I Don't Care Anymore

The aftermath of the experiment had not come with good sensations, had not been freeing whatsoever.

He had been hurt. He had been hurting. He had become, of a sudden, violently cognizant of all the times that he might have hurt others.

By whose hand? Towards whose aim? Was it right? Was it wrong? How much could it possibly matter, the way you treated folks you passed in the street? The business you did, when it was just your job and no more, the work you did to survive the day?

He had done it for a standard. For a creed, a dictum, a (supposedly) superior way of life. With that, he had to reconcile. How much did he really believe? How much had been left to the singularity of vapid example? Who would he be, if he left? What worth was there to being, when this worry hounded him day in and day out?

What would Amalthus think of him?

So he dragged that chain, towed that line, for two years. The murky detachment helped neither of them. The addition of the scar wounded all.

Freak. Rebel. Failure. You'll always have to come back.

Not even of any use to the one who made you distinct among your own kind.

And was that fair? Should Amalthus himself assume none of the blame? What if he had made a mistake? What if the research wasn't complete?

What if, maybe, just maybe, emotion, heart and soul, was to play a role in all of this?

But that couldn't be. Science was science. Data was data. And you, Blade, are indebted to me forever.

It is the way. It is the right way. It is the only way.

It wasn't as if Amalthus had ever even attempted to pretend equivalent, equitable rules for the Driver and for the Blade. Aspirations were...well. Neither obtained pleasure, but some were allowed to seek it.

That is to say, Amalthus derived - must have - infinite pleasure from this liquid stem of control. Even when he lost it, gave it up in pursuit of something more potent, he had not truly lost it. He could still laugh, could still win. No task would ever be great enough. No reformation would ever be pure enough.

Minoth's prison was not his body. Arguably, it was his mind. His mind kept him from running; his legs, bowed though they may have been, could still walk. He wasn't that decrepit just yet.

If he left, he could do good. He could be good.

And so, when his mind was freed? When Amalthus became so far gone that any semblance of conscious link simply disintegrated?

Oh, the blood pounded in his ears. To turn away, knowing full well he'd never have to look back, would never want to look back...

His ears, and not Amalthus's. His blood, by this point, and not a donor's. His Core, and not Amalthus's.

Whose?

He didn't care. He didn't have to.

It didn't matter. Really, it didn't.

It was over. It was behind him.

He was free.