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2016-03-20
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The Handler

Summary:

Alex Mercer has a conversation with an inner voice, pondering the meaning of everything he's done and whether or not it's the right thing to do, as well as his own nature. Pre-Prototype 2.

Notes:

The Handler - Muse

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:


You could do it, you know,  whispered that insidious voice, coming from within him somewhere dark, somewhere malicious; somewhere he didn't want to acknowledge. Just give in. These people, what have they ever done for you? Everyone's afraid of you, or hates you, or wants you dead. No matter how hard you try, they'll never appreciate what you've done for them.

 

He rose a hand, rubbing his forehead as if he could claw out that disgusting sound and be rid of it once and for all. You risk your entire being for them, and they return the favor by wanting your head on a platter. What's the point? Clenching his jaw, he turned his gaze to the streets below and focused on the multitude of cars crawling along the roads to try to block out the voice.

 

All your good deeds and good intentions, and they only feel disgust and hatred. Why do you insist on wasting your time on them? You know they'll just betray you in the end.

 

Finally, he spoke aloud, albeit in such a quiet tone his voice was barely audible. "Because it's the right thing to do. I didn't do this to become a hero. I have too much blood on my hands for that."

 

You're certainly no hero, but who decided it was the right thing to do? The original Alex Mercer was the one who created you, who unleashed that virus on everyone out of sheer malice. His morals were lacking, so you didn't get that opinion from him. The scientists and Blackwatch you've consumed? They were evil. You know that. So where does this theory come from?

 

"It doesn't matter where it came from. The point is that saving these people, even if they're ungrateful, is the right thing to do."

 

And what about yourself? Who saves you? Your mind is filled with the memories of everyone you've consumed, so many conflicting opinions, urges, and desires, as well as the screams they gave when you devoured them. Your mind is the very definition of chaos. Who saves you?

 

"That's the price I pay for saving people."

 

So you're a martyr now, is that it? You've developed a conscience after eating all those people, and now you want to become a modern day Jesus? What a revolting mindset. You know how that ended for him. Are you so willing to sacrifice yourself for such ungrateful people?

 

"People like the original Mercer, people like Blackwatch and Gentek scientists, they abuse ordinary people. You saw what they did, you saw through my eyes. They caged the infected and experimented on them. Fed them to Hunters. Those people deserve to die. Those innocents, people infected because of one man's hatred, do they deserve to die?"

 

When they are saved, they don't thank you. They call you a monster and run screaming, even though you're the reason they're still breathing. Saving all those people, only to have them betray you and try to kill you... is that really worth it?

 

He let out a sigh, his eyes sliding closed for a moment. "It's... not easy. It never is."

 

You've been shot countless times. Even though you heal, it still hurts. You've been killed several times, and suffered through injuries that would kill normal men, all to save people who don't want to be saved by a monster.

 

"I am a monster. I'm a shapeshifter who is able to consume people and imitate their appearance. They have every right to be afraid of me."

 

You push yourself too much. You risk everything you have to protect them from themselves. You're tired. You're sick of having to help them, only to have them hate you. You want to lash out, to make them suffer the way you've suffered. Don't you?

 

He hesitated, then shook his head.

 

Don't lie to me. We're one, after all. I know when you're lying. You want them to hurt the way you hurt. It's not wrong, and it's perfectly rational. You're a wounded creature, and you need to... relieve your stress, so to speak.

 

"And what do you suggest?" he asked bitingly. "Destroy the city I just saved? I didn't blow myself up for the fun of it."

 

You could have ended it there. The city would be safe, and the remaining infected would have died out. There was no reason for you to come back. But you clung to life. If it was just about saving those people, you wouldn't be here now. You want to live. You want to live a normal life. Since that's not exactly possible, you want the next best thing.

 

"Which is?"

 

Freedom. You were controlled by Mercer, then controlled by Blackwatch, then Gentek, then the military. You were just a pawn to them. But you want to evolve, as a virus is wont to do. You want to evolve from a pawn, to a queen. I can give you that.

 

"At what cost?"

 

Nothing you'll miss. We'll change things. We won't be a pawn to anyone, ever again. Maybe when we get tired, we'll even settle down and attempt to have a normal life. All you need to do is surrender yourself to me.

 

He was silent, listening to the sounds of the city around him. Albeit partially destroyed, it was already rebuilding. Soon, it would be as if nothing had ever happened. As if he'd never existed. They'd forget everything. A sigh escaped him before he was even conscious of it. What that voice offered him was incredibly tempting. To let someone else - even though it was just a fragment of himself - take the wheel, was an exciting prospect.

 

Give yourself to me.

 

He wouldn't have to save people. They were never thankful, and they always resented him no matter what he did. All they saw was a monster.

 

You are a monster.

 

He would be free, and he would never again be controlled by people like Blackwatch or Gentek.

 

You would be free.

 

Freedom. A life he wanted to live. Choices. Decisions. Questions. Escape. Freedom.

 

Give yourself to me.

 

"I will."

Notes:

I keep meaning to write. And I keep writing. I do. But there's been a lot happening lately. My father is injured badly and permanently, my dog was put down after I had to watch her suffer in agony for a week, assignments are coming up and I am not ready for that, all my friends are moving on, and it's been a stressful three months. When I have motivation to write, I just can't find the words. It feels forced and rigid, and I scrap it. I want to write more. I keep trying. But I think I'll be posting somewhat haphazardly until I can find my groove again. I'm sorry, it's just been really hard on me lately. I will try to write more often, and try to post things!