- At the End -
Jul. 19th, 2010 05:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notasuggestionHelga Sinclair
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
764 words
I grew up on adventure stories—truth and fiction. I always told my father I hated the beginnings. Every damn one of them started the same: an aged explorer relaying his story. Why write what you’ve lived through?
I think I understand now.
Sometimes things happen. They happen one after another, no rhyme or reason. You act on training and instinct. You don’t know “how” or “why,” and you don’t give a damn. You don’t have time. So later, when you have to stop—when something makes you stop—you start to think. Things fall into place, and you want to kick yourself. All your mistakes are obvious. Every warning sign is glaring.
So you write it down. You try and make sense of it.
Atlantis was supposed to makeus me rich. It wasn’t going to be our my last mission, but it was supposed to make me set for life. With the haul? We’d have been our own backers, even after Mr. Whitmore took his share.
But that didn’t pan out. It ruined me.
I’ve lost everything.
My crew went first.We I started with two hundred men. The Leviathan claimed a hundred and fifty of them. Lyle My commander Rourke could describe the thing. Thatch could draw it. I can only say that it was a giant, underwater machine, capable of producing bolts of electricity. It destroyed the Ulysses—our ship. All we could do was evacuate. It decimated our attempts to attack.
Thirty more men died in a fire and its aftermath. Really, pain in the neck that he was, thank God for Thatch. If he hadn’t made such a racket, we might have lost more.
The rest died fighting the Atlanteans.
Two hundred men dead, and none of them will have a burial.
My reputation as a lieutenant, as a capable second-in-command, died with them. If I still hadLyle Rourke—But I’ll come to that.
My job is gone. I worked for Preston Whitmore as a bodyguard and chauffeur. I tried to kill the grandson of his best friend. If I survive? I’m so fired.
My body—broken. I can’t stand unassisted. In layman’s terms, since I’m no doctor, I have: a (now fixed) dislocated shoulder, cracked collarbone, and five broken ribs. These injuries are painful, but I could have handled them. The muscles in my back were badly torn. Dr. Sweet believes I will recover if given time, but he’s amazed I’m not more hurt. He insists the fall should have killed me.
If only.
I am not suicidal. I want that clear. If I was, my gun is easily within reach. I—I simply know death may not be the worst fate.
My last loss—What did I lose? What was Lyle to me? My commander? My teacher? My lover? The closest I’ve come to a friend? Yes. And no. He’ll never read this—nor will anyone else. My father told me once that everyone has a “someone.” My commander was mine.
My father would talk about love, but I won’t insult Rourke’s memory by saying I love him. I loved the jobs he found us, the money he made us. I loved the looks he’d give me. The ones that told me I’d have someone in my tent that night. I loved his touch. I loved the sex.God damn him. Damn him! He was my other half. What I wanted, he wanted. What I valued, he valued.
Conflicting interests? Inevitable.
We were so close, Lyle and me. So close. But Thatch—the balloon sank. We both knew that if we hit the ground, we were dead. There was only one way to lighten the load—someone had to go over. I never saw it coming. “The higher the stakes, the more likely someone’ll stab you in the back for it.” Some student I ended up being.
I caught myself, and we fought. You know the adage about a student surpassing their teacher? Bullshit. Or else I failed again. He threw me.“Nothing personal.”
From forty feet? Pumice isn’t soft.
He got his, though. Never screw over your marksman when she has an explosive flare and you’re in a balloon. Helium is very flammable.
Now. Now I’m waiting for my execution. Accomplice to regicide, kidnapping, and attempted genocide. Waiting and writing—like some antiquated Victorian explorer. I don’t like this end to everything. I always imagined-- We always imagined a blaze of glory. Dying in that volcano would have suited me fine.
I don’t regret a day of it all, though.
----Helga K. Sinclair
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
764 words
I grew up on adventure stories—truth and fiction. I always told my father I hated the beginnings. Every damn one of them started the same: an aged explorer relaying his story. Why write what you’ve lived through?
I think I understand now.
Sometimes things happen. They happen one after another, no rhyme or reason. You act on training and instinct. You don’t know “how” or “why,” and you don’t give a damn. You don’t have time. So later, when you have to stop—when something makes you stop—you start to think. Things fall into place, and you want to kick yourself. All your mistakes are obvious. Every warning sign is glaring.
So you write it down. You try and make sense of it.
Atlantis was supposed to make
But that didn’t pan out. It ruined me.
I’ve lost everything.
My crew went first.
Thirty more men died in a fire and its aftermath. Really, pain in the neck that he was, thank God for Thatch. If he hadn’t made such a racket, we might have lost more.
The rest died fighting the Atlanteans.
Two hundred men dead, and none of them will have a burial.
My reputation as a lieutenant, as a capable second-in-command, died with them. If I still had
My job is gone. I worked for Preston Whitmore as a bodyguard and chauffeur. I tried to kill the grandson of his best friend. If I survive? I’m so fired.
My body—broken. I can’t stand unassisted. In layman’s terms, since I’m no doctor, I have: a (now fixed) dislocated shoulder, cracked collarbone, and five broken ribs. These injuries are painful, but I could have handled them. The muscles in my back were badly torn. Dr. Sweet believes I will recover if given time, but he’s amazed I’m not more hurt. He insists the fall should have killed me.
If only.
I am not suicidal. I want that clear. If I was, my gun is easily within reach. I—I simply know death may not be the worst fate.
My last loss—What did I lose? What was Lyle to me? My commander? My teacher? My lover? The closest I’ve come to a friend? Yes. And no. He’ll never read this—nor will anyone else. My father told me once that everyone has a “someone.” My commander was mine.
My father would talk about love, but I won’t insult Rourke’s memory by saying I love him. I loved the jobs he found us, the money he made us. I loved the looks he’d give me. The ones that told me I’d have someone in my tent that night. I loved his touch. I loved the sex.
Conflicting interests? Inevitable.
We were so close, Lyle and me. So close. But Thatch—the balloon sank. We both knew that if we hit the ground, we were dead. There was only one way to lighten the load—someone had to go over. I never saw it coming. “The higher the stakes, the more likely someone’ll stab you in the back for it.” Some student I ended up being.
I caught myself, and we fought. You know the adage about a student surpassing their teacher? Bullshit. Or else I failed again. He threw me.
From forty feet? Pumice isn’t soft.
He got his, though. Never screw over your marksman when she has an explosive flare and you’re in a balloon. Helium is very flammable.
Now. Now I’m waiting for my execution. Accomplice to regicide, kidnapping, and attempted genocide. Waiting and writing—like some antiquated Victorian explorer. I don’t like this end to everything. I always imagined-- We always imagined a blaze of glory. Dying in that volcano would have suited me fine.
I don’t regret a day of it all, though.
----Helga K. Sinclair
