Hello guys, here’s my submission for the seventh writing assignment in my class. It’s kind of abstract, but I hope you get it. It’s meant to be thought-provoking, and I hope you speculate on what “he” actually refers to, though I’m almost certain you’ll never work it out.
He lay back in the bed, his upper torso was unclothed, ready for the needles that were about to inject his body with a suppressant for his condition. He leaned his head in the headrest, grimacing as he pushed too hard against one of the retracted needles. A faint scar ran vertically down the front of his face, his throat, and across the center of his chest. Scars similar to that one also ran along the inside of his arms from the scar on his chest, and along each one of his fingers.
Once he was sure that he was in position, he telekinetically pressed the go switch. His whole body jerked forward violently as the needles all entered him at once, and if it was not for the restraints that had come on before that, he would have leapt from the chair. Then, as he started shuddering while the suppressant entered his system, a robotic hand lifted a mask from a nearby stand. His eyes went wide as memories of all that he had done came back to him. Then, as the masked lowered down towards his face, he screamed for the first time in his life.
The spy rose from the bunk in the D-cruiser. He gave a few experimental stretches, and groaned as his injured side protested loudly. He headed out of his room and down a hall. A few minutes later, he entered the bridge. He noticed the bridge officer staring anxiously at a display screen. In a moment, the spy was over by the officer’s side.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” the officer said, his gaze never leaving the screen. “A strange anomaly along our hull, but it’s unrecognized by any of the computers.”
The spy scanned the display casually, then his face hardened. “Quick, to entry point 4-O C. I do believe that we have some company.”
The bridge officer never hesitated, but it was already too late. The hull was blown open, and mechs poured in. The crew never stood a chance; they were shot down where they stood. Only the spy managed to escape the bridge to one of the emergency pods. He alone knew the importance of what he carried, and his escape was vital. He clambered into a pod, closed the door, then drew his handgun when he saw a bulky shadow move.
“D-don’t shoot,” a voice stuttered, as its owner stepped forward. The spy recognized him; the stranger was the chubby communications operator he had had a chat with a few days ago. “What is going on?”
“The cruiser is taken,” the spy growled. “Come on, help me get us out of here.”
He sat down in the pilot chair and began the disengage sequence. The communications operator sat down beside him. Once they were out of range of the cruiser, the spy turned to his companion. The operator was shivering uncontrollably with fright and shock. The spy knew he would have to do something, so he said, “What’s your name?”
“I’m Brom, yours?”
“I’m not allowed to tell you that, but you can call me Glak.”
“It’s the best I could come up with,” the spy said. Brom broke into nervous laughter at this statement. “Come on,” Glak continued. “If we’re going to live through this thing, we got to work together. It’s fortunate that we’re above a planet. Let’s see what we got.”
He rummaged through a storage compartment and brought out two blaster rifles. He tossed one of them to Brom, who miraculously did not shoot a hole in the roof as he caught it awkwardly. His fear had returned, Glak could see it, but there was a limit to what he could do.
The landing was fairly smooth, but they had no more than trekked five minutes away from the escape pod when they were beset by a battalion of mechanoids. Brom gripped the stock of the gun until his hands where white, as Glak began sniping down the mechs. Glak realized instantly that Brom would be no good in the fight, and decided to use him in another way. He winced at the word ‘use’, but that was what spies did, they used and manipulated people.
“Brom!” he called, but the communications operator seemed to be frozen to the spot.
“Brom!” he shouted again. This time, Brom heard him. “We’re sitting ducks out here in the open. Find us some shelter!”
A couple of seconds later, Brom called Glak over to a cave.
“This is pretty good,” Glak said, assessing the situation. “We can defend this place quite easily. Here, help me–”
Glak was cut off as a random blaster bolt came flying from the crowd of mechanoids below and went through his thigh. He fell to the ground with a thud. Brom instantly discarded his gun to run over to the spy’s side.
“I’m fine,” Glak said, through gritted teeth, pushing himself to his feet, but once he put weight on his wounded leg, he collapsed. He tried another two times, but collapsed each time.
“I’ll carry you sir,” Brom said, and hefted Glak onto his broad shoulders. He set off as fast as he could, panting with the effort.
The following mechs, seeing the predicament their fugitives were in, began firing rapidly. Brom grimaced as a blaster bolt seared its way through the fleshy part of his arm, and he nearly dropped his burden as he tripped over a stone, but his determination kept him plowing on.
Beads of sweat made gushing rivers through the layer of dust that had covered him. He had stumbled numerous times, but had miraculously managed to stay on his feet. However, his legs were failing him now, and he could only hope for respite. What he saw when he rounded the next corner rooted him to the spot. A steep slope presented itself, and Brom nearly gave in to despair. Then the thought of the man whom he carried, and his sense of duty to that person for saving his life, drove him on.
He desperately began climbing the slope. One, two, three times he tried. On the fourth try, he made it. He stumbled on for a few more desperate steps, then tripped, and fell hard. Glak looked around for options. He could see that the rock wall was weak. He knew that he could collapse it and put a barrier between him and the following mechs, but he did not have time. Brom had seen Glak’s look at the wall, and noticed his gaze travel to the explosives on the spy’s belt.
With a great effort, Brom heaved himself to his feet. “Permission to go back and take on the mechs sir.”
Glak studied the man before him. This no longer was the trembling officer he had met on the cruiser, this was the real Brom, faithful to the last. But Glak knew that Brom would not survive. Yet, he realized, it was vital that he escape.
“Here,” Glak said, handing Brom his handgun. “It will help when you run out of ammunition for that,” he indicated the blaster that Brom carried.
“It won’t make much difference,” Brom said, shrugging imperceptibly. “I won’t last more ’n three minutes anyways. Just make sure you get this blown down.”
“Also,” Brom said, as he turned to go, his voice cracking for the first time. “If you ever chance by my home planet, tell my Mom I never regretted joining the army.”
“I’ll be sure to,” Glak said, as he squeezed Brom’s hand firmly. The brave communications operator then turned and left. Glak instantly started setting his bombs. Subconsciously he realized that the constant firing of the mechs was now intermingled with the different sound of Brom’s repeating blaster. He blew the charges up a couple of minutes later. The roof collapsed noisily, blocking the path.
It was only then that Glak paused to consider his situation. ‘Brom was wrong,’ Glak thought grimly. ‘It has been more than five minutes.’ Glak knew that Brom felt no quails doing his duty– that he had made the right choice. Glak also knew that spies were not supposed to have any emotional attachments to anybody. They were to be levelheaded at all times, and to make necessary sacrifices. But this knowledge did not help him when the gunshots ceased and his tears started to fall.
He woke up with a jerk. The needles were retracted now, and the mask was fixed firmly in place. He had just relived all of his victims most prominent memories in less than an hour. That last one he had read from the mind of the spy, just before he had killed him a year later. He had been a murdering monster, but he was different now, the suppressants would hold, wouldn’t they?
Well, I bet you didn’t figure out, and I”ll reveal more in another post, but the basic plot is that “he” refers to a murderer who is trying to stop. He has a “condition” that causes him to go crazy for blood. The suppressant is to suppress that condition so that he can control himself better.
Disce Ferenda Pati – Learn to endure what must be borne