**********

"Lydecker's the one guy who knows what's going on in this freak-
show body of mine--whether or not this bar code has an expiration
date.  And I guess I couldn't let him die with that secret."

-- Max, "Prodigy"

**********
 
 

He's dead.  No motion.  No breath.  No heartbeat.  A little bloody hole in his skull--small, so small.  So small, and it killed him.  Donald Lydecker, my antichrist, bigger than life, bigger than I could keep from fearing, killed by a little piece of metal.

I killed him.  It was so easy--all I did was flick my finger. That's what scares me about guns.  You can't control how hard a bullet hits, and you can't stop it once it's fired.  Such a tiny motion, such a tiny bullet, such a tiny space in time, and it can end something as big and beautiful and complex as a human life.

It was his own gun I killed him with.  He thought it gave him power, thought it would protect him from me, thought I would be too afraid of that little bullet's devastation to attack him, thought he could kill me with it.  He should have known better. He designed me--he wanted me to fight like an animal, without
mercy, without concern for anything but my own survival.  I did. He cornered me, and I lashed out in desperation, and I broke his wrist when I snatched his gun, and I killed him.

Lydecker is dead.  He never answered all my questions, and he never will now.

What happened to the others?  Did you make more after I escaped? Are they good little killing machines, or are they still human, like me?

What am I?  What crazy things did you do to me, before I was born, before I was even conceived in that test tube?  Do you see me as a living, breathing person, or as codes and data and formulas?  Are you proud of me?  Ashamed?  Do you even care about me on that level?

What am I missing by being your creation instead of a normal human being?  What price have I paid to be superhuman?  My childhood, my emotions, not having to huddle in the corner of my bathroom as I convulse?  Is that all?  Or are there other things, intentionally programmed into me, to keep me dependent on you and dedicated to my purpose?  Will my life be cut short in my prime, so I don't lose my perfection with age?  Is that the price I have to pay to be perfect, but less than human?

You'll never tell me.

But I know.

I know about the others, because I know you and what you would do.  There must be more, better and more heartless than before. Why you made the first of us doesn't matter any more--you've forgotten, because all you care about now is getting it right the second or third time around, because you hate your flawed creations who escaped into the world.

I know what I am--completely and totally fucked up.  For my speed and strength, I've given up every last scrap of humanity that you could tear away from me.  You could do that to a child because you never had much humanity yourself.  You never wanted humanity. That's the difference between us--I want to be human, and you want to be a machine.  You're not proud of me, or ashamed.  A machine has no sense of accomplishment.

It doesn't matter now, anyway.  You're dead, and soon I will be, too.  My bar code does have an expiration date, and I'm getting close to it.  I'm slowing down.  My bones hurt.  I've started sleeping two or three nights a week, two or three hours at a time.  It makes my eyes ache to focus on something too small, too far away.  My seizures are coming more and more frequently, and I can't swallow enough pills to hold them back.

I'm only thirty-four.  I'm too young to die.  I haven't lived my life yet. . . . But you didn't give me my life so I could live it.  You gave it to me so I could take other lives someday, more lives than any ordinary soldier could ever take.  You gave me my life so I could fight for you in whatever war you decided to
wage.  You gave me life so you would have power.

You gave me life so you could be God.

And now, you bastard, you're burning in Hell.
 
 
 

[ END ]