Journal / Solitary Confinement / Make It Stop (like Crying Out In Empty Rooms, With No One There Except

journal / solitary confinement / make it stop (like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon)

They let her have a pencil and a pad of paper. As if she wasn't at risk of stabbing herself with the sharpened tip. It confused her. Weren't people in solitary confinement considered a threat to themselves and others? Yet they offered her a weapon - the pen, mightier than the sword, easily concealed and just as lethal when wielded with accuracy and force.

A pencil was just as dangerous as a pen. And she would be ruthless with either in her hand. Even the stack of paper could be used against her enemies or against herself. Crumpled up and stuffed down a throat. Or perhaps offering the death of a thousand cuts - paper cuts, that is.

Yet here she was, separated from the rest of her squadron, locked up on her own with only a pencil and a pad of paper.

She ignored the objects for days. As an only child, she was no stranger to loneliness. Born a military brat, her parents had been busy all her young life and moved her from base to base as their skills were demanding first in one spot and then another. She never made friends. But she did learn a host of fighting styles and self defense techniques.

And then in due time she joined the very service that resulted in the deaths of her parents. Life was hard, life in war times was harder. She'd thought it fate that brought her to Titan for the second war - the very place her parents had met their end.

And she fell in love. Hopelessly enthralled with a man for the first time in her life. An affection somehow reciprocated. Their time together was brief but made all the sweeter by the impermanence of their affair. They made the most of each and every moment they could steal away together.

In a world of sandstorms and trench warfare, they found a guiding light within each other. And when the illness swept through the camp, they clung closer than ever to each other. Fellow soldiers disappeared into the medical bay for testing, or vanished entirely into the dust beyond the boundaries they'd established against the enemy.

Not that anyone really knew who the enemy was. Ganymede forces? Venusian armies making a play for the moon? There were so many contenders, so much controversy. And the mysterious sickness running rampant through the barracks.

Was that why she was being kept alone now? Was she somehow contagious?

Her thoughts began to spiral after a week - or was it longer? It was impossible to tell. There were no windows. There were no set meals, just rations appearing whenever she fell into a troubled sleep.

There was just the pencil and the pad of paper.

Eventually she began to write just to see words in the world again. Language was important. Communication was crucial. She had no one to talk to so she had to maintain her mental grip somehow.

Some days she even tried her hand at drawing. Long thick hair, strictly against regulation. Dark eyes in a handsome face. Lips she longed to kiss once again.

Was he still alive? Had he succumbed to the virus?

Was she still alive? Or was she in some sort of purgatory?

There were no answers. No sounds made it through the thick walls of her prison cell. No one ever came to the door when she was conscious. She was alone in the room. No one there but the walls around her, the ceiling above her, and the floor below. Her safe little box where she was the only thing in existence.

Days passed, nights passed, she had no concept of time.

One day she awoke to find herself surrounded by butterflies. Thousands and thousands of silently flapping wings. They were innumerable. She couldn't understand why she was unable to touch them when she reached out. Why she couldn't hear the sound of their fluttering.

They flitted to and fro in her vision for hours or days or longer.

They were all she could see. Were they even real? Had she gone mad?

They were in the room when she woke and when she fell asleep. Beautiful creatures but horrible company. And eventually she couldn't stand it anymore.

The silence of her cell. The aching loneliness of this endless solitude. The presence of the butterflies.

Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop!!

And then she awoke to find herself in the infirmary of a transport ship. Voices speaking all around her. Kind eyes regarding her from behind masks covering noses and mouths.

There were no butterflies.

She was on her way home to Mars, she was told. The war was apparently over. Her service had been appreciated. No, the rest of her squadron was not there on the ship. No, there were not other soldiers either. No, there had never been a man on file by the name of Vincent.

Bewildered and apparently betrayed by her own mind - or whatever chemical warfare she'd supposedly been victim to - she was left back on Mars with more questions than answers. Cut loose from the military, they offered her a glowing reference and sent her on her way.

Nicotine

Music poured from the tinny speakers of the RedTail as Faye piloted her vessel from the protective hull of the Bebop and into the vast starry expanse that spread out before her. Jupiter loomed large straight ahead, an enormous ball of gas that could never offer a home to humanity. It was starkly beautiful. The russet tones and cream colors made her crave a coffee and a cigarette like no one’s business.

Maybe she’d be able to find a cafe somewhere down on Callisto.

