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tamingthemuseTitle: The Absent Sting
Author: Martienne17
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Series: N/A
Character(s): The Director
Prompt: #287 - Surely the bitterness of death is at hand
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 773
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor am I making any money from them. I'm simply obsessed with them. :D
Author’s Note: Also written for Lover-100, table A, prompt 53. Denial
Summary: After the Director is convicted for his role in the Project he waits in vain for the mercy of death.
Among all the silly, inaccurate things I learned from the stories I absorbed as a child was the notion that a person could simply give up after learning his life’s quest is doomed to failure, give in to despair and slip into some kind of afterlife after a lifetime of futility. Mind you, I’ve never been one who easily gives in to failure, but after being jailed for my life’s passion, after seeing everything I built crumble in the face of government bureaucracy, after being forced to stand trial and answer for the minutia of each decision I made along the way; after failing her yet again; I was ready to admit defeat.
“Dinner time, Dr. Church.” A guard hovers outside my door. I think he has been assigned to ensure I arrive for meals; that or he has for some reason taken it upon himself to care whether or not I eat. I do not show any sign of reviving. See, Death is not so kind to a man like me, a man who perhaps deserves to acquiesce to its cold embrace. The ironic thing about today’s version of ‘justice’ is that I am free to roam the halls of the prison, to bring in such accoutrements of an ordinary life as I wish to help me feel comfortable here as I live out my last days in its halls. I only had my desk chair delivered to the cell—I chose it specially and I don’t see any reason to let that decision go to waste. At this time I have an elbow resting on one of the armrests, my chin on my hand. I don’t often move from this chair other than to stretch my legs and traverse my cell before returning to my seat. I have much to ponder, especially for someone who is trying his best to remind Death that I deserve its cutting scythe.
“Dr. Church, I won’t be leaving you here. I need to escort you to dinner.”
My eyes turn in his direction. He wears government-issue body armor, as though I would somehow cause a weapon to materialize and attack him. “If you could help me to stand,” I mutter. Cruel, to force me to rise and consume a meal when all I’m wishing for is to waste away. The guard comes and supports me as I rise painfully, my joints creaking and snapping in protest. Once I am settled onto my feet I begin to shuffle toward the dining hall.
The guard follows me. I’m sure attending to me is simply a job assignment to him. I glance to my side to see him watching as I make my way. “Do you know the story of Orpheus?”
The guard frowns slightly. “Sorry?”
I chuckle humorlessly and gaze ahead of me. “Orpheus. Defied the wishes of Hades to travel to the Underworld and rescue his love. Eurydice, her name was. You know that story?”
“No, sir, I’m not familiar with it.”
“Ah.” I continue to muddle ahead down the hall, listening to the soft scrape of my shoes on the concrete floor. I see the guard continue to look at me with mild befuddlement for a moment, then he seemed to banish the exchange from his mind and take up his usual posture. What an existence, ensuring the continued sustenance of the unwilling. Did he have any drive, any ambition, for something more? “I often wonder,” I say as we near the dining hall, “how she reacted when he came to rescue her.”
The guard seems confounded for a moment. “I guess she’d be happy,” he finally replies.
I stump forward, then turn to look at him. “I have this notion she’d curse at him for coming; tell him she didn’t need his goddamned help. Too stubborn, or too prideful. You agree with me? You think she’d send him off empty-handed just to prove a point?”
More confused than ever, the guard shakes his head. “No, I think she’d be grateful and leave with him.”
“Mm. A romantic.” I turn to continue, a cynical chuckle escaping my lips. “No, forced to go empty-handed, and then he wouldn’t be able to find the mercy of Death for himself. That’s how it should have ended.” I stop and address him one more time before going into the dining hall to procure my meal. “The world would be a lot better off if it weren’t for you romantics writing the stories.”
The guard falters before speaking. “Enjoy your dinner, Dr. Church,” he says, almost questioningly.
“If I must.” I turn and shuffle inside, leaving the bewildered guard behind.
