taken your advisse regarding
Wildcat, the Commander continued. She is oversseeing one of
the diverssionary activitiess.

My
advice was to kill her, Destro spat. Not put her in a position
to cripple us further. If she is captured, she can lead them to this
base.

The
Commander gathered his speech from the conference table. I doubt
that will happen. She is one of mine now, he said with an eerie
confidence (an attitude that Destro had, until recently, taken for
fanatical blindness) that made Destro shudder (at least
inwardly). And if it doess happen, sso what? This base is
exsspendable. We could eassily evacuate. I have already had all
sscientific evidensse removed from here. The Odem ressearch team has
been relocated to a base even you dont know, dear Desstro.

Destro
had nothing to say, didnt know exactly what to think. His
estimation of the Commander had been shattered in a staggeringly
short period of time. Two weeks ago, Destro had been on the
threshold of world domination. Somehow – how did it happen? – he
had allowed things to slip bafflingly out of control, and he cursed
himself for it. Years of study of mythology could not better win his
sympathy for Sysyphus. Like that defeated man, Destro suddenly found
that having pushed that large boulder up that
impossible incline was all for naught. It would have to be done
again. And again. And again…

If
the Commander succeeded, there was little hope that Destro would have
a chance to unseat him. Like any truly desperate man, he could now
only rely on that one thing that was so elusive to those who needed
it most: Luck.

Knowing
that the last words were to be his, the Cobra Commander fixed a
steady, dark gaze on Destro. After tonight, they – that
faceless, evil entity THEY – will be powerlesss, he said
(Destro imagined a smile underneath the hood, but could not imagine
a face to which the smile might be attached). Let them come.

—–

Chapter
Twenty – Death

—–

Wildcat
stood with her back against a tree, her breath moving fast, her heart
moving faster. She had seen the two helicopters approaching. She
had hoped, at first, that they were hers. But as they came into
range, all hope had fled. She wished now that
she could flee, but there was nowhere to go, no way to get wherever
shed like to go (even if she had a particular place in mind).
There was no escape. The descending helicopters were marked with the
symbol of the U.S.A.F.

An
hour before, she and her twenty troops (her first command!) had been
transported (by similar helicopters; only in America could a company
be so powerful and fearless as to deal with both the government and
any organization determined on overthrowing that
government) to this place, an insignificant farming area, and dropped
off with a promise that once theyd had time to poison the crops,
their transport would return to pick them up. Open and shut. Easy.
Quick.

Once
settled on land, shed barked a few useless orders (everyone knew
their jobs) and turned her attention to the crates that contained the
poison. When the first one was opened, her mind warned that panic
was a possibility.

Empty.
A weight at the bottom to mask its emptiness.

But
she kept her cool and the second crate was opened. It was then that
whatever little bit of a soul she thought she had possessed shriveled
and cowered somewhere in her abdomen.

Empty.
Same as the other.

As
much as shed have liked something to race through her brain at
that point, nothing did. Like the crates, like her hopes, like her
future, her head had gone completely empty.

What
are your orders, maam? came a voice from somewhere.

There
were no thoughts in her head. How could there be anything, then, to
say? She didnt (couldnt) answer.

Maam?
The same voice. From that same somewhere.

And
then, like the bursting of a dam, thought returned in a drowning
surge. Not logical thought. Just pure, horrible thought. I
am expendable. I have gained nothing. I am blind. I am deaf. I
will not walk away from this god-damned, fucking place. I have
worked every moment of my life for this stupid end. I am dead.

She
heard a voice; her own, but disembodied: Theyre not coming
back. Theyve killed us.

Wildcat
had always imagined she would face Death with perhaps a wry grin and
a sarcastic demeanor, but when the helicopters came, with that damned
U.S.A.F. symbol, she realized at last how unprepared she was to deal
with Him. Too many things were suddenly
known to her. Chief among them was that to truly live, one must know
how it is to die. The idea circled in her mind. To
truly live, one must know how it is to die. One must know how it is
to die. How it is to die. To die. Die.

She
had killed. She had seen others die. But she had never herself
died. As a girl (that long-abandoned girl shed been once… When
was that? How long had she been a woman?), she had wondered about
such things as religion, afterlife, and reincarnation.
She came to the conclusion that reincarnation, at least, was a
fantasy. If she had died and been reincarnated, she would know it,
wouldnt she? Or at least have some vague instinct about death?
No, she had never died. And, if her latest reasoning was
to be trusted, she had never lived.