From what she’d overheard Jet explaining to Ed about the various moons circling the gas giant, she had her doubts but in the long run she didn’t need some fancy espresso shop… a hole in the wall bar would have the capability of producing a shitty cup of java and she could pair that with the cigarettes she’d stolen from Spike’s room.

She had been feeling spiteful about his words back on Ganymede, so she had stolen his jacket and his smokes and then all the measly money from the safe. As an extra ‘fuck you’ she’d even emptied the radiator of the Bebop of anti-freeze so the others would have a sweltering couple of hours to bemoan her absence.

The music playing suited her mood for the moment, though she knew she’d be crashing emotionally soon and would have to find a way to wallow in her woes. For now she’d take the anger and the satisfaction of escaping before she could get bogged down in affection. There was too much potential for hurt there, too many chances to get taken advantage of. She refused to be that vulnerable ever again.

She’d done a cut and run. Flee before they can abandon you. Burn up, don’t fade away. Leave a scorch mark on their memories that they can’t erase.

Part of her, an irritatingly loud-voiced part, desperately wanted them to follow. To chase after her and assure her that she was desired on the ship. That she was wanted and needed and appreciated. That she had a home if she’d like to consider it such.

A louder part of her was raging at how complacent she’d allowed herself to become. How she’d been poisoning herself by staying on that smoky ship. Haunted by the lanky cowboy who shared space with her, shared vices with her… tormented by the unfortunate crush she’d developed on that stringbean asshole who seemed so infuriatingly indifferent to her presence. She hated these feelings… the joy she felt in his company, the arousal she felt when he smiled at her, the way his opinion mattered.

She wanted him. Wanted his rough hands to caress her body, wanted to feel his sinewy muscles beneath her own fingertips, wanted to shove him down on the ugly yellow couch and have her wicked way with him. Wanted to make him gasp and moan and scream out her name.

She hated it. She hated him. She had to get away.

Lighting up one of his pilfered cigarettes, she tried to push him from her mind as she angled her vessel towards the icy little moon that Jet had warned Ed about. The one most dangerous, full of criminals and with an environment as hostile as the populace. It sounded like the perfect place for her to get her kicks. Literally. She needed to purge some aggression and kick some ass.

Angel With A Shotgun

He was throwing them to the wolves. Making the most foolish mistake a syndicate man could make. He was forcing her hand and burning all his bridges and she couldn’t stop him from any of it.

Love was cruel. It was paralyzing. It was a hindrance and a hassle and it was what kept her up at night as she ran her hands through his unruly mop of hair. It was what made her smile that Mona Lisa smile that he adored. It was what whispered to her in his absence, suggesting possibilities that couldn’t be real… slyly hinting at a future that couldn’t be true.

Love was evident in his touch upon her skin, in the passion behind the kisses he pressed to her mouth and all up and down her body. Love glimmered in his eyes and poured from his lips. It was intoxicating and enthralling and buoyed her spirits when she grew exhausted by the burden of their brutal livelihood.

She hadn’t been trained to be a warrior, not the way he had been honed into an instrument of destruction. But she’d been taught how to shoot and how to drive and how to play a man like a fiddle. She knew her own strengths and she knew his weaknesses and how to protect him when he didn’t even know to shield himself.

His great escape plans were simple yet grandiose. Feasible yet impossible.

But she would do her utmost to see them both through this. To emerge, ideally unscathed, on the other side of this doomed love affair.

She would fight her way back to him someday.

He was all she truly knew of love and all she knew of hope. He wanted to dream a little dream of her, with her, for her too… well, she wanted all that and more. And if it meant running now… then she’d gladly give up her place in this rotten world. She’d throw caution to the wind and risk it all just to have the chance of meeting up with him again someday…

She was an angel with a shotgun and she wasn’t afraid to kill to get her way.

overcrowded ER / outnumbered / it's all for nothing

Spike irritably pushed through the crowd, taking as much care as possible to keep from jostling the wounded woman in his arms. All for naught, of course, there was no avoiding being knocked around by the sheer mass of humanity gathered in this overcrowded ER.

Paramedics maneuvered through the commotion and tried to sort which desperate cases to send where. The nurse's station was overrun with people demanding aid, the doctors in the ER outnumbered by the volume of need. It was insanity.

Faye coughed and flecks of blood stained her lips and his shirt where her head was lolling against his chest. Panic flared through him at the sight of the bright red drops.

