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"Alternative Directions: Options "Written By: Karina Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or the lovely
boys and their girls in the series. Wish I did. Please don't sue me.
I haven't even got a brass razoo to give you. Rating: Deffinately PG in Australia, at the moment,
but probably safer to say R for later chapters. Not sure about international
ratings Warnings: It will be 6x2, even though it does
not start out that way. After all, Zechs and Duo never met in Gundam
Wing and only spoke briefly over a com line in Endless Waltz. I've
tried to keep them in character as I saw them in the series. A bit
of language creeping in under stressful conditions. Pairings: eventual 6x2, past 2xH, 2+H,6x9, 1+R
Summary: Directions is set post Endless Waltz
and roughly 2 years have passed. Zechs and Noin are on Mars and Duo,
after spending some time with Hilde in a relationship leaves L2 to
join Preventers. Hilde was not happy about his decision. I guess enough
said. Here t'is, and I hope you like it. This is also AU for the standard
setting, as well as the series and Endless Waltz. Spoilers: Gundam Wing Series and Endless Waltz Many thanks to Dulin for volunteering to beta this. //... // thoughts
"Alternative Directions: Options" Chapter 180 Mars Colony Base Dome 2nd March AC 198 Time: 4:15 [Approximate Sanc Time 02:06] Noin Within the warmth of her protection she shivered. Awareness of self was awareness of existence. Her awareness had come slowly, almost gently. There was no blazing epiphany to terrify or startle her from her protection, there was simply a pleasant flush of warmth. With the warmth an awareness of the absence of light and the realization of being; the awakening of consciousness. She. She who floated within the cocoon considered the absence of light and the comfort of warmth, and the dawning sense of self. She wondered. Who was she? What was she? She? It was a clear designation but was it accurate? There was a sense of rightness about the idea of She as opposed to… He? The distinction and recognition of the concept of He as opposed to She required her consideration. It was a distraction from the tremor of awareness which suggested there was something wrong. There was something beyond the darkness enfolding her. Some ‘thing’ lurking beyond the warmth of her sanctuary. She sensed it when it moved, a sensation more than sound, a vibration against her cocoon. She and not he? He was wrong and she was right. She was she, not he because… because… Because ‘she’ simply was right. It fit. “You.” You? She was you? No, that seemed hardly right. She was the appropriate designation. She was not ‘you’. You was a designation used for another person, not for oneself. ‘You’ was someone else, someone other. She was I. I was she. Or me. She was me. Something within her consciousness jarred at the discord. It was wrong, this whisper of sound that invaded her sanctum and disrupted her peace. It was wrong and it forced her to think, to birth the idea of threat. It was an unwelcome demand for her attention. To be nestled within this dark warmth and protection was to be safe. Beyond this sanctuary lay… What? Here was good. Safe. Why would there, beyond here, be more? Or less. Why would there, should there be something beyond this cocoon? “You.” The whisper forced a shift in her awareness, demanded she stir herself from her comfort. It was uncomfortable to do more than languish within her cocoon. It was uncomfortable to think of something other than soaking in the warmth and security. Here was awareness, peace, safety, protection. To acknowledge the whisper of discord, the single defining word designating ‘other’, was to acknowledge there should be more in her existence. Her security receded, her warmth chilled and her discomfort gained a name, a designation. Unease. “You.” There it was again, a disembodied whisper of sound penetrating her security, disturbing her with his demand for recognition.. It was male. He. The realization surprised her and her warm safe darkness changed, a subtle variation flushed through her awareness. Darkness flushed through with… “You.” Red? “Your fault.” Red within the black, dark and deep; a rusted crimson splash like stale blood seeping into the comforting darkness. Fault? Accusation. He accused her. Of what? It was growing cooler within her shelter, though it was not entirely unpleasant as yet, merely disturbing. The darkness was not so deep about her, but it was disturbing purely because it was change. Instinctively she knew change was dangerous. Change disturbed her peace and drew her from her rest, and might demand she notice more than the warmth to be found within the darkness. “You.” “Your fault.” Beyond her cocoon there was movement. With the movement subtle undertones of red within the darkness surrounding her deepened. As the red grew, threatening dominance, the darkness thinned and the warmth that comforted her receded. Something was out there, beyond her security. It whispered and moved and it was… Malevolent. Danger. She was no stranger to the concept of danger, and the realization of the level of threat afforded by movement, further frayed the enfolding darkness into a tattered, rippling greyness shot through with deep red. Why was her safe world tearing apart around her? What was the threat lurking beyond her protecting walls? She needed to draw the comforting