Wesley Wyndam-Pryce (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
prodigalwatcher) wrote2007-07-26 11:10 pm
prodigalwatcher) wrote2007-07-26 11:10 pm
Entry tags:
QM 21 - "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."
21 - "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." - 'Gone With the Wind'
It was an unthinkable situation, one in which no sane person could ever have possibly imagined themselves. The world made no sense, had gone mad. Is it then any surprise that I behaved like a madman?
When most people-- that is, people whose range of life experiences is notably lacking run-ins with vampires, demons and ancient beings once worshipped as deities-- are faced with the impending death of a loved one, the cause is most commonly such things as illness or grave injury. This time, the cause was one of those aforementioned ancient beings, a malevolent entity known as Illyria that had come to use the body of Winifred Burkle as its vessel. In becoming the shell for the being Illyria, our friend and my love Fred would be annihilated.
As I said, an unthinkable situation.
If you were faced with the death of your most precious loved one, wouldn't you do everything in your power to save them? And would there be anything at which you would stop in order to accomplish this?
My answer to those questions are: yes, and no.
I don't even remember the man's name. He was simply one of the dozen researchers employed in my division of Wolfram & Hart, and a holdover-- like 90% of those working beneath us-- from the previous regime. In his mind, the good of the firm was paramount, not the well-being of any single person, even a firm division head.
Unfortunately for him, I was not in the mood to toe the company line, and I was particularly not in the mood to hear that the entire firm could not be working "on Miss Burkle's case". The large calibre bullet I put into his kneecap from my desk was my insistence to the contrary.
I remember feeling nothing at all shooting the man. Not anger, not remorse, not grief and not even the slightest inkling that I might have overreacted. There was nothing but the need to save Fred.
Gunn, a man I would like to think of as one of my best friends in the world, inadvertently stepped into the path of that need, linking himself to the cause of Fred's looming demise. I felt nothing as I pushed the scalpel into his abdomen, making sure to angle it clear of vital organs.
I felt nothing when Angel throttled me for it, throwing me against the wall.
I felt nothing. I didn't give a damn. And of course, it didn't help at all.
(419)
It was an unthinkable situation, one in which no sane person could ever have possibly imagined themselves. The world made no sense, had gone mad. Is it then any surprise that I behaved like a madman?
When most people-- that is, people whose range of life experiences is notably lacking run-ins with vampires, demons and ancient beings once worshipped as deities-- are faced with the impending death of a loved one, the cause is most commonly such things as illness or grave injury. This time, the cause was one of those aforementioned ancient beings, a malevolent entity known as Illyria that had come to use the body of Winifred Burkle as its vessel. In becoming the shell for the being Illyria, our friend and my love Fred would be annihilated.
As I said, an unthinkable situation.
If you were faced with the death of your most precious loved one, wouldn't you do everything in your power to save them? And would there be anything at which you would stop in order to accomplish this?
My answer to those questions are: yes, and no.
I don't even remember the man's name. He was simply one of the dozen researchers employed in my division of Wolfram & Hart, and a holdover-- like 90% of those working beneath us-- from the previous regime. In his mind, the good of the firm was paramount, not the well-being of any single person, even a firm division head.
Unfortunately for him, I was not in the mood to toe the company line, and I was particularly not in the mood to hear that the entire firm could not be working "on Miss Burkle's case". The large calibre bullet I put into his kneecap from my desk was my insistence to the contrary.
I remember feeling nothing at all shooting the man. Not anger, not remorse, not grief and not even the slightest inkling that I might have overreacted. There was nothing but the need to save Fred.
Gunn, a man I would like to think of as one of my best friends in the world, inadvertently stepped into the path of that need, linking himself to the cause of Fred's looming demise. I felt nothing as I pushed the scalpel into his abdomen, making sure to angle it clear of vital organs.
I felt nothing when Angel throttled me for it, throwing me against the wall.
I felt nothing. I didn't give a damn. And of course, it didn't help at all.
(419)