04-19-2014, 09:58 PM
Humans are not inherently logical beings. That was abundantly clear to Nicholas as he sat nursing a glass of whiskey in the near-darkness, the room's sole source of light emanating from his wallet's screen. The faces of the dead floated through the air, and Nicholas recognized one of them. With a wave of his hand, the image filled the air in front of him. Same bald head and beard, same vaguely mean expression. The man who tried to kill him. The man he killed. Some Arabic text at the bottom was likely his name. He couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.
Nicholas didn't know why he felt so guilty. He wasn't a murderer; the man had been trying to burn Reed and her friendly band of mercenaries to a crisp. Nicholas only intervened to protect, and it wasn't until the man tried to kill him that he fought back. Still, the paired crack and thud of skull and body that Nicholas couldn't possibly have heard over the distance and the crowd kept replaying in his head. Strange that he hadn't been so bothered with lying to himself, at the time.
He had seen death before, of course. It'd been part of his job to document it. But there was a thick line between passive observer and active participant, and in crossing it he felt quite the same as he had a decade ago when Brazilian guerrillas tried and failed to attack the São Paulo naval base in their own failed version of the Tet offensive. There was just something about that transition between living being and inanimate object that he found more than unsettling. Even if he'd gotten over watching it happen, he didn't think he could ever be comfortable with doing it himself. Did that make him a coward? He sighed, and took a sip from his glass.
Reed appeared in the doorway then, likely preoccupied with commands from one or the other of her icily warring masters. She'd probably want to know about what happened, though. Best to get to it.
"I had to kill someone today, Reed."
He paused. That was a bit more... blunt, than he had planned. "At the riot. He was shooting fireballs at you and the Legion."
He flipped around the wallet. "This one. Know him? I'd like to find out he's a violent terrorist or something so I can stop feeling like I'm the bad guy."
Nicholas didn't know why he felt so guilty. He wasn't a murderer; the man had been trying to burn Reed and her friendly band of mercenaries to a crisp. Nicholas only intervened to protect, and it wasn't until the man tried to kill him that he fought back. Still, the paired crack and thud of skull and body that Nicholas couldn't possibly have heard over the distance and the crowd kept replaying in his head. Strange that he hadn't been so bothered with lying to himself, at the time.
He had seen death before, of course. It'd been part of his job to document it. But there was a thick line between passive observer and active participant, and in crossing it he felt quite the same as he had a decade ago when Brazilian guerrillas tried and failed to attack the São Paulo naval base in their own failed version of the Tet offensive. There was just something about that transition between living being and inanimate object that he found more than unsettling. Even if he'd gotten over watching it happen, he didn't think he could ever be comfortable with doing it himself. Did that make him a coward? He sighed, and took a sip from his glass.
Reed appeared in the doorway then, likely preoccupied with commands from one or the other of her icily warring masters. She'd probably want to know about what happened, though. Best to get to it.
"I had to kill someone today, Reed."
He paused. That was a bit more... blunt, than he had planned. "At the riot. He was shooting fireballs at you and the Legion."
He flipped around the wallet. "This one. Know him? I'd like to find out he's a violent terrorist or something so I can stop feeling like I'm the bad guy."