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Duty. Always duty. With that thought long years
of discipline kicked in and he forced himself to his feet, swatting the control
to cancel the alarm. With a muffled curse he entered his washroom and stood
beneath an icy spray of water, feeling life and purpose flood back into him, but
he knew it was only temporary, soon enough it would be leached from him, as it
was each day. He turned the water to warm and started his cleaning routine. His
life had come down to routines now; it was the only way he could get through the
day. Don’t think. Act! Obey! His
life before now had never been an easy one but it was consistent, he knew his
duty and followed his orders. Now his life would never be the same, he was
trapped, for better or worse. The only problem was, he found it hard to believe
his life could get any worse, or that it would get any better. So he was
trapped, forever, no one would take him now, he was viewed as contaminated no
matter what was said officially. Forever trapped with
him. He
shuddered at this thought and turned the water back to iciness for the final
jolt of stimulus it provided. He walked into his room with a determination, this
time, this day, was going to be different. He was going to be different. If
nothing else would change then he must, he couldn’t go on like this. As
he entered his quarters proper he caught sight of himself in a mirror. He barely
recognized himself. His service rendered through duty had taken its toll. His
cheeks were sunken, his whole demeanor almost unrecognizable to himself, an
eerie echo in fact of his commanders. But a false echo. He stared at himself in
disgust, finally seeing what he had denied himself sight of for so long now,
what others must see when they look at him. He
saw his face twist into a sneer and for a second it was no longer his own face
but HIS! Even his self loathing was
denied to him, twisted in the image of another. He deliberately turned his head
away from his reflection, trying to push it out of his mind.
He
dried himself with precise and mechanical movements before pulling on his
uniform, talking to himself, psyching himself up to affect this change. To face
his nemesis with courage and determination. To show that he would not be cowed.
To deny the changes in himself. To regain his true self. He
jerked his uniform into precise regulation alignment and strode for the door,
opening it and marching down the corridor. Looking neither left nor right.
Ignoring
the looks of sympathy or disgust from those he passed. They didn’t understand; if
it wasn’t him it might be them. They should be thanking him for his sacrifice on
their behalf, but no. All he got was scarcely disguised scorn. All the while he
could hear ‘contaminated, contaminated’
being whispered in the back of his mind, just barely loud enough for him to
hear no matter how he tried not to. But
that would change soon enough. He was different; he could feel it, the strength,
the courage flowing through him, filling him. Readying him for the coming
battle. He came to a halt outside a door. His door. He turned and stood for
several microts, readying himself then he raised his hand to the door
control. The
door slid open before his hand even touched the control. And a voice rang out,
chilling and precise in its diction. “Come in Braca, you're late.” And with
those few words his courage fled, his strength abandoned him to the less than
tender mercies of his master, Scorpius. He closed his eyes even as his body
jerked to obey, all that was going through his mind was, ‘tomorrow, I’ll be stronger tomorrow’. Fin |
