Fic -- Truth And Consequences
Title: Truth And Consequences
Rating: PG
Word Count: 720
Characters: Roscoe Dillon, Abra Kadabra
Summary: Two Rogues talk about pivotal events in their lives. Two first-person POV ficlets.
Warnings: None.
Roscoe
I’m screaming until I’m hoarse, with a voice that isn’t mine. Memories are flooding back, unwanted until I understand they’re real, the notions of the person I was before.
What did they do to me? They hurt me. Made me into something I’m not, that I never wanted to be, until they forced me to want it. Forced me to hunt my friends - my family - and made me believe it was right. That it was for my own good to think that way, and for the good of the other Rogues too.
You can be a better person, Roscoe. I know you want to be one. Except I didn’t, I wanted the freedom to be myself and forge my own destiny, to be the man no one ever believed I could be. To be strong so no one could ever hurt me again, and it was all taken away. Made to believe it was shameful to ever want to be on top.
And the resulting madness. They left me insane, a drooling incoherent mess, mocked on television and rotting in rags inside a cell. Spat on by the guards. Living in garbage, and scorned by everyone. Abandoned by my family, who hate me for hounding them while the Flash’s pet, and who consider me a disgrace for being so crazy. Too dangerous. Not a real Rogue.
But it’s all back now, I’m back. I’m finally free again, unencumbered to be myself and pick up the shattered pieces of my life. And there will be hell to pay.
****
Abra Kadabra
I was born into an age of science, a sterile era bereft of all wonder or joy. Our lives were tightly ordered by the Central Clockworks, which dictated when we slept, ate, and partook in dreary recreation without spontaneity. I was assigned the designation #38869014 at birth, and chose the name ‘Abra’ upon coming of age - I thought it fitting, as I’d so loved reading about the classic magicians in my historical studies of the distant past.
No one understood. They couldn’t grasp why I loved the idea of performing, which was an idea alien to my culture. Nobody was supposed to stand out in the 64th century; we were all meant to be cogs in a perfect machine. Nobody was supposed to have elements of the unexpected in their daily life, as a performer on stage gloriously experiences during every show. Our lives were pre-planned, with no room for deviation or improvisation, and yet those were all I yearned for. We were told that this strict planning meant we were free because all the uncertainty was gone from our existence, but I alone understood our oppression.
So I rebelled, and became an individual. I read the books I wasn’t supposed to, and spent time daydreaming when the Clockworks ordered me to study. I wore clothes radically different from the ones assigned to us, and taught myself to put on a show during my daily activities. It was shocking to those around me, but a few people here and there liked it and took inspiration from my actions...it seems that I was not entirely alone after all. They applauded me and it was like music to my ears, all I’d ever wanted.
But this was anathema to the society I was born into, which prized conformity and order over everything else. To them, I wasn’t just a misfit, I was an active ideological threat to their way of life. First they tried to hush me, then they tried to cure me, then they tried to break me - and then they exiled me to the era I loved so much, all to sweep the danger I posed under the rug. I didn’t care, because the 20th century was a breath of fresh air for a man longing to be free. Sure, it’s laughably primitive and the inhabitants are a pack of savages, but they know how to appreciate a performer and they live in a world of fascinating pandemonium. And it’s so easy to thrill them with a good trick.
One day, however....someday I’ll be able to return home, and the Clockworks and Chronarch will burn at the hands of my admirers. The 64th century will learn the beauty of chaos, and I’ll be its master. Then the applause will be never-ending.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 720
Characters: Roscoe Dillon, Abra Kadabra
Summary: Two Rogues talk about pivotal events in their lives. Two first-person POV ficlets.
Warnings: None.
Roscoe
I’m screaming until I’m hoarse, with a voice that isn’t mine. Memories are flooding back, unwanted until I understand they’re real, the notions of the person I was before.
What did they do to me? They hurt me. Made me into something I’m not, that I never wanted to be, until they forced me to want it. Forced me to hunt my friends - my family - and made me believe it was right. That it was for my own good to think that way, and for the good of the other Rogues too.
You can be a better person, Roscoe. I know you want to be one. Except I didn’t, I wanted the freedom to be myself and forge my own destiny, to be the man no one ever believed I could be. To be strong so no one could ever hurt me again, and it was all taken away. Made to believe it was shameful to ever want to be on top.
And the resulting madness. They left me insane, a drooling incoherent mess, mocked on television and rotting in rags inside a cell. Spat on by the guards. Living in garbage, and scorned by everyone. Abandoned by my family, who hate me for hounding them while the Flash’s pet, and who consider me a disgrace for being so crazy. Too dangerous. Not a real Rogue.
But it’s all back now, I’m back. I’m finally free again, unencumbered to be myself and pick up the shattered pieces of my life. And there will be hell to pay.
****
Abra Kadabra
I was born into an age of science, a sterile era bereft of all wonder or joy. Our lives were tightly ordered by the Central Clockworks, which dictated when we slept, ate, and partook in dreary recreation without spontaneity. I was assigned the designation #38869014 at birth, and chose the name ‘Abra’ upon coming of age - I thought it fitting, as I’d so loved reading about the classic magicians in my historical studies of the distant past.
No one understood. They couldn’t grasp why I loved the idea of performing, which was an idea alien to my culture. Nobody was supposed to stand out in the 64th century; we were all meant to be cogs in a perfect machine. Nobody was supposed to have elements of the unexpected in their daily life, as a performer on stage gloriously experiences during every show. Our lives were pre-planned, with no room for deviation or improvisation, and yet those were all I yearned for. We were told that this strict planning meant we were free because all the uncertainty was gone from our existence, but I alone understood our oppression.
So I rebelled, and became an individual. I read the books I wasn’t supposed to, and spent time daydreaming when the Clockworks ordered me to study. I wore clothes radically different from the ones assigned to us, and taught myself to put on a show during my daily activities. It was shocking to those around me, but a few people here and there liked it and took inspiration from my actions...it seems that I was not entirely alone after all. They applauded me and it was like music to my ears, all I’d ever wanted.
But this was anathema to the society I was born into, which prized conformity and order over everything else. To them, I wasn’t just a misfit, I was an active ideological threat to their way of life. First they tried to hush me, then they tried to cure me, then they tried to break me - and then they exiled me to the era I loved so much, all to sweep the danger I posed under the rug. I didn’t care, because the 20th century was a breath of fresh air for a man longing to be free. Sure, it’s laughably primitive and the inhabitants are a pack of savages, but they know how to appreciate a performer and they live in a world of fascinating pandemonium. And it’s so easy to thrill them with a good trick.
One day, however....someday I’ll be able to return home, and the Clockworks and Chronarch will burn at the hands of my admirers. The 64th century will learn the beauty of chaos, and I’ll be its master. Then the applause will be never-ending.