Author: Martienne17
Fandom: Red vs Blue
Series: N/A
Character(s): The Director
Prompt: #287 - Surely the bitterness of death is at hand
Rating: PG-13 for language
Word Count: 773
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor am I making any money from them. I'm simply obsessed with them. :D
Author’s Note: Also written for Lover-100, table A, prompt 53. Denial
Summary: After the Director is convicted for his role in the Project he waits in vain for the mercy of death.
Among all the silly, inaccurate things I learned from the stories I absorbed as a child was the notion that a person could simply give up after learning his life’s quest is doomed to failure, give in to despair and slip into some kind of afterlife after a lifetime of futility. Mind you, I’ve never been one who easily gives in to failure, but after being jailed for my life’s passion, after seeing everything I built crumble in the face of government bureaucracy, after being forced to stand trial and answer for the minutia of each decision I made along the way; after failing her yet again; I was ready to admit defeat.
“Dinner time, Dr. Church.” A guard hovers outside my door. I think he has been assigned to ensure I arrive for meals; that or he has for some reason taken it upon himself to care whether or not I eat. I do not show any sign of reviving. See, Death is not so kind to a man like me, a man who perhaps deserves to acquiesce to its cold embrace. The ironic thing about today’s version of ‘justice’ is that I am free to roam the halls of the prison, to bring in such accoutrements of an ordinary life as I wish to help me feel comfortable here as I live out my last days in its halls. I only had my desk chair delivered to the cell—I chose it specially and I don’t see any reason to let that decision go to waste. At this time I have an elbow resting on one of the armrests, my chin on my hand. I don’t often move from this chair other than to stretch my legs and traverse my cell before returning to my seat. I have much to ponder, especially for someone who is trying his best to remind Death that I deserve its cutting scythe.
“Dr. Church, I won’t be leaving you here. I need to escort you to dinner.”
My eyes turn in his direction. He wears government-issue body armor, as though I would somehow cause a weapon to materialize and attack him. “If you could help me to stand,” I mutter. Cruel, to force me to rise and consume a meal when all I’m wishing for is to waste away. The guard comes and supports me as I rise painfully, my joints creaking and snapping in protest. Once I am settled onto my feet I begin to shuffle toward the dining hall.
The guard follows me. I’m sure attending to me is simply a job assignment to him. I glance to my side to see him watching as I make my way. “Do you know the story of Orpheus?”
The guard frowns slightly. “Sorry?”
I chuckle humorlessly and gaze ahead of me. “Orpheus. Defied the wishes of Hades to travel to the Underworld and rescue his love. Eurydice, her name was. You know that story?”
“No, sir, I’m not familiar with it.”
“Ah.” I continue to muddle ahead down the hall, listening to the soft scrape of my shoes on the concrete floor. I see the guard continue to look at me with mild befuddlement for a moment, then he seemed to banish the exchange from his mind and take up his usual posture. What an existence, ensuring the continued sustenance of the unwilling. Did he have any drive, any ambition, for something more? “I often wonder,” I say as we near the dining hall, “how she reacted when he came to rescue her.”
The guard seems confounded for a moment. “I guess she’d be happy,” he finally replies.
I stump forward, then turn to look at him. “I have this notion she’d curse at him for coming; tell him she didn’t need his goddamned help. Too stubborn, or too prideful. You agree with me? You think she’d send him off empty-handed just to prove a point?”
More confused than ever, the guard shakes his head. “No, I think she’d be grateful and leave with him.”
“Mm. A romantic.” I turn to continue, a cynical chuckle escaping my lips. “No, forced to go empty-handed, and then he wouldn’t be able to find the mercy of Death for himself. That’s how it should have ended.” I stop and address him one more time before going into the dining hall to procure my meal. “The world would be a lot better off if it weren’t for you romantics writing the stories.”
The guard falters before speaking. “Enjoy your dinner, Dr. Church,” he says, almost questioningly.
“If I must.” I turn and shuffle inside, leaving the bewildered guard behind.
