It is not suggested you read it if you are sensitive to violence, swearing, or explicit content.
A few decades in the future in a non-TDI universe, Izzy is about to meet her doom for everything she has done in her life.
Rated R for violence, profanity, some sexual references, intense subject, and drug use.
Author's note: My plan was to post it after I had finished my TDI remake, but since this is a one-shot, sort of, and I won't have to regularly update it, I guess there won't be trouble in posting it. Have fun, and feel free to leave your feedback.
"Mrs. Montgomery, follow me." Anyone could tell that wretch wasn't having his best day. I wondered if those words weren't overly polite. I mean, "Mrs?" That's not the kind of word you use to adress to someone in a situation like the one I was in. Furthermore, I was almost a hundred percent sure the guy crapped his pants at uttering such words. His face almost made me laugh. Of course, it was too fucking hard to laugh in that situation. But I almost did. I should have laughed; why, I wouldn't have the chance to laugh again in a while. Besides, the place I was most likely going to after it happened wouldn't be exactly the happiest place on Earth. But I remained quiet, because that guy just didn't seem to be in a good mood for a laughter, and I didn't want to get in a bigger heap of trouble, if that was even possible. I just followed him.
I felt like pissing. Oh, the irony. The possibility of it all ending like that, with a full bladder and everything, tasted bitter in my mouth. I asked him, "Can I use the toilet?"
Of course I couldn't. I guess too many people would've used that opportunity to escape from that, from everything that was yet to come, so he didn't trust me. Naturally. After all, I wouldn't need to piss after it was over, and, oddly enough, that really comforted me. Don't blame me; you haven't been in the same situation. My inevitable fate just seemed to me as the perfect excuse to hold on to every source of comfort as if it was my last one. In that case, it probably was.
"He had a faint smile on his face, as if he were content enough to forget about the terrible things all of that represented for both of us. Oh, boy, what did they do to him."
Liam. That name came to my head in an outpouring of memories and bitternesses. I wished that night could have been different. I wished I hadn't done that to him, but more than that I wished he hadn't been through all of that. The army had never been place for clever, nice guys like Liam. He didn't deserve to spend the last moments of his life in that base—in fact, that was the main reason why I was so remorsed about it. But life's the way it is, and I guess I can't change the past. Invading that base, trying to rescue Liam, that was more or less the first thing that counted in my doom. But I'm not the bad guy. If there's a bad guy in this story, it was the guy who forced Liam to join the army in first place. Yeah, I never liked his father.
What bugs me is that Liam didn't seem to need me at that moment. I had the best of the intentions, and I didn't plan to do that to him, but it was my only reaction. Aside from the sorrinesses, that content face of his is still my worst memory of the early years. Tough times, those.
The man in blue pulled my arm. Guess I wasn't walking fast enough. Those bastards really couldn't wait to get rid of me. Well, I can't blame anyone. People are too hypocritic to question the common notion of right and wrong. I had done things people considered bad, and thus they thought I deserved to have the same fate. "An eye for an eye." No one disagreed with it, because no one was autonomous enough to counter everyone else and consider my side of the story in their judgement. That's how society works.
"I looked at his face one last time, and hit the switch. It was all very instantaneous; for a moment, all I could see was an orgy of warm colors, and smoke. A lot of smoke."
That cracker I ate that day was really dry. Nothing wrong about that; I'm just saying. That's one in many of the ironies I've been through. That kitchen wasn't the kind of kitchen in which I expected Liam to be someday. And that cracker wasn't the kind of food I expected to be the last one made by Liam I'd eat. He always made the best mud pies. And the best pies in general, actually, but that doesn't really matter. I've never been a fan of pie.
Exploding the kitchen wasn't in my plans, but neither was being snitched by my best friend. I guess that life changed him, more than I could expect from the sweet kid I met in the kindergarten. Poor Liam. I would have been sorry for him except for what happened at last. That whistleblower who snitched me right before my attempt to save his ass wasn't my friend. My friend had been lost somehwere between Liam's departure to the army base and the day I broke into that place to rescue him. Therefore, I didn't kill my friend blowing up that kitchen. I killed a guy who really looked my friend, and that's all—in fact, even his looks were different from when he was my friend.
Maybe he didn't recognize me. Well, no one will ever know. Liam is dust now. The official version is that I exploded the kitchen in an accident while serving the reserve. All I can say is, sometimes it's good to have a comic relief.
While we walked through the hall, some people on my right tried to tease me with obscene gestures and indecent exposure, to be clean. No one there seemed to fancy me. Like that mattered. People had been hating me since I could remember; even with all the pressure of what was about to happen, I didn't mind two or three more disapproving faces. Partly because they wouldn't make any difference, partly because I wouldn't keep them on my mind for too long. A massive oblivion was about to take place in my mind. I had nothing to do but to accept it.
"She gave me the gun, and told me to avoid using it. Even at that age, I knew well enough guns could be dangerous. But, for a person like me, a gun could be very handy."