darkness about her and seek safety within its calming embrace. She needed to rest within the arms of Morpheus. Morpheus. To rest within his arms, to be surrounded by sweet darkness, warm and safe. To sleep. Her cocoon of safety was sleep. Sleep had been her salvation before, restful oblivion rendering dark and disturbing thoughts distant and unimportant. Why did it come and go, rippling in and out of her awareness like the restless tides of the ocean? Tides? Ocean? The rocky shores of Sanc, the thunder of storm driven waves and the cry of gulls. Memories. Memories, not dreams or even daydreams. Memories stirring and with them the darkness frayed a little more; lighter grey growing stronger, rippling about her. *“How do you feel, to be back in Sanc?” Crunch of a pebbled beach beneath booted feet and the restless surging of waves, water lapping inches from her feet. The sea was rising with the darkening of the heavens, a storm brewing to lash the coastline during the night. Not even the scent of brine could cover the unique scent of him. “It does not seem real, Noin.” “I know it has long been your dream to free your homeland. I would have thought it would feel wonderful.” “What I feel is… emptiness. Sanc may now be free, but it is not the Sanc I recall. There may never be a return to what was lost. Too much has changed.”* Memories, not daydreams and not dreams. Memories of a time long gone when she was free to walk a pebbled beach and feel the wind in her hair. To turn her face into the wind and allow it to captivate her with a promise of freedom. It permitted her to dream about long summer days on the pebbled shore, children laughing about her feet, his pale hair streaming in the wind. That was daydream. “It was you.” “Your fault.” Ripple of awareness stirring the grey, giving rise to a sound she did not quite recognize. It was familiar, a regular thumping, low and more felt than heard. Almost a vibration and with each pulse the ripple of change within her shredding cocoon grew more defined. Ripples of lighter grey interspersed with darker red. Fault? Her fault? Fault implied blame. Blame implied something she did not think she was ready to face. “It was you.” Why had her world turned from dark secure comfort to tattered grey? Where had the ruddy glow bleeding through her awareness come from? The blood trail was stronger, darker and deeper. Swirling, around and around, like the petals of a flower unfolding to drive away her security. That which might have been a dark coloured rose, became something dark and pulsing and throbbed like a living, breathing ‘thing’ from some dark nightmare. Like blood. Red like blood bleeding through her awareness. The rhythmic pulsing beat was a heartbeat; a heart pumping a bloody river into her world. She lay in a river of warm flowing blood. Panic thrust her up and out, driving her from the crimson bed in which she lay. “What happened to me?” “Why is there so much blood?” “Where is everyone?” Voices surrounding her. Not her own questions, not her voice. Whispering, husky broken voices surrounding her. “What happened to me?” Someone was moving near her. There was no mistaking the restless shuffle of footsteps. “What happened to me?” “Why is it so dark?” She dared not open her eyes to look. There was something very wrong and to open her eyes and see was to acknowledge it existed. She was afraid she did not want it to exist. Whatever it was. “What happened to me?” She wanted to hold her hands to her ears and close out the husky broken voice. She did not want to hear it. She did not need to hear it. “Bitch. You brought this on us and you refuse to see your handiwork?” They were all around her, they had to be. Not just one but many. She did not need to see whatever was out there. It was not real. “What more could one expect from an arrogant Oz sycophant?” Fear receded before her rising anger. Sycophant? Bitch? Who was casting aspirations against her? She did not need to stand here and take such insults from inferior lackeys. Just who did they think they were to dismiss her as a sycophant? Live in her shoes, see the world she had seen it, pay the price she had payed and perhaps then they might have cause to call her bitch, but sycophant? Never. She had her own mind, her own ideas and the will to attain. Eyes snapped open. The pulsing ruddy red glow was not blood as she had thought, but the steady pulsing of the emergency lights of the dome arching high above her head. Wide-eyed she looked above her at the gantry, watching the rhythmic pulse of the red lights, recognizing where she was. Base Dome. She had woken from her nightmare to find herself standing beneath the base dome. She must have been sleepwalking, something she had not done since she was a very young child. It was disturbing enough but given the rising stress lately she supposed it was hardly a surprise that she should entertain nightmares. //Why are the emergency alert lights on?