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trans_92009-07-20 11:35 pm
demonbloodsam.livejournal.com) wrote in trans_92009-07-20 11:35 pm
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Say What You Want [R for Cussing][Open]
Yes, Sam Winchester was still secure in his cell, sitting on his bed, still writing in John Winchester's journal as he had been for much of the time since he'd been locked up. A stack of uneaten slop trays sat outside his cell, a sign that he was still not eating. The only nourishment he would take came from the silver flask of water that sat on the floor near the head of the bed that he had refilled periodically by either Dean or whoever was in the Precinct at the time.
He'd had several visitors, many of them trying to convince him to back down, to start eating again. But each time he had refused, defiantly resisting any and all efforts to change his mind or sway him into thinking he was wrong. He wasn't wrong. He knew it.
He'd had several visitors, many of them trying to convince him to back down, to start eating again. But each time he had refused, defiantly resisting any and all efforts to change his mind or sway him into thinking he was wrong. He wasn't wrong. He knew it.
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Shifting the armor back to a clawed hand, he looks up at Sam with glowing red eyes and says, "If we all get to decide, do you really think someone like me should get to decide who lives or who dies?"
He really wonders.
"I get why you'd worry for the crew." There's an increasing bit of steel in his voice as he goes. "I understand advocating that death be an option for everyone's safety, if the crime is bad enough. But the reason we need a jury--always--isn't because of you. The reason we need a jury is because of the people like me, that can destroy a planet if I sneeze the wrong way."
Breathing in deep, he clenches a clawed hand into a fist, snuffing out the lights on his fingertips. "Lyta was right. We are dangerous. What she was wrong about is the metas on this ship not having the discipline not to go bugnuts and just recklessly hurt anybody we want. We have that discipline." He leans forward. "You're right about all those other things being something we have to consider. What you're wrong about is thinking that anyone who disagrees with you is 'worse than he is' or that we can't make 'the tough calls without a lot of hand-wringing.'"
The armor sweeps away and fades, the glow in his eyes dies.
"Because, I hate to break it to you, but the hand-wringing is the thing that keeps us responsible with what we've got. Personally, that thought scares me constantly." He stands up. "I haven't judged you. I don't think you're nuts or a murderer. I don't think you're a bad guy. I question your judgment, but that's pretty damn reasonable after everything that's happened to you."
There is a distinct look that indicates an intense loss of respect, however.
"When you have to worry about being able to depopulate a planet, when you have to worry every day about keeping killing from becoming as easy as it could be, and you wring your hands worrying and wondering if you'll ever take it too far--only then do you get to judge me."
With that, Jaime turns to go. He doesn't think Sam is nuts or wrong in trying to get people to consider something for the crew's safety. Even if that something is killing. He doesn't even think he's a bad person.
Jaime just thinks he's a dick.
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Sam was quiet for several moments after Jaime had finished and gotten up to leave. His lips were pursed in anger at the rant, the insulted feeling that it left him with, the condescending tone that suggested that Jaime was the only one dealing with stopping himself from teetering on the edge.
"You think you're the only one?" Sam finally asked. "Do you? You think that because you're a walking thermonuclear bomb that you're the only one who has to worry about going too far?"
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"Not at all," Jaime says, wondering if now they're at the root of it. "I think it's human to, when you're in bad situations. I just think you have no idea how much worse it is to totally freakin' lose it when you're a walking thermonuclear bomb, because of the whole thermonuclear bomb part. You're basically conflating naïveté with extreme self-control and rigid self-standards meant to prevent worse things than what the Yeerk did."
A pause.
"Conflate. Vocab word."
That's just a tangent. He's briefly marveling at remembering something from SAT prep.
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"No offense...," Sam said lowered his gaze to the floor. "...but there's a lot worse things than being a walking nuclear bomb."
He'd been keeping as much of his past, as much information about him and what he was a secret from the other people in the crew, partly out of fear of how they'd react and partly in a wasted effort to pretend that it didn't matter here. That he was safe here. But it seemed like telling someone would be the only way they would ever understand.