But
if Ive never lived, I am not living now. How can I possibly die?
There was some truth that was staring her in the face – taunting her
– and yet remained annoyingly elusive. This was the moment (moments?
How long did she have?) to unlock the meaning (if there was one) of
Life. It
shouldnt be this hard! Think, damn it! Think!

Helicopters.
The scattering of her men. Snapping gunshots. Shouts.

A
moment of swimming chaos. Another of lurching waking, a coming into
full awareness as if from a dream whose true power is not realized
until the thing is dispelled. She snapped her head up, hoping to
spot that one magical path out of this whole nonsensical
nightmare.

Instead,
she saw him.

Low-Light.

She
would not escape, but Fate would allow her to achieve one final
aching goal before sending Death to snuff her out. But the scene was
wrong. Low-Light stood about 30 paces away with his back to her. He
will see his death coming,
she decided. She would kill him to his face.

Wildcat
flattened her back against the tree. She took three quick breaths,
and then decided it was time to make her move. It was either that or
let her heart burst under the frenzied pressure it now found itself.

Freeze!
she called out, immediately dropping to one knee in a low crouch, in
case he disobeyed. She figured if he turned quickly and fired, he
would be aiming high, for the chest or above. Having to adjust his
aim would give her a slight timing advantage.

When
he froze as commanded, something in her head decided it was time for
a pressure change. Her left ear began to whine with a piercing ring.
Drop the gun, she ordered, hardly hearing herself over the
ringing in her ear. He slowly stretched his arm out
to the side, holding the sniper rifle pointing straight up. Resting
the butt of the gun on the ground, he then pushed the tip away. The
gun toppled to the ground.

Turn
around. Again, her voice was drowned out. She seemed to herself
an apparition, unheard to herself. Unfelt to herself.

Low-Light
turned and stood still. He was the lifeless statue hed always
seemed, the red goggles shielding any hint of humanity. Lifeless…
Her thoughts raced from one side of her brain to the other, and then
back again, playing a twisted game of Elude the Consciousness. But
if he is lifeless, how can I kill him?
And, of course, there was still the nagging thought: To
truly live, one must know how it is to die.
She was unsure if it was better to kill him (and provide him with
that elusive knowledge) or to die herself, thus learning what it
truly was to live. (But hadnt she decided that she was already
doomed to die anyway?) She opted for ACTION, which (she hoped)
would negate the conflict in her head (and maybe the ringing…).

She
took a step forward. He didnt move. Why?
she wondered. No!
I am in control here!
She took another step forward. Both of her hands were on her
pistol, which was leveled at his head. Her hands were surprisingly
steady. No
fear,
she told herself. I
will not be afraid.

Low-Light
realized who she was. The girl hed met at the bar. The girl
whod spared his life once. The one person he most identified with
in the world (though he didnt even know her name, and knew even
less about how she lived her life). What had he said
to her that night? Something about it not being too late? Ah, yes,
that was it. And then hed laughed inwardly about his words being
an elaborate lie. A lie? But for what? Hed nothing to gain from
such a lie. Not a lie, then. An inaccuracy, maybe…
No. Hed been right. He laughed inwardly now, for he could be
certain that he was, at least once in his life, right. But now he
faced a steadily-aimed pistol, finger ready at the trigger. He would
soon be dead, and there would be no record of his
one moment of lucid correctness.

I
will kill you, she said. I wont hesitate this time.
Low-Light wondered at her need to say such a thing. Did she not
realize that she was hesitating by taking the time to gloat?

He
watched (and felt… bored?) as something in her arms hardened, her
preparedness matching her desire. She was ready to kill. The guns
aim was true. This was it.

There
was a flash of light, a reverberating pop. The gun discharged.

Low-Light
flinched. But something went wrong. The bullets expected impact
didnt happen. Instead, the girl jerked backward, as though she
had been struck by the bullet meant to find him. When he had command
of his eyes again, he saw her falling, the shaft
of an arrow protruding from her chest.

It
took a moment for him to realize that he hadnt been shot. She
had. With an arrow. One of Scarletts. By the time hed
regained his breath and presence of mind, the girl was flat on her
back, her limbs splayed outward.

Low-Light
moved quickly. (At least, he assumed he must have, for he was
suddenly knelt beside her). Her arms were now bent inward, her hands
(having dropped the pistol) clawing at the arrow embedded firmly in
her chest. He closed his own hands over her wrists,
pulling them away from the arrow. Youll just make it worse.