// “What happened to me?” There is was again, that broken voice, asking the question she did not want to answer-but should that not be a part of the nightmare? There was movement near her, the shuffle of feet and rustle of fabric. The whisper was husky, the voice scratchy, as though long unused and it came from behind her. Sudden fear of being seen at less than her best was dismissed as irrelevant. She had been a Specials Officer and, though appearance was important, should circumstances require it running naked through the base would be overlooked. Specials officers were expected to meet every situation with personal pride and an aplomb that would put all others at least three ranks beneath her own. Dignity would be maintained if one stood naked in a crowded marketplace and simply refused to acknowledge one’s lack of clothing. Long gone, her days as a Specials officer, but the ramrod stiff back still remained to her and pride alone could clothe her. She would be wearing the sweats she customarily wore to bed, unless she had managed to interest her bed partner in nighttime games. Then let them see the sweat of passion well spent on her and grovel in jealousy. They all wanted him, envied her place at his side and in his bed. Glancing down to be certain of her dignity, she was more than surprised to discover herself clad in the uniform of a Sanc Imperial Guard. “What the…?” “What happened to me?” Irritation sparked into sudden unreasoning anger and she turned, sharp words dying on the tip of her tongue and becoming a horrified gurgle. “Help me.” Husky whisper. “Please.” Lost sounding, vague as though he did not know where he was or what he asked. A harsh croak. “I don’t understand.” Broken whisper, her voice thick and pained. “Why?” She was not alone beneath the dome. They shuffled about her, looking lost and confused. She had seen enough battle to have more than a passing acquaintance with death, but this… this was different. This was surreal. This was frightening. Blood stained the front of her work blouse, dripping in a continuous stream from the wound above her left breast. She shuffled past, a slow stumbling shuffle, sightless eyes staring unseeing. “What happened to me?” No one could have survived such a wound, yet the woman shuffled closer and the husky whisper she had found so annoying moments ago came again. “What happened to me?” Annoying had graduated to horrifying. “Oh...my...God.” Her eyes were blue but there was nothing bright and alive about them; they were filmed over, almost opaque and shadowed. Her eyes were hauntingly empty. This shuffling woman surely could not see. Her skin, once warm and lightly tanned, was sallow and her lips barely moved as she whispered, and they were blue. Blood dripped as she shuffled forward, a trail of bloody footprints in her wake. Gagging, certain she would be sick, she stumbled to one side and watched this sick parody of a woman she vaguely recognized shamble past. The mussed dark haired head did not turn to her, or acknowledge her in any way, and the corpse shuffled on. She was dead. She had to be dead. No one could survive such a wound. She was dead but she was walking, whispering again and again in her horrible husky voice. Endlessly asking what had happened to her. Stumbling backward in horror she turned, intending to run. She had seen death before, but never like this. This was surreal, otherworldly. It was not possible for the dead to be walking and talking to her. She was still trapped in nightmare. A broad back blocked her path, a bald head and broad shoulders in the jumpsuit favoured by the male population. She recognized him. Peter Mardal, mechanical engineer assigned to work with the maintenance unit modifying converters. Relieved she reached out and grasped his shoulder, turning him to face her. “Peter, what the hell…” The shriek died before it was voiced. She was no screaming, weak-kneed female, but this was almost enough to freak her out. Almost. She stumbled back, wishing she could immerse her hands in hot soapy water and scrub away the blood. Backing away from the man with the blood stained chest, a wide gash in his throat and a moaning gurgle his attempt at speech. It set her hackles up. He was trying to talk, shuffling, moaning and gurgling on his own blood. Reaction set in and she was running, fleeing from the horror of a world gone wrong. What was happening? What had she woken to? They were dead. It was horrible, unreal, the stuff of nightmares. A waking nightmare. A nightmare. Yes. She was in her bed and it was all just a nightmare. She would wake and find herself in bed… next to him. She would wake up and the first thing she would do was wake him, and he would understand her distress and make gentle love to her. He would love her and drive the horror of the dream from her. As she had done for him, countless times. It was just a nightmare. She had not been troubled by nightmares of the war since she had taken herself to his bed. His solid warmth was enough to keep the horrors at bay. She saw life when he was close, not death; not the past but the future. Why was she trapped in nightmare if he was there, beside her, warm and alive and deliciously sexy? There were more of them. Stumbling shapes in the bloody light. There seemed to be so many of them. Wherever she looked there was someone shuffling, stumbling on dead feet. “You!” There was nothing eerie about that parade ground bellow. “Oz bitch.” A sibilant hiss of rage and she spun, seeking who called her. Looking for the ones who were angry with her. “It was you!” They had not been standing there beneath the dome when she had run from the dead, she was sure of that, though they had been near to disturb her sanctuary and bring her into this horror. She staggered to a stop, backing slowly. He was a big man and his dark eyes were very much alive. Fire glared at her with a profound hatred. No one had