"Dammit!" He glanced around until he saw someone who didn't look dazed or anxious. "Hey! You a local? Know if there's any other hospitals around here?"

The man looked thoughtful for a moment. "There's a walk-in clinic over by the college. And, well, the college itself has some kinda medical section - I think they teach nursing over there anyway." He shrugged.

"Thanks," Spike muttered as he started to make his way towards the exit.

Faye stiffened in his arms. She twisted to press her face into his chest. "Hurts… breathing…"

He grit his teeth. "I'm sure it does, Faye. Just hang on, okay? I'm gonna get you some help. This place is overwhelmed because of that bridge collapse."

Finally breaking free of the jumble of injured people swarming the building, Spike hastily made his way down the street in the direction of the school. Faye had fallen silent though he could tell she was still breathing shallowly.

A walk-in clinic wasn't the best solution but it was the only option he really had. He found himself wishing he still had the car they'd hotwired earlier to chase down the bounty, but being in the vehicle had led to getting in a crash when the world started crumbling all around them. A car would've gotten them to the walk-in quicker but a zip craft would have saved them from this scenario entirely.

Next time he'd insist they bring her ship with its remote activation and recall. Next time he'd keep a better eye on the structural surroundings of the environment they were in. Next time…

He hoped this walk-in clinic wasn't jam packed like the ER had been. If this race against time didn't pan out… if this was all for nothing…

No.

Faye was tough. Her injuries, while severe, were likely not lethal as long as he got her to a doctor soon. She'd be fine. She'd be fine. The words became a mantra. It was all he'd allow himself to believe.

Honor Bound

When the stirring of ill ease blossomed from justified suspicion into awareness of the Elders embarking upon a full blown dangerous course of action, Shin slipped away to make an important call.

For years he had been waiting for this moment, knowing it was inevitable. His brother had faithfully followed Vicious across the galaxy, had virtually worshiped the ground on which the coldhearted man stood, had done his best to emulate the callous superiority that Vicious had radiated. Thankfully, Lin had at least known better than to get involved with taking Bloody Eye, but Shin could still not fathom how his brother had managed to maintain his allegiance when Vicious was sent away.

Spike disappearing had been somehow less ominous despite the oft-whispered rumors of his demise. Though neither Shin nor Lin had revered Spike in quite the same way, he had still been above them in the ranks and therefore held a position of one to be respected and obeyed.

Spike had a well-earned reputation as brash, hotheaded, and self-destructive. Vicious had an equally deserved reputation as a methodical, merciless, madman. The Van considered both of them too wild to be off leash yet too skilled at their jobs to be destroyed.

It had been left to Julia to wrangle the mutts. And it was Julia with her poise and her cool headedness and her inexhaustible patience to whom Shin pledged his loyalty. She was brilliant, beautiful, and saw so much more than anyone realized.

She would be the future of the Syndicate one day. And he was honor bound to see her succeed.

If she could just survive this…

Shin gripped the phone tightly in his hand, waiting for the ringing to give way to the answering machine. She never picked up. It was far smarter this way. He would relay the imperative message and then await further instruction before making a move.

He had been serving in the shadows for so long now. Listening, watching, reporting back to her, and always so nervous about potential discovery. Afraid that she would be unable to keep one step ahead of Vicious. Anxious that the Van would wise up to the uprising slowly gaining momentum at their very feet.

At last he was going to be able to act. To throw himself willingly into the fray. For her he would walk over hot coals into the flames of the fire itself. After all, it would only be under her calm and capable governance that the Dragons truly had a future to speak of.

He was awash with nervous energy. It felt like he had always been teetering here on the edge that separated doom from triumph. Never before had things come this close to a head however. Never before had the Van and Vicious both been working so diligently towards such opposing goals, and each doing so as secretly as possible.

He had been trapped here between discreetly warring factions for too long. Now he could stand tall and reveal his true allegiance.

One way or another, it would all be over soon.

cattle prod / shock / you in there? (I see the danger, it’s written there in your eyes.)

He wondered at first if it was because of something he’d said. Something he’d done. There had to be a reason for the punishment. It was a punishment, right? It definitely wasn’t anything he’d signed up for. There had been no little box on the recruitment application to indicate permission granted for torture.