Her
arms went limp. Her chest heaved with agony to draw in breath. The
arrow was in her lung, but she somehow found enough air to speak.
Youre supposed to die… not… me…

Scarletts
voice came from over Low-Lights shoulder. Ill get a medic.
And as suddenly as shed been there, she was gone.

I
wouldve done it… the girl gasped between sharp intakes of
air. Almost had you…

Her
arms tensed and Low-Light had to exercise a bit of force to keep her
hands away from the death in her chest. She gave in, being quite
overpowered.

An
odd hint of a smile touched her face. At the same moment, a surge of
dark blood pushed its way through her lips, trickling from the
corners of her mouth, forcing it into an odd resemblance to that of a
ventriloquists dummy. Aint war… hell? The last
word she spat in a rasping hiss.

Low-Light
answered honestly. Im not sure anymore what hell is.
Hell…
He found his thoughts fighting for recognition. I
dont know what hell is.
But he had an idea of heaven. Heaven
is a box in the ground. The pearly gates read cemetery, and
insect angels finally strip away all the unwanted flesh. Ill make
sure she gets there.
He believed it, promised it to himself with sincerity. Ill
make sure she gets there.

She
coughed. More blood (and something more solid). Her hand gripped
his with fading desperation.

He
felt his face tickled by its own hint of a smile. Save me a spot
when you get there.

Her
hand tightened further. I cant feel you, she managed to
wheeze.

He
pulled off his glove, then hers, and closed his naked hand around
hers. Keep trying. Medics on the way. He felt the sweat
and blood between their palms.

She
blinked, then pulled her eyes wide. They were glazed with death.
Her gaze flicked toward her feet. I have something, she said
in between sharp (and pathetically futile) inhalations. In my
belt…

What
is it? he asked.

Another
breath. Another. Then her dying eyes locked on his. Why cant
I kill you? It was a whisper. A question that would never be
satisfied by an answer.

Whats
in your belt? he pressed.

She
no longer had much power over the ability to speak. But she tried
anyway. Annuh… doh… Annuh… Cough. Blood. Life…

Antidote?
he asked, aware of his objectivity. For Odems poison?

Her
head moved. A nod? Yeah… Her chest lurched again in agony.
A final gush of deathblood preceded her last tortured utterance.
Life… And that was that. No more breathing, no more
movement. The eyes finally acquiesced into sightlessness. The
hand finally lost its need to grip his.

Medics
coming, came a womans voice. Scarlett, again suddenly nearby.
How much time had passed? How long had it taken for the girl to die?

Low-Light
released the girls hand and fumbled at her belt. He found a small
transparent bag containing a bit of something green. Must
be some plant,
he thought. Life…
He wiped his hand, and the last of the girl, off on his pants.
Slipping his glove on, he stood. Too late, he said, still
keeping his eyes focused on the open eyes of the corpse on the
ground.

You
knew her? Scarletts voice asked, still not quite penetrating
Low-Lights awareness enough to be precisely located. He still
looked at the girl. She was dead, but could not truly be lamented.
He had never known her to be truly alive. She meant as
much to him as he meant to himself. Which
is how much? How much?

I
was her, he said. Once. Yes, there was still something
twitching inside him. Something that itched. He was not dead
inside; the girl had been long dead inside. That she was bound for a
premature death was certain. Does
that make her more or less pure than me?
he wondered.

Im
sorry, Low-Light, Scarlett said. I had to do it.

Yes…
he inwardly agreed. Or
I might be dead. I am not ready to die.
It was a jarring realization. One hed never so distinctly
believed. There was no explanation for the sudden belief, no reason
on which to pin blame. But he could only admit that it was true.
For better or worse, he was not ready to die.

He
held out the bag containing the plant clipping, placing it in
Scarletts hand. Get this to Airtight. He might have a use for
it.

Scarlett
took the bag. She fixed her gaze on Low-Lights. Being so close,
she could see (slightly) through the red goggles. His eyes were
focused straight into hers with a mix of absolution and questioning.

Were
even now, you and me, he said.

A
life for a life. Scarlett knew then how untouchable Low-Light was.
Whatever she had thought of him was dispelled. He was, simply, a man
whose job was to kill. The thoughts in his head were for him alone
to think. There was no invitation for an outsider
to see into his murky soul.

She
watched mutely as he turned his back, retrieved his rifle, and walked
away from her. Alone. Into the night.

Where
he belongs,
she thought.

—–

END.

(June
2000 to January 2001)