The Chimera Obscurant
Title: The Chimera Obscurant
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Writer: night_chaos (darknightdestiny)
Artist: kimouski (motchi)
Character: Turk! Vincent Valentine
Rating: PG
Prompt: Dark Themes, #11 - The Chimera Obscurant
Summary: "You're not really sorry, just sorry you were caught."
- X-posted to nighty_night and night_chaos and kimouski
The Chimera Obscurant
When I was a child, and my mother would punish us, she would often say, "You're not really sorry, you're just sorry you got caught." We would look at her, dumbfounded, and while I knew she was trying to impart some brand of moral wisdom in that simple turn of phrase, the exact implications of which weren't so obvious to my childlike mind. And then she would go on with the deed, and I would think, sure, whatever made her feel better.
When I got a bit smarter, I would reply with, "How can I be sorry, when the straightaway thing you've done is punish me?" And I mean really. There is hardly enough time to sit and wonder on why something was wrong, or how it could have been avoided, when there is a fire-breathing she-dragon hot on one's heels. And I find it is hard to feel remorse for something I've already gone and paid for.
You see, much of the time I learned a thing was wrong simply because I was punished for it. And you would think there would be no repeat offense after something like that, but after a time, a child begins to weigh the consequences of his actions (though when he is an adult, he will seldom do the same - hormone poisoning, perhaps), and determines whether or not the offense is worth the punishment. And many a time, it was.
I was earning my sins back then, so to speak. Or my right to them, whichever you prefer.
Things are quite different now. Life is more than sneaking out of bedroom windows, or swiping Dad's whiskey, or vandalizing the neighborhood, though I still find myself doing these things from time to time. No, life is much, much different now. I kill people. I maim, I destroy. I cut off fingers and toes, and strike with hot iron. Sometimes it is because I want information. Sometimes the information doesn't matter. And sometimes it is just for fun.
But I'm not sorry. I've earned it, with my time, my blood, my efforts. I've been shot, struck down, and held against my will. I've stood inches from fellows blown away with one clean shot. Then again, I've never made it a point to form attachments to any of them, and I am getting paid. Yes, really paid. Money and everything.
So it is that I benefit from a man's death certificate. Yes, benefit. Is that what I did wrong, then? Had I suffered more for it, or not taken the money, would it have been all right, then? I wonder. I wonder if, in the grand scheme of things, it is all about balance in the end.
I wonder.
I do remember one time, a conversation my mother had been having with a friend. I'd overheard, whilst creeping through the hallway. God made some people just to be evil, he said, as I slipped out the window. It was all part of the master plan; there was no escaping it. An evil man's downfall is a glorious triumph, and proof to an unbelieving people. Such things were necessary.
Well, I concluded, as I landed with a thud in the garden, whoever God was, He certainly had an impeccable sense of timing.
Is that why bad men live like kings on Gaia? They just have a good sense of timing? And I, am I here because I have a bad sense of timing? It seems to be that way, I think. It was always getting me into trouble as a child, and with all these years I've gone on as invisible, it was bound to creep up and knock me over the head at some point. Or, shoot me in the gut, whichever. I should have been more careful.
Am I one of those other men? One of the bad ones? Was I hand-picked, specifically chosen to act as a messenger, to live with the filth, to be filthy, to commit the horrible acts I've committed?
Well, that seems damn arrogant to me. And unfair. I'd rather not think I'm that special, when it would be better that I had enough free will to resist that sort of fate. After all, my questioning the matter in some way proves that I am not in the dark about it, does it not?
Then again, this is all hindsight. I am tied down.
And why, dear doctor? What can I say that will satisfy you now? If I say that I am sorry, does it even count? I mean, really. I'm dying. And for what? To teach someone else a lesson? To teach me a lesson? I hardly think that will matter, once I am gone.
Is that what you want? Do you want an apology? Well, you're not going to get it, because I'm not sorry. Why should I be?
What are you hoping to accomplish? If you keep this up, you must know that I'm going to scream something terrible that I don't really even mean. Many nights I've laid awake, listening to the ragged howls from your bestiary. I know of what you are capable. But truly, honestly, and sincerely? I'm not apologizing to you.
Perhaps you are thinking that you can change my mind. Perhaps you believe, foolishly, that if all that I have done here is come to an abrupt end and I find myself the lesser for the exchange, then that will make me sorry. Perhaps you believe, foolishly, that if my remittance is greater than my sin, then it will force an apology from my lips.
Perhaps.
But would that kind of an apology count for anything? I don't really think so. And I'm not going to be afforded the time to care, am I? To wait, and think, and try to make myself feel something that I don't?
Maybe I am meant to be evil. Not evil like you, but evil in my own way. Maybe. But if that's the case, then again, I have nothing to be sorry about now, do I?