Perhaps they were upset about his physical appearance. He’d argued that there was science - well documented and thoroughly researched - that held that long hair acted as a sixth sense. Surprisingly, they had permitted him to keep his long locks… but this could still be a form of retribution for that allowance.

Could they have caught him sneaking from the other barracks? It’s not as if it was forbidden. Dalliances were often encouraged in the ranks, in fact, as long as such behavior didn’t interfere with showing up for your shift. He had never been late to the field. Never brawled with fellow soldiers. Never led his squadron into lethal situations.

Sure, he’d been physically violent with a fair number of the enemy - whoever they were. But he’d never instigated the altercations.

There was nothing that sprang to mind as just cause for being tormented for days on end.

Cattle prod marks dotted his arms, his legs, his stomach and chest and back. Whip lashes had left stinging welts and broken the skin in several spots. He’d been wrestled into a device that allowed them to shock him repeatedly which wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been a level of power that gradually increased over time, but they never went in any order he could detect. There was no way to prepare for the voltage of the jolt. Sometimes he’d clench his teeth and close his eyes and it would be as soft as being too near the hum of electricity. Other times it would make stars explode behind his eyelids and could leave him with a bitten tongue and gouges in his palms from the pressure of his own nails digging in.

He was never left to sleep for long. Usually minutes at a time. The lights were always on in his cell. He had no inkling of how long he’d been there for by now. The guards were masked, the doctors were masked, the voices were all modulated by devices around their throats. Though occasionally he suspected some of their identities.

“You in there?” A mocking voice, a rap of knuckles on his forehead. Laughter as he fought against the restraints keeping him locked in place. The height and weight seemed right. The ridicule was certainly what he’d expect. If this particular individual wasn’t one of the first men he’d fought with way back during training on Mars, years and years ago… well, then it was someone just like that asshole. Someone just as cruel and annoying.

One time he’d found his throat less parched than usual. The doctor in with him was soft-spoken and timid in their movements. He detected a gentleness in their manner, perhaps a caring soul that could be coerced into releasing him. It was the only time he’d bothered to beg. Beg for his freedom. Beg for answers.

But the doctor had shook their head solemnly. “I see the danger; it’s written in your eyes.” And on that oddly poetic note, they had taken their leave and never returned.

There was danger in his eyes. There was danger to every inch of him. He was a formidable opponent. He had been trained in violent forms of self-defense, had been broken and healed over and over until he could ignore any agony being inflicted upon his person. He could jab his fingers into a man’s chest and end their life. He was a killing machine.

Briefly, he’d thought he could be more. Thought he had more to give than brute force and incredible endurance.

He’d met a woman. Beautiful, strong, clever. A fighter just like him. She had ignited a passion within him that was impossible to ignore. They’d fallen into bed and fallen into love and his heart had cracked open with all the dreams of a future that could include her.

And then people started to disappear. Not unusual in the military. He’d served enough years to know that and it had not worried him. Until the day she wasn’t there.

Had he gone on a rampage at that point?

It seemed unlikely. But for some reason he couldn’t actually remember.

The past few days, weeks, months even? …everything seemed blurry. Shrouded in doubt. How long had he been here? How long had they been together on this dusty moon so far from their home world? How long had he been bound in this room and made to suffer attacks he was not allowed to defend against?

Time became meaningless. Doctors and guards paraded around him ceaselessly. He was given injections. Bright lights were shone into his eyes. He was beaten, tied, shocked, drowned. He was revived. For a long while he was plagued by bouts of dizziness and nausea so intense he blacked out while heaving. Chills made his limbs tremble. His bones ached, his muscles felt on fire. Images flickering at the edge of his perception - odd things floating in the air, butterflies? It was nonsense. It was not real. Nothing was real anymore.

On and on and on.

Questions.

What was his name? Who was his superior? What year was it? Where was he? How did he feel?

There came a day when he found he had no answers. There was only the shell he inhabited. What contents was a shell supposed to hold? What memories was he supposed to have? This was all a nightmare that had gone on since time began and would continue until time met its end.

Pain and drugs swirled in his system. His vision grew worse and then improved. His teeth throbbed in his mouth and he wanted to rip them out. He knew he was going to die there. The why was immaterial. The how equally so. The when was the only true question he had, the only bit of control he maintained.

He was going to die. But he would damn sure take as many of them along as possible. And if somehow he managed to escape with his life? Well… the world itself would choke and burn. He’d see to it.