ever looked at her like this. Not even during the war had she confronted this level of hatred. “It was your fault we came to this.” Turning she saw her second accuser. They both wore combat fatigues and they moved as though they knew what they were doing. He was glaring at her, dark eyes filled with the same unholy fire. Their eyes were not dead. Not lost. Their eyes burned. “You are to blame for this!” Venom dripped from his every word. “It was you.” He stalked closer, he hunter to she who was the prey. She backed to the side, placing both men within her vision, unwilling to turn her back to either. Edging slowly away from them, angling herself to keep them within her sight at all times. These two were dangerous. She needed to remember her training, or they would take her down. It was surreal, the bloody light of the dome and the walking dead surrounding her. She could see the smouldering remnants of what had once been the elevator block, belching poisonous fumes into the air. Beyond the elevator block she could see the Shuttle Control Tower which seemed oddly twisted, and everywhere there were shuffling half seen shapes in the gloom. She was surrounded by the dead. Was everyone dead? Everyone? Was he dead? Her terror receded beneath a surge of anger. She snarled at them, a wordless sound of warning to keep their distance. If they dared come closer she would kill them again. The realization of her thoughts stopped her, freezing her to the spot. Kill them… again? She had… killed… Taking to her heels seemed so attractive. She needed distance between herself and the dead. She needed a safe place to do some serious thinking. They wore combat fatigues and they were familiar, though she was certain she did not know them. She had killed sparingly in the war, training her pilots to survive… No, no that was wrong. Through the war, yes, she had been an Instructor, and had taught her students to survive, but this was the Base Dome on Mars. The war had never come so far as Mars. These men were soldiers and their fatigues were not those of Alliance Soldiers. Similar, yes, but not Alliance. Their faces even had a certain familiarity to her. She must have encountered them at one time. They were soldiers, and thus it would not be advisable to turn her back on them and take to her heels. Such stupidity could get her killed. Might she wake up now? She had identified a threat and the dead still walked. Why? Why could she not wake up? She dared to edge away. She knew the layout of the dome and knew there was not much in the way of cover. Edge away, watch them, and spare quick glances about her to determine if others were in her immediate vicinity, this was only a stop gap measure. There had to be more she could do. Don’t look at the gaping wounds. Why did so many people have wounds in their throat? These soldiers were unlike the woman and the engineer. Those two had been so obviously dead, their staring unseeing eyes left no doubt of their condition. These two, the soldiers, were likewise dead, though she could see no visible wounds to explain their condition. On an instinctive level she knew they were dead but they were on fire with… hate. They hated her. These soldiers hated her, but the other two had seemed so lost. Lost and confused. Why should two be lost and two be stalking her, waiting for an opportunity to bring her down? //What the hell is happening?// They were not following her, she realized, pausing to glance between the two men. They had been stalking her mere seconds ago but now they held back, allowing her to move away from them. She had been edging toward Hydroponics Dome Three and they had been stalking her, keeping pace with her. Glaring death at her. She had to be missing something. There were others closer now. Shuffling shapes in the bloody light. A few stood motionless, seeming to stare into the bloody light and always they had those unseeing dead eyes. There were so many of them. Wherever she looked there were the dead and there seemed a prevalence of knife wounds amidst the slaughtered. She could not truly be in the Base Dome. This location had to be a convenient subconscious projection, something familiar to give her a sense of bearing, but why would her subconscious choose here? Why the Base Dome? Why not the Victoria Base where there were so many dead whom she had failed during the war? Did the dead walk in Victoria Base too? She could understand if they did. Why could she not wake? It was beyond words, this horror she felt to turn around again and again and see the walking dead surrounding her. The scent of blood permeated the air, and the sounds of their shuffling punctuated their moans and questions. They sought answers she did not have and all she wanted to do was wake up. “You.” Accusation dripped from the word. In sudden terror the soldiers had circled her and managed to get behind her, she spun. No, not the soldiers, but a security guard she recognized. He had been assigned to the Central Control Tower. He was bloody ruin, his body riddled with gunshot wounds, blood covering him from head to toe. His eyes were that same cloudy, unseeing but staring gaze, but unlike the others she knew he could see her. She could feel the focus of his dead eyes and there was anger there, though not the raging hatred the soldiers directed at her. “You slut. You brought them here.” Why was everyone blaming her? What was she supposed to have done to be blamed for so many deaths? How dare he call her a slut! Rage sparked, submerging her fear and she sneered, hands raised to defend herself. He stood glaring with his dead eyes, his many wounds glistening with fresh blood and his hands clenched into fists. “You brought them here to kill us! You brought them!” From somewhere closer to the hydroponics dome a wail arose, high pitched, haunting, and despairing. A single word, made into a song of such hopelessness and despair it drowned her anger beneath its weight. “Why?” The dead wanted to know why the massacre. She wanted to know why too. Why could she hear the dead? Why could she see the dead? Why could she not awaken from this bad B grade horror movie? What did they want with her? What did they want from her? //This has to be a nightmare.