"My mom died in my nursery when I was six months-old," he began. "She was killed because she walked in on a demon, Azazel, standing over my crib and feeding me his blood. He pinned her to the ceiling, slit open her stomach, and set our house on fire. Then, twenty-three years later, he did the same thing to my girlfriend Jessica. Shortly before Jess died I started getting these visions, these premonitions, kinda like what Leela gets.
"Later, while Dean and I were trying to track down our dad and help him find Azazel and kill him, we found out that there were other kids. Kids whose mom's had died in their nurseries in the same exact way my mom did. And every one of the kids had gifts, psychic abilities like telekinesis, mind-control, some had super-strength, some could shoot lightning bolts from their hands, one girl could kill people just by touching them. One girl even managed to get control of her visions and started tapping into even more abilities."
He paused, walking back to his cot and sitting down on it, covering his face with his hands.
"And every time anyone gained control of their ability, every time they unlocked knew ones, they went bad. They killed people for no reason, like they only did it because they enjoyed it. We were chosen, chosen for Azazel's great purpose, and now that I'm the only one left I'm apparently supposed to lead an army of demons straight out of Hell and start the Apocalypse. I'm the fucking Anti-Christ, ok?
"We're not talking just nuclear bombs, we're talking Biblical shit here: fire, brimstone, Hell walking on Earth, souls burning for eternity, end of existence kind of shit. And I'm the one whose supposed to lead it.
"I swore to myself that I wouldn't. I wouldn't go down that path, I wouldn't use my abilities, I wouldn't let myself be used, I wouldn't let myself become a monster. But Schral 319 made me one. He used me to attack people, to hurt people, because he liked it. He used me to kill. And if he'd had enough time to figure out how to use the abilities that I apparently have buried down somewhere, he could have done a lot worse. And Schmuz helped him."
He paused again, lifting his head to look at Jaime.
"That's why he has to die."
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"I'm sorry," is the first thing Jaime says. "I'm sorry that happened to your mom, and your girlfriend."
And good God, does he mean it. Written all over his face is the intense sympathy and compassion he feels, sincere as anything in the world can be.
"And that's some scary crap, it definitely sounds like," Jaime says, pausing and coming back towards the cell.
"I won't lie and tell you I know exactly what it's like, but I will tell you what the scarab was for originally. Originally, the scarabs were supposed to latch onto some unsuspecting sap, overwrite everything that they are and rewrite their mind to be mindlessly obedient to the Reach, the aliens that seeded the worlds they wanted to conquer with them."
He holds out his hand.
"I was supposed to help them take over the world. To gain the trust of the superhero community, to betray the other heroes--good people, pretty much all of them--and then kill them one by one. I was supposed to be their enforcer, and help enslave the human race. But through sheer force of will, and luck that the scarab had gotten a little borked up by magic, and through convincing the scarab itself to give that whole freedom thing a try, I dodged that bullet."
"Just like I told someone else once that needed to hear it, we are not what our fathers make us, or what some demons try to make us, or the sum of some alien freak's programming. We make choices. We have free will!"
Gesturing with his hands, he says, "You have a choice here. Now. You have a choice between deciding if you're going to hold on to who you are and who you'd rather be or give it all up trying to regain a sense of control over a universe that can't be controlled. You have a choice between being someone willing to kill to save lives, and someone who does it to try to feel better and safer while pretending it's to save lives."
He jabs a finger in his direction. "Going bad isn't like a switch, Sam, and it's something every person has the capacity to do. Where it starts is that first justification, the first excuse, the first time you dehumanize a sentient being, the first time you decide that someone 'deserves' to die and that you and you alone deserve to decide it, when you know you can't be impartial."
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"As long as it seems fair and not like a kangaroo court--like they really considered everything--then at least it will have been fair. I don't go running around pulling people off of death row."
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"No," he said with a slight shake of his head. "Sorry."
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A sigh.
"Keep drinking, at least. Please? People get 20 percent of their daily water intake through food."