Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: Lividium II
Word Count: 611
Author's Note: So this is an alternate version of my Lividium piece. The challenge was to examine a decision that a character made, and write the opposite choice. [Random babbling that kind of spoils this section and potentially a change of canon]I've been thinking a lot the last couple days about what would have happened had Keenan not chosen the Lividium injection that saved his life (or fucked it up royally, depending on your point of view) - and what Mason's reaction would have been. Because no matter the promises you make, how easy would it be to put a bullet in your best friend's head? So of course, in the process of writing this I started reflecting on Keenan's character (especially the fundamental differences between his pre- and post-Lividium mindsets) and realized that no matter how much Keenan didn't want to die, there's very little chance he would have accepted the drug to live. So this "alternate" section may very well end up being the canon, once I have some more time to think on it.
It's been five minutes.
The gun burns against your skin. Everything burns under this sun, in this heat, through this fever that boils your blood. You try to keep your eyes straight ahead, try not to stare at the grotesque parody of a human twitching at your feet, dead for the second time. You don't want to remember that mistake, because look at what it got you. A chunk of flesh missing and your best friend ready to pull the trigger.
"Take it," he tells you in that shaking voice, and holds the syringe out to you. The drug is a deep, muddy red, like bad blood.
"No," you say.
"Kee, I'm not fucking around, alright?" He's trying to sound firm, angry even, around the tremor in his voice and the shake of his hands. "Take it."
Six minutes.
The Lividium isn't yours to use. He knows that as well as you do. You're just the expendables hired to transport it, the only sons of bitches crazy enough to make the trek through the Dead Zone. Nobody cares if any of you live or die, except Mason, obviously, because that desperate look is creeping across his face now.
But you've seen what it does to people. It doesn't cure, there's no cure for the disease. It makes people fearless, makes them crazy, makes them suffer through the fevers and the sickness like a torturous withdrawal that goes on for the rest of whatever pathetic life they have left.
"Please, man, don't go like this," he begs.
Seven minutes.
He's prepared to kill you. He doesn't want to - you can see that much on his face, clear as day - but he will if you tell him to.
You're shaking, now. Your stomach is rolling, heaving. It's taking most of your willpower to stand.
The summer sun is fucking merciless.
"We gotta go, Mase," one of the guys calls, that awkward reminder that you're still in the Dead Zone, that the thing at your feet is only one of thousands, that you don't have the time to stand around. The entire crew stares at you with a sort of piteous awe and respect.
"You hear that?" Mason says quietly. "We need to go."
Eight minutes.
"Then you're leaving without me," you hear yourself say, even though part of you is screaming, screaming that you don't want this.
"I'm not gonna let you turn into one of those things."
"And I'm not going to be one of those things," you say, and point at the syringe. "So do what you gotta do."
He sets his jaw and presses the gun so hard against your forehead you're convinced your skull will split, spill your fevered brain out onto the dirt. Part of you wishes it would, or that he would pull the trigger, or something, just to let this be over.
Nine minutes.
You close your eyes out of reflex, and this is where he sees his opportunity, because suddenly the gun is gone and there's a sharp sting of a needle jamming into the meat of your shoulder. You don't even have time to process it before he tosses the empty syringe to the ground. You can't even think before the drug blasts its way through your body. Your legs buckle and he catches you before you can hit the ground, and suddenly there are people surrounding you, faces that should be familiar but swirl crazily in your distorted vision, you're being lifted and carried and your hands clutch and grab for purchase as the world tips and spins.
"I got you, kid," he whispers, and his quiet voice is thunder in your ears.
Word Count: 611
Author's Note: So this is an alternate version of my Lividium piece. The challenge was to examine a decision that a character made, and write the opposite choice. [Random babbling that kind of spoils this section and potentially a change of canon]I've been thinking a lot the last couple days about what would have happened had Keenan not chosen the Lividium injection that saved his life (or fucked it up royally, depending on your point of view) - and what Mason's reaction would have been. Because no matter the promises you make, how easy would it be to put a bullet in your best friend's head? So of course, in the process of writing this I started reflecting on Keenan's character (especially the fundamental differences between his pre- and post-Lividium mindsets) and realized that no matter how much Keenan didn't want to die, there's very little chance he would have accepted the drug to live. So this "alternate" section may very well end up being the canon, once I have some more time to think on it.
It's been five minutes.
The gun burns against your skin. Everything burns under this sun, in this heat, through this fever that boils your blood. You try to keep your eyes straight ahead, try not to stare at the grotesque parody of a human twitching at your feet, dead for the second time. You don't want to remember that mistake, because look at what it got you. A chunk of flesh missing and your best friend ready to pull the trigger.
"Take it," he tells you in that shaking voice, and holds the syringe out to you. The drug is a deep, muddy red, like bad blood.
"No," you say.
"Kee, I'm not fucking around, alright?" He's trying to sound firm, angry even, around the tremor in his voice and the shake of his hands. "Take it."
Six minutes.
The Lividium isn't yours to use. He knows that as well as you do. You're just the expendables hired to transport it, the only sons of bitches crazy enough to make the trek through the Dead Zone. Nobody cares if any of you live or die, except Mason, obviously, because that desperate look is creeping across his face now.
But you've seen what it does to people. It doesn't cure, there's no cure for the disease. It makes people fearless, makes them crazy, makes them suffer through the fevers and the sickness like a torturous withdrawal that goes on for the rest of whatever pathetic life they have left.
"Please, man, don't go like this," he begs.
Seven minutes.
He's prepared to kill you. He doesn't want to - you can see that much on his face, clear as day - but he will if you tell him to.
You're shaking, now. Your stomach is rolling, heaving. It's taking most of your willpower to stand.
The summer sun is fucking merciless.
"We gotta go, Mase," one of the guys calls, that awkward reminder that you're still in the Dead Zone, that the thing at your feet is only one of thousands, that you don't have the time to stand around. The entire crew stares at you with a sort of piteous awe and respect.
"You hear that?" Mason says quietly. "We need to go."
Eight minutes.
"Then you're leaving without me," you hear yourself say, even though part of you is screaming, screaming that you don't want this.
"I'm not gonna let you turn into one of those things."
"And I'm not going to be one of those things," you say, and point at the syringe. "So do what you gotta do."
He sets his jaw and presses the gun so hard against your forehead you're convinced your skull will split, spill your fevered brain out onto the dirt. Part of you wishes it would, or that he would pull the trigger, or something, just to let this be over.
Nine minutes.
You close your eyes out of reflex, and this is where he sees his opportunity, because suddenly the gun is gone and there's a sharp sting of a needle jamming into the meat of your shoulder. You don't even have time to process it before he tosses the empty syringe to the ground. You can't even think before the drug blasts its way through your body. Your legs buckle and he catches you before you can hit the ground, and suddenly there are people surrounding you, faces that should be familiar but swirl crazily in your distorted vision, you're being lifted and carried and your hands clutch and grab for purchase as the world tips and spins.
"I got you, kid," he whispers, and his quiet voice is thunder in your ears.