// She could not answer their questions. She had no more idea of what was happening than they, but she knew the dead would not accept her plea of ignorance. “You are to blame.” He took a step closer, one single step in which he loomed large before her. “You brought this down on us.” She wanted to refute his accusation, to deny the blame lay with her for the massacre that had taken place beneath the Base Dome. She wanted to ask him questions, to ask someone questions, but all they did was accuse her and hate her. She wanted to ask who had come to kill so bloodily and indiscriminately. She wanted to know if he was dead. What of her babies? Why would no one talk to her, relieve her fears ? Her voice would not work. No words, no sound would come despite the ache in her to gain answers. Without a voice she could not ask questions, and she could not learn the answers they sought from her. His eyes, dead eyes, followed her; accused her. Reviled her. She backed away, careful steps to one side of him, unwilling to turn her back to him. He watched her, unmoving, only his eyes tracked her and accused her. He made no move to follow her, but even so she felt the demand she acknowledge her guilt. “I did nothing.” Where the words came from to deny him she did not understand. They slipped from her but left a bitter acrid taste in her mouth, and she ran toward the hydroponics dome rising to one side of her. The dead shuffled forward between her and the protection of the dome, cutting her off from what she hoped to make her protection. In mounting fear she turned aside, angling toward the Main Control Tower. She had taken all of three long strides before terror ripped through her. There was a change beneath the Base Dome. She could feel it, a menacing sensation crawled up her spine, teasing her with fear as it focused on her. It was there, somewhere near and it recognized her. Deepening anger permeated the dome. A profound rage that trembled in the air surrounding her, freezing her feet to the spot. It was somewhere near. It was focused on her and it wanted blood. Her blood. Not simply rage, but a pure unadulterated hatred. It was ice and it was fire. It grew stronger the longer she stood staring about her. It grew to suffuse the air, the ground, and the very clothes on her back. “It was you, bitch.” She threw herself to one side, away from the expected blow which did not come, but he was standing close, glaring his hatred. His eyes burned fire into hers, but it was not from him the hatred emanated. There was hate in him, but his hate was insignificant in comparison to this building fury. Hatred, anger, pure venom and a thirst to rend her limb from limb. His rage was different, very real and more focused than it had been, but now there was a desperation there had not been minutes before. “I have family! I have a wife and son who need me and you killed me!” His scream was almost a wail and she took a cautious step away from him. She was unwilling to confront him with this other more volatile focus on her. He blamed her for his death and somewhere deep inside of her, she had the uneasy feeling his accusation was valid. There was no use denying she felt a certain familiarity when she looked at this man. Whether it was his voice, or something about his appearance, she was uncertain, but she knew she knew him. She had at least seen him somewhere in the recent past, perhaps spoken to him, but where and when? He did not wear the uniform of the Alliance and he was certainly not a Specials Officer, nor was he of a lower Oz rank. Combat fatigues were not the uniform assigned to the security service on Mars, and everything about him screamed career soldier. “I may not have a family I was forced to leave behind, but I had a life… friends. You took that away from me.” The second soldier. She dove sideways, rolling back to her feet with them safely within her field of vision. They were fire-eyed and radiating murderous rage, their hatred and loathing of her unmistakable, and she sidled backwards, intent on getting away from them. She needed more distance. Could she fight what was already dead? There was a greater threat coming, though she could not place a name to it. It was there, radiating hatred and the desire to kill messily. It radiated blood lust and it was not these men, but they menaced her too and how did one fight the dead? “Running? You never ran away before. You leaped in to kill quickly enough before.” The soldier claiming a family stalked forward, poised for melee, intent on her. “I will teach you what it was you deprived me of. They were everything to me!” She would learn soon enough if she could take down the dead. If they could attack her, do her physical harm, then surely she could attack them. “No! She is mine. She must pay and I will make her pay.” //Oh goody. They intend to fight over the right to rend me limb from limb?