requiem

The cold, acidic rain fell softly, soaking into Mark Hallon's cheap trenchcoat as pushed his way through the crowd. He reached up and adjusted his face mask and goggles; they were rubbing his face as usual, the cheap plastic masks that you bought on every corner never fit too well. He pressed forward against the crush of faceless bodies.

He could feel the comforting bulk of his sub-machine gun, settled under his armpit against his ribs. He had used it many times, signed many death warrants with it, but he hoped that tonight would not be one of those occasions that he would have to kill. The gun pushed into his side as he was jostled by the mass of human life.

Sudden memories of using the gun flashed into his head... expressions of fear on the face of unloyal corporates, hate on enemy solo teamsters. Agonised screams as the lead slugs punched into their bodies; pounding the organs until they exploded into massive internal haemorrages, leaving only a crushed and broken corpse for the meatwagons. A hundred scenes of horror, pain and violence. Scenes that a normal person would recoil from as a matter of course. Scenes that had been commonplace in Mark's life.

Oh god, the violence. It had been his whole world a few hours ago, but now his whole world had been repossessed. His superiors had been polite but not sympathetic. In fact, there was not even the slightest trace of empathy in their delivery: "Your services are no longer needed. Clear your locker and leave the building."

All down to just one botched mission, the "extraction" of a high-ranking Corporate Official that had turned sour. He had lost the meat and most of his strike team. No second chances, he was out. Not that it made him feel any better for getting good men killed.

He glanced down at the dark section of material on his sleeve where his team patch had been. He had been proud of that patch... he had seen it as his "proof of success". That patch had meant power. It meant he was above the law. Of course the mayor never admitted it, no official ever would, but the Police had no way of stopping corporate actions. Most of the time they even knew when to keep clear of the building that was about to be raided.

All things considered, working for Rundan Corporation had been Mark's dream come true. He had started out as a grunt and worked up to a Squad Leader, making more enemies than friends on the way. He made a lot of corpses too.

Now it was all gone. An "honourable discharge" was what the company called it, but the operatives had their own name for it and it was no gentle euphemism. Those who put their heads in the lion's mouth rarely try to make it sound romantic.

Lost in his thoughts, he pushed on. The evening stretched before him like a blank form to be filled in... he would probably work his way through a bottle of Wild Turkey, sitting in the corner of "Body Blow" that he knew so well. Then maybe a joygirl. He couldn't be bothered with the motions of seduction tonight, but he didn't much like the idea of being alone.

"Give me your money, asshole!"

Mark blinked and tried to clear his drink-sodden head. The alcohol haze would not clear from his vision. He steadied himself and squinted, making out a blurry image... leather, studs, a light source in the collar... some kind of low-life gangboy. This mugging would be so the street trash could get money for his next hit, no doubt... so he could feel like god again.

"I don't have any... sorry man."

"Bullshit! You're loaded! Hand it over, pretty boy!"

Pretty boy? Mark forced his swaying body to be still, so that he could look steadily at the punk instead of catching glimpses through the slow motion of his drunken vision. His antagonist looked young. Very young.

`Oh fuck... why? So young, and I'll have to kill him.'

He knew it for sure... only one out of him and the boy would walk away.

Again the world spun as the boy in front of him popped his blades, the hideous spikes sliding from his knuckles with a sharp *click*. Mark knew he had to do it, he would have to kill. The semi-auto grated his ribs. It was there. All it would take was the smooth draw and fire he had used so many times, even in his present state it would be automatic... To deliver death once more, one more scene of blood and pain... nothing after all the times he had killed... but he couldn't find the strength to do it.

The youth yelled at him, dancing in front of him, waving the insane implanted weapons. The gun. The blades. The pain. Colours and noises blending into one incomprehensible entity. Mark staggered and fell against the wall. The colours whirled around him, the earth swayed and rocked.

Images flashed through the haze... the booster... the extraction... the blades shooting from his assailant's hand... the impassive face of the suit who had fired him... Slowly they began to sharpen into one visage: the triumph in the booster's eye's as his fist slammed into Mark's stomach.

Pain. The shocking pain of the blades twisting as they pulled out of the gaping wound. More blows would come, Gangboys never stopped at one. The knowledge of impending death pounded through Mark's mind, even as the bile rose in his throat and he threw up on the punk's shoes.

The boy went ballistic, screaming about the mess on his boots and punching Hallon with even more vigour than before. Still Mark found no strength in his body to pull the gun, no power to stop the pain. No trace of humanity.

It just seemed so pointless. He had no purpose in life anymore... life just wasn't worth the trouble... life had never meant much to him anyway...

`It means nothing! If I die, no-one will care!'

The thought flashed through his pain and struck like the booster's blades...

No-one...

Not even me...

Life for him was death. Life without death to him was empty... Maybe death could be life.

Detached, broken, he watched himself die.

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