Doesn't Stop There

John Preston hoped there was a trace of Prozium left in Libria, even though the Revolution had overthrown the oppressive society and destroyed the factories. He couldn't live like this anymore, continually traumatised by the memories of the dead that had suffered at the hands of this dictatorship – his wife; Mary; those innocent puppies; Partridge. They even haunted his dreams. For the first time in his life, Preston was desperate for even the smallest bit of Prozium.

Prozium would be a protective bubble, softening the pain that he felt every day and every night. People would think he couldn't move on if all he just did was live emotionless, not fully experiencing life and choosing the easy way out. Well, he felt he couldn't move on from this point if all he did was shield himself in the daytime and cry himself to sleep at night. It wasn't the easy way out – it was his only option left and he knew it would be worth sacrificing his emotions for not just peace, but also normality.
Preston wondered if he'd got any left in his holder. He knew he'd always left a couple of bottles in there just in case, but it was empty. In fact, there wasn't a single bottle left
in his apartment, after even resorting to raiding his children's drawers. The sad thing was he had to be able to hide this because Prozium had only a temporary effect.

He literally felt desperate for Prozium, feeling like he was going to die if he didn't have a dose. As there wasn't any left in his apartment, he had to look outside if he was to find any. Reluctantly – he had hoped he didn't have to go outside to find some – he slipped out at night, without waking his children up. Hopefully, they wouldn't have to wait long, so he could try and get back before they woke up.

When he got outside, he sprinted towards the nearest abandoned factory, thinking (to be honest, more like hoping) that there was a part of it that the Resistance had missed. Even though he was still wearing his uniform, the air was freezing, yet still, without a single movement. Everything seemed gripped in this frozen silence and due to the pitch darkness, he couldn't see properly. He stood there for a minute, feeling not only lost physically, but also psychologically. Fortunately, he had brought two guns for protection, both fully loaded.

He walked until he reached some kind of wall, feeling his way across – he wanted this wall to at least have an end so this wouldn't look like a game. If it was, he didn't want to play it.

With a breath of relief, he managed to find a wooden door, which he gave a nudge. It was quite a creaky old wooden door, which swung open on the pressure of one of his gloved hands. At that moment, he made sure he was carrying both of his guns, stepping up onto the stone floor as the wooden door slammed behind him. In the pitch darkness, he could hear movement. As he walked forward to sense it, he suddenly felt his entire body shaking. Within seconds, he heard a click and a light flashed on, and with an arm extended he fired in its direction…and missed.

It wasn't long enough to come to terms with this strange feeling that he had missed, as before long an instant excruciating pain in his stomach sent both of his guns flying straight towards the ground with a clatter. The pure shock of it sent him reeling backwards a few paces, his palm raised in horror after touching his stomach and discovering his glove was glistening with blood – his blood. From this fact he felt sick and collapsed against the wall, his eyes swimming with hot tears. The pain burnt his insides like hellfire, his bleeding body lying vulnerable and pathetic – his jacket and his gloves were now drenched and his mouth was filled with blood. The only expression he wore was one of agony, and the only thing he could think besides the physical pain, was the pain of disgrace as he realised that he used to be a Cleric, trained in the art of Gun Kata and now here he was, with an immediate hunger for suppressing his pain and emotion, reflexes having failed and the fact he was lying in a pool of his own blood gave him the feeling of degradation and humiliation and the sudden unworthiness of his own life. He was so dedicated to that, that now his mind was unable to focus properly due to the inability of adapting his skills to the real world after the Revolution.

"Not very clever – do you even have any reflexes?" a familiar voice taunted, "I bet you've even forgotten your training."

As much as Preston was extremely hurt by the comments, he couldn't help but agree, his body shifting weakly in a manner that reflected the affirmative. Of course, it didn't help that the figure that slowly approached him, as he managed to force his head up to look, was Jürgen, having painfully realised that he had turned into something much more malevolent. Yet, he seemed to know his strengths and weaknesses better than he did himself, so he had to give him that.

"Since we knew what had happened to you, you would easily come here. Also, if you didn't know, this isn't even a factory. This is just an abandoned warehouse. We destroyed every single factory, so no Prozium for you."

Preston started to become more aware of his breathing, a slow, pained sensation that rose in his chest. He could see Jürgen kneeling down beside him, his face now a symbol of arrogance. It hurt him to look at someone who had helped him during the Revolution, the now cold steely eyes patronising him. His choked sobs turned his breathing uneven and shallow, such the focus was on his breathing that the effort he put into it just to stay alive didn't leave him with enough energy to do much else, especially considering he was trying to stop himself bleeding everywhere. If he did talk, it was agonising just to talk normally.

His eyes began a slow blink as he forced himself to shift against the uncomfortable wall. "Don't you remember," he whispered, "don't you remember I saved your whole team from the furnaces? You could have died. Freedom was what you wanted, what with the beauty of human nature. But this is our one chance to live normally." He barely had much breath left to finish all of that.

