Brandon Stone (takenonames) wrote in immune_ic, @ 2012-04-16 19:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2012 [04] april, brandon, elliot |
WHO: Brandon and Elliot
WHAT: Brandon's not doing so well. Elliot, of all people, talks him out of a shitty mood.
WHERE: Sing Sing, one of the trails.
WHEN: April 16th, 2019, afternoon.
RATING: Likely medium for a ton of language. It's Brandon, after all.
STATUS: In progress
As a cop, Brandon should have been more at peace with the instinct to kill than he was. Honestly, he'd shot people before, so of everyone on that stupid mission, aside from maybe Rodeo, he should have been the one readiest to kick ass and take names. But as it stood, he was having a foul moment of humanity; a bitter bout with decency. Imagining the lives he took. Each of those people was a person. Were they good people? Brandon didn't know. He didn't let himself know. All he'd allowed himself to feel was his "kill or be killed" instinct; an instinct with which he was far more comfortable than most.
So then why in the fuck was he feeling like a lower life form?
This was a good thing he'd done, god damn it. He knew it, deep down. Those people, if left alive, would continue to wreak havoc on the city, and now without half of its defenders, it would be more than ill-equipped to deal with it. There would be no city left. So yeah, they'd had to die. But that didn't make dealing with being the one to kill a rather large portion of them any easier to deal with.
In a place where it wasn't hard to find some personal space, Brandon should have been okay with the amount he had. But sometimes, you just needed to be further away from people. So, he walked a path along the outer wall of the prison, trying to get a grip on his thoughts before he allowed himself to go back to his sisters or anyone else who would ask him a shitton of questions. He needed to answer them for his-fucking-self before he could answer them for anyone else.
However, when you weren't exactly strong of mind, being alone with your thoughts wasn't always the best idea.
Without knowing, without giving them the chance to tell him that they were good or bad people? He'd killed people. He was supposed to be a cop. Defender of the innocent. And yet he'd killed no fewer than six people, without knowing if they were innocent or not.
"Fuck!" he shouted, turning and smashing his fist into the nearby wall, doing his best to ignore the shot of pain it sent up his arm. "Fucking protector of the innocent my fucking ass. Fuck this shit," he added under his breath, shaking his hand back and forth, trying to shake out the pain.