Just following orders.
End
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Writer: night_chaos (darknightdestiny)
Artist: kimouski (motchi)
Character: Turk! Vincent Valentine
Rating: PG
Prompt: Dark Themes, #11 - The Chimera Obscurant
Summary: "You're not really sorry, just sorry you were caught."
- X-posted to nighty_night and night_chaos and kimouski
The Chimera Obscurant
When I was a child, and my mother would punish us, she would often say, "You're not really sorry, you're just sorry you got caught." We would look at her, dumbfounded, and while I knew she was trying to impart some brand of moral wisdom in that simple turn of phrase, the exact implications of which weren't so obvious to my childlike mind. And then she would go on with the deed, and I would think, sure, whatever made her feel better.
When I got a bit smarter, I would reply with, "How can I be sorry, when the straightaway thing you've done is punish me?" And I mean really. There is hardly enough time to sit and wonder on why something was wrong, or how it could have been avoided, when there is a fire-breathing she-dragon hot on one's heels. And I find it is hard to feel remorse for something I've already gone and paid for.
You see, much of the time I learned a thing was wrong simply because I was punished for it. And you would think there would be no repeat offense after something like that, but after a time, a child begins to weigh the consequences of his actions (though when he is an adult, he will seldom do the same - hormone poisoning, perhaps), and determines whether or not the offense is worth the punishment. And many a time, it was.
I was earning my sins back then, so to speak. Or my right to them, whichever you prefer.
Things are quite different now. Life is more than sneaking out of bedroom windows, or swiping Dad's whiskey, or vandalizing the neighborhood, though I still find myself doing these things from time to time. No, life is much, much different now. I kill people. I maim, I destroy. I cut off fingers and toes, and strike with hot iron. Sometimes it is because I want information. Sometimes the information doesn't matter. And sometimes it is just for fun.
But I'm not sorry. I've earned it, with my time, my blood, my efforts. I've been shot, struck down, and held against my will. I've stood inches from fellows blown away with one clean shot. Then again, I've never made it a point to form attachments to any of them, and I am getting paid. Yes, really paid. Money and everything.
So it is that I benefit from a man's death certificate. Yes, benefit. Is that what I did wrong, then? Had I suffered more for it, or not taken the money, would it have been all right, then? I wonder. I wonder if, in the grand scheme of things, it is all about balance in the end.
I wonder.
I do remember one time, a conversation my mother had been having with a friend. I'd overheard, whilst creeping through the hallway. God made some people just to be evil, he said, as I slipped out the window. It was all part of the master plan; there was no escaping it. An evil man's downfall is a glorious triumph, and proof to an unbelieving people. Such things were necessary.
Well, I concluded, as I landed with a thud in the garden, whoever God was, He certainly had an impeccable sense of timing.
Is that why bad men live like kings on Gaia? They just have a good sense of timing? And I, am I here because I have a bad sense of timing? It seems to be that way, I think. It was always getting me into trouble as a child, and with all these years I've gone on as invisible, it was bound to creep up and knock me over the head at some point. Or, shoot me in the gut, whichever. I should have been more careful.
Am I one of those other men? One of the bad ones? Was I hand-picked, specifically chosen to act as a messenger, to live with the filth, to be filthy, to commit the horrible acts I've committed?
Well, that seems damn arrogant to me. And unfair. I'd rather not think I'm that special, when it would be better that I had enough free will to resist that sort of fate. After all, my questioning the matter in some way proves that I am not in the dark about it, does it not?
Then again, this is all hindsight. I am tied down.
And why, dear doctor? What can I say that will satisfy you now? If I say that I am sorry, does it even count? I mean, really. I'm dying. And for what? To teach someone else a lesson? To teach me a lesson? I hardly think that will matter, once I am gone.
Is that what you want? Do you want an apology? Well, you're not going to get it, because I'm not sorry. Why should I be?
What are you hoping to accomplish? If you keep this up, you must know that I'm going to scream something terrible that I don't really even mean. Many nights I've laid awake, listening to the ragged howls from your bestiary. I know of what you are capable. But truly, honestly, and sincerely? I'm not apologizing to you.
Perhaps you are thinking that you can change my mind. Perhaps you believe, foolishly, that if all that I have done here is come to an abrupt end and I find myself the lesser for the exchange, then that will make me sorry. Perhaps you believe, foolishly, that if my remittance is greater than my sin, then it will force an apology from my lips.
Perhaps.
But would that kind of an apology count for anything? I don't really think so. And I'm not going to be afforded the time to care, am I? To wait, and think, and try to make myself feel something that I don't?
Maybe I am meant to be evil. Not evil like you, but evil in my own way. Maybe. But if that's the case, then again, I have nothing to be sorry about now, do I?
Just following orders.
End