Jürgen's face darkened and he drew closer to Preston. "We were born with emotions, we will die with emotions. You in fact believed that having emotions was important, and we helped you, and in turn, you helped us. Why should we have it back, the way it was before? You know, I still respect you for helping us. If it wasn't for you, the Revolution wouldn't have happened."

Preston's eyes widened, realising how much they knew about him from the beginning. He seemed like the only choice since the Resistance told him they had been watching him, the fact that he was the only one having suffered from nightmares, being able to feel every single fear inducing and emotional moment. It was like this was planned from the beginning. But it was brilliant. Besides the fact that Jürgen had turned on him like that, he admired his bravery in trusting someone like him. He wanted Preston to believe in him. He felt respected.

However, this didn't stop him from achieving his goal. He didn't want to feel, no matter what Jürgen would say. If only he had the energy to get up – his only form of defence was lying a few yards away from him.

"Can I be sure to trust you anymore?" Preston asked, bringing Jürgen's attention to the weapons lying on the floor.

"If you want to," he replied calmly, picking himself up, "It's just that, since you have no real power here, I doubt not trusting the Resistance wouldn't be a very good idea." He grabbed both of the guns, swapping them for his other one and putting his one in his trouser pocket. "Don't worry, I still trust you. Seeing as you helped us, maybe it would be a good time to help us instead of being selfish."

Preston wasn't sure what he wanted to do anymore. He didn't know whether to trust Jürgen. Trusting his instincts or someone who actually respected him. All Jürgen was trying to do was to create a society where people could express their emotions freely without anyone interfering. Maybe he was that person. And previously, he had helped to conquer the dictatorship that so readily interfered with human nature.

"I'll trust you." He said. Preston suddenly felt scared. He didn't know whether he genuinely trusted Jürgen or whether he was just faking it so as to stop the pain and not end up violently murdered.

Jürgen grinned. He had finally been able to convince him back to his own team. "I knew you were being ridiculous." He leaned down over the bloodied Preston, who was now white as a sheet and completely drained of energy. Every breath looked like his last.

"Is he dead?" cried out a voice from a side entrance. Jürgen turned around and faced a number of Resistance members. "No, thankfully not. But he's bleeding heavily. I had only planned to shoot him to avoid such a massive confrontation, but now that he's down, I want you to take him back to the Underground."

Each of the members came running over, all armed with pistols. They all knew what they were doing. And they were perfectly aware that they couldn't let Preston go.
Jürgen kneeled down and broke both of Preston's legs with two bullets, to the response of agonised screams that rung with nightmarish sobbing. Preston was in the worst pain imaginable, the ripping of bullets through his legs as blood spilt out, burning and scorching the only chance of being able to escape. Completely unable to move, his breathing becoming extremely shallow, managing to whisper one final thing.

"Just…see that my children are okay." He knew that whatever happened, his children had to be okay. Whatever happened to him, as long as they were happy, everything was fine. He didn't want them to be upset. He would hope to finally be able to reassure them that he loved them and that wouldn't change if he didn't die right now. Even if he did manage to get some Prozium, it wouldn't stop him from becoming concerned with their welfare.

"Don't worry, they will be." Jürgen managed to quickly mutter as Preston's voice faded with each word, as his eyes blurred with tears and he lie there, drenched in blood. His eyes closed, slowly, his world evaporated around him, the last thing that he remembered was being picked up softly in the Resistance's arms, body limp and pale and covered in crimson, sounds of footsteps echoing in the warehouse as his world fell to black.

"Come on," Jürgen said, "We haven't got all the time in the world."

"Let's hope that he won't die in our arms. He's bleeding very heavily." One of the Resistance members said, named Harriet. She was hoping that it wouldn't happen because Preston was a vital member of the Resistance anyway. And what better way than to be someone highly trained?

Jürgen realised what Preston had said earlier. "Can you just carry on without me? I've got something to attend to first." They carried on, without a word.

He walked into the main entrance, deliberately stepping in the pooling blood, opening the door and stepping into the freezing air. Seeing his bloody shoeprints marked out on the concrete, the blood spilling out of the warehouse and dripping down the steps. He was enjoying this. Preston didn't know what he was up to. But he trusted and respected him. Nothing could be better than this. It was black outside and completely silent, except from a dim sliver of light of the moon from behind a cloud. Nobody knew how loud his thoughts were, he felt like screaming. He had finally done it. Preston would not see what was coming.

"I know it sounded stupid Preston how you looked so ridiculous when you spoke to me," he said, his eyes lit up with ecstasy, "but it was perfect. I do trust you, I still do. But this is the moment I've been waiting for. And I always knew it. Just enjoy what happens next." He looked up at the grey stone buildings that housed everyone, windows dotted around, some lit up and some dark. "Don't worry children. Your father will be perfectly okay. Just let me take care of you."

He made his way leisurely towards the buildings as in his mind; everything was going according to plan. And somewhere in the distance, a light had been switched on, two children's frightened voices crying out for their father as all they heard was complete and utter silence.