One Day More
Who: V
What: A literal suicide run.
Where: From the Fibonacci Museum to… somewhere in the East.
When: The Fourth of November.
Warnings: Character death.
The man who never stopped smiling stood by the side door, acutely aware of the bite burning in his leg and the deep itch around it. It felt as if his skin was trying to crawl away from the injury, struggling to do so despite the scar tissue which resisted most motion. He allowed himself a small sigh, and the next breath called his attention back to the vest he wore. It was heavy with explosive material, each small cylinder---of all those attached to the front, back, and both sides---contributing its weight. He held the detonator in one hand, its safety on; he stood staring at the motorcycle he had prepared.
It was the Type Six ‘Samurai Chopper’ Tony had given him over a year ago, and two packages of gelignite had been attached to each side with layers of tough packing tape. V had been thorough; he did not mean to die by his own half-measure.
This is where the dead live, in the space between
the sun and the stars, an empty horizon
in both directions.
He had thought of that piece of poem before.
He walked back to the machine, limping, all grace gone, and rolled it forward to the door. He still had some strength, although his hands shook and he was sweating wherever he was able. It was the fever.
it was the fire
‘Burning up,’ was one way to say it.
Anything would be better than the alternative.
The alternative.
The thought of it stirred up old anger and all the defiance which drove V to live and die as he had---and would. There could be no compromise, now or ever; he had never been made less than what he was, would not allow it, would not allow an exception.
He left, shutting the door behind himself and locking it. It struck him as he mounted the motorcycle---it was a strange thing, to think of Sartre.
‘There are those men who have lived as a negation---’
‘No,’ in the form of flesh and blood and bone and breath.
He held on to the idea; being familiar, it was a kind of comfort. For years---before the mask and after---he had defined himself by what he would not do (and by doing, be) and had never apologized. Even now, rumbling through the city streets, he felt he had nothing to apologize for---just his own fierce opposition to what he would become without action.
Ahead, he saw a crowd of walking corpses. There had to have been two dozen, maybe more; what mattered most was that the crowd created a target. V stopped for a moment, considered the figures before him, and flicked the safety from the detonator he still held. A moment more, and he drove towards them. They moved so slowly that they seemed to stand still, as if expectant.
No compromise. No corruption. No exceptions, no allowances, nothing else, and above all, nothing less.
He pressed the trigger when he was within arm’s reach of the first, trusting the full effect to the motorcycle’s momentum, and the world was obliterated by a blast of white heat.
What: A literal suicide run.
Where: From the Fibonacci Museum to… somewhere in the East.
When: The Fourth of November.
Warnings: Character death.
The man who never stopped smiling stood by the side door, acutely aware of the bite burning in his leg and the deep itch around it. It felt as if his skin was trying to crawl away from the injury, struggling to do so despite the scar tissue which resisted most motion. He allowed himself a small sigh, and the next breath called his attention back to the vest he wore. It was heavy with explosive material, each small cylinder---of all those attached to the front, back, and both sides---contributing its weight. He held the detonator in one hand, its safety on; he stood staring at the motorcycle he had prepared.
It was the Type Six ‘Samurai Chopper’ Tony had given him over a year ago, and two packages of gelignite had been attached to each side with layers of tough packing tape. V had been thorough; he did not mean to die by his own half-measure.
This is where the dead live, in the space between
the sun and the stars, an empty horizon
in both directions.
He had thought of that piece of poem before.
He walked back to the machine, limping, all grace gone, and rolled it forward to the door. He still had some strength, although his hands shook and he was sweating wherever he was able. It was the fever.
it was the fire
‘Burning up,’ was one way to say it.
Anything would be better than the alternative.
The alternative.
The thought of it stirred up old anger and all the defiance which drove V to live and die as he had---and would. There could be no compromise, now or ever; he had never been made less than what he was, would not allow it, would not allow an exception.
He left, shutting the door behind himself and locking it. It struck him as he mounted the motorcycle---it was a strange thing, to think of Sartre.
‘There are those men who have lived as a negation---’
‘No,’ in the form of flesh and blood and bone and breath.
He held on to the idea; being familiar, it was a kind of comfort. For years---before the mask and after---he had defined himself by what he would not do (and by doing, be) and had never apologized. Even now, rumbling through the city streets, he felt he had nothing to apologize for---just his own fierce opposition to what he would become without action.
Ahead, he saw a crowd of walking corpses. There had to have been two dozen, maybe more; what mattered most was that the crowd created a target. V stopped for a moment, considered the figures before him, and flicked the safety from the detonator he still held. A moment more, and he drove towards them. They moved so slowly that they seemed to stand still, as if expectant.
No compromise. No corruption. No exceptions, no allowances, nothing else, and above all, nothing less.
He pressed the trigger when he was within arm’s reach of the first, trusting the full effect to the motorcycle’s momentum, and the world was obliterated by a blast of white heat.