// Was it possible to reason with the angry dead? She wanted to talk to them. She needed to speak to them, to learn what was happening. The secret of this nightmare lay with the dead, but how did one get the dead to surrender information? Those dead she had spoken with did not seem inclined to pass the time of day, let alone inform her of the rules of engagement in this warped version of reality. They were edging closer, moving apart, attempting to circle her and she could not permit it. She must keep them in her line of sight, or they would take her down. “I was obeying orders!” The first snarled at her, slinking further to one side, forcing her to dance backward to keep them both in her sight. “We were obeying orders.” He growled, stepping and speaking slower than his fellow soldier, his fists clenched, eyes burning. “Recon. Look the place over, check out the layout. No direct contact. Do not engage. Recon only.” She knew that face, if not his voice, though it too was familiar. Who he was and when they had met would not come to her, but she knew that recognition was closer now. “We had orders and like good soldiers we obeyed them. Look. Learn the lay of the land. Place people and faces. Do not engage.” A queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach, the sense of recognition stronger now. With it the feeling she had somehow been at fault. “No contact. Recon. Do not engage. Did you give us time to acknowledge your presence? We had no time to breathe, only die.” “Murderous bitch. You never gave us a chance.” They were moving further apart, flanking her and forcing her further and further back, but how far back could she go? There were other dead wandering around, and what if they too attacked her? What if that other lurking, ravening ‘thing’ that was pure hate fell upon her while they kept her distracted. “You moved in for the kill without thinking.” “You murdered us.” “Oz Specials officer. A disgrace to the uniform, to attack without provocation. Didn’t the vaunted Specials pride themselves on their nobility of action?” No. No, this was not right. They were wrong. It was all wrong. She had murdered no one! “Murderer.” From somewhere behind her a chorus of voices rose in a ragged chant. Murderer. Murderer. They damned her, condemned her, gave her no opportunity to defend herself. Ragged, rasping, dead voices whispering endless accusations. “Did you give us a chance?” “Specials bitch. Full of your own righteousness. The always superior Specials.” “Murderer. Murderer.” “Fucking Nobles of Oz. Always thought they were better than anyone else.” “Murderer. Murderer.” “All praise the murdering bitch who even betrayed the tenets of the Specials.” “Murderer. Murderer.” They were closer. When had she stopped moving? Why had she stopped moving? Her feet did not want to work and she needed to run. They were too close. “Murderer. Murderer.” Moaning haunting whispers filling the dome, feeding that ravening hatred separate to her accusers. Goading it to new heights of rage. “Murderer.” “Order of the Zodiac.” Full of hate and spite and a bloody wad of spittle landed at her feet. “A bunch of killers, the same as everyone else. Blue-blood killers, but killers nonetheless.” “Murderer. Murderer.” “Kill and move on, forget about the dead. They are of no further consequence. They are just dead.” “Won’t work, Specials bitch. Merquise’s whore. The dead don’t forget.” A sibilant hiss. They were wrong. They were wrong and death had warped them, taken their human understanding and replaced it with a cold emptiness. They could not understand the living. They saw things only from their warped and twisted perspective, and she had to remember that and not permit them to out psyche her. She had never committed murder in all of her years as a Specials Officer. She had honoured the Specials oaths and killed only in battle and in defence of innocence. She had killed, yes, she would not deny it. She had killed for the peace, for the future. She had killed to defend the innocent. She had killed to bring about a better world for everyone. She had not murdered. “Afraid?” “You should be.” She wanted to scream at them to leave her alone, to shut up. No sound; again her voice would not work. She could not speak; she was voiceless and defenceless against the accusing dead. “Do you not know us, even now?” “Have you not recognized your own handiwork?” “Murderer. Murderer.” “Do you know who we were?” “We were following orders.” “Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.” Over and over again, rasping dead voices, condemning her, blaming her. Punishing her. “Did you think of anyone other than yourself?” “Do you ever bother to think of anyone but yourself?” Circling her again, step by slow step. Forcing her body to move backwards, though each stumbling step was harder than anything she could ever remember doing. If she could keep them in sight she might retain the upper hand. She needed to block out the accusations, find a solid shelter for her back and then she could face them. She would have to face them before that other vibrant hatred descended over her.
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