I was very impulsive in my youth. I loved the fire, the adrenalin of doing something wrong just for fun, the subsequent explosions that usually came. That was my life for a long time. Of course, people grow, and so did I. The first time I got a gun, I would really have liked to shoot the first guy who teased me. I almost did that once or twice. When you're seventeen, you don't spend much time weighting the consequences. But that wasn't intelligent. If I had a gun, I should honor the purposes under which it had been given to me. That is, the woman who helped me after I went to Vancouver—she said her name was Vanessa, but I doubt she was telling the truth about that—gave me the gun after knowing me enough to think I was worthy of it. I was just a small town girl trying to fit in, and, let's face it, it's very hard to fit in when you're the seventh most wanted person by the RCMP. After "Vanessa" found me, she guided me through the dark places of Vancouver—in all meanings of the word "dark"—and made me ready for the rest of my life. After three or four years following her around, I could already fend for myself. I owed her my life, if not more than that.
I saw the daylight for the first time in a few weeks. It would probably happen outdoors. This could be good or bad, depending on the accuracy of those sattelite softwares. There are many necrophiliacs in this world, and if there was something I didn't need in my life was a sick guy opening Google Earth and jerking off to my dead body. Star, goosebumps, star.
"He raised his arms in dread, and I stared at that poor soul's face for a long time before I sank in. He was an innocent man—and killing an innocent man was everything I had been trying to avoid. Hence, I let him go."
Yep, the psycho almost killed an innocent man. But that was good for me. It taught me killing the wrong people is as unwarranted as not killing the right ones. That one man I let go had the looks of a family guy, and a good one. But I was blind to it; until I got angry at him for not giving me any money and cornered him at an alley, I was completely oblivious to it. The obvious lack of good reasons to kill him only came to my head when I looked into his eyes at the alley. To begin with, he was probably right about what I was going to do with the money if he gave me any—it had been a tough day, and that's what you do in tough days. You drink. But I couldn't blame that guy for not giving me money to drink. I guess he was right—of course, you don't think 'bout who's right until it's time to actually decide it.
Anyway, that guy's near-death experience seemed to be good for both of us. Having a gun to your head changes you; I know it from experience. He would most likely have become a better father, a better husband, a better person, blah blah blah—that's the most natural thing to think. But I guess I messed with the wrong guy, for a couple of days later the Vancouver police was at my heels. That guy didn't keep me in his mind as a memory of how fragile a thing life was—instead, he filed a charge against me. That simple. And I didn't wait for anything to happen. I did the only thing a sane person would do: I fled the town.
We kept walking. There was a big audience in the yard of the building. Ha, so many people waiting to watch something like that. That was almost funny. Almost. A situation like that hardly provides moments funny enough to actually be considered funny. And, though that situation was very ironical, it was still far from laughable. At least positively. One who lived the same life as mine and then watched me in that situation could easily keckle, but not because it was particularly funny—the laughable thing about that situation was its complete preposterousness. Considering all of its aspects, it was very preposterous—politically, perhaps, and only for those who know what a ridiculous thing the system can be.
"I really shouldn't have used that knife without being a hundred percent aware of the possible consequences. At least it was just a finger, and not an entire hand."
After I fled to the States and settled down in Seattle, my interest in melee weapons increased. Knowing how to use a dagger was a childhood dream, and after I found one for the first time, I became indescribably hopeful. Of course I cut my finger trying to kill a pigeon, but that was nothing compared to the satisfaction of being able to achieve my dream. After becoming more aware of a dagger's power—cutting off a finger can hurt—I became more respectful to it. That helped me master the art of handling a dagger, and after a couple of months of practice—I didn't have anything better to do, so I spend nearly fourteen hours a day practicing—I was able to slice an apple in mid-air. I was surprised I had made it all alone, for at first I thought I wouldn't be able to fend for myself, even after all I had been through.
From time to time, when I had one of those bouts of depression, I did some snow. It was hard to get it, but I didn't have anything better to do anyway, and living in the alleys of a big city for months really helps you get to know the dark side of it. So, when I was able to get some coke, and it wasn't easy, I usually saved it for periods of depression. And they were kinda usual. After all, I had no home, I had to find my own food... fleeing from justice comes with a price.
But I handled it just fine for a long time. Seattle was a nice city, and living there, even trying not to be seen by any potential Canadians, was a great experience for me as a fugitive. Struggling to survive in the city itself builds character. Maybe mine could have been betterly built, but that's not exactly the kind of thing over which you have power of decision. At least I did my best.
Someone tossed a tomato at my face. I probably deserved it, according to the moral standarts of the society. I didn't react. Some people in the audience were extremely happy to see me walking toward that wooden structure. I didn't react. The guy who pulled me whispered "See ya in hell, bitch." I didn't react. Then I looked at a crowd of patriots holding commemorative plaques with the colors of U.S. and glorifying the government for their decision.
I'm afraid I reacted that time.
"I uttered a wicked laugh the moment I pulled the dagger out of his chest and looked at his terrified face. He fell down lifelessly, and I laughed even harder. Impish? Maybe."
The first murder is unforgettable. Especially if you're the right one. After living on my own for about a year, I was an entirely different person. And the new me was able to kill someone if there were good reasons—that was something I wasn't brave enough to do in good conscience in my youth. The good reason eventually came, and it went by the name "Frank King." I didn't know the guy, and our first meeting wasn't exactly pleasant—he was a recently dismissed agent from the RCMP who coincidentally spotted me walking through the city, and let's say I worked my legs that day. When I learned he had been fired for corruption and misfeasance and had moved to the States to start his life from scratch, I got slightly relieved, though not completely, because I knew I couldn't trust those guys.
I was right. He tried to blackmail me into having sex with him—aren't pervs abhorrent?—and, initially, I wasn't sure about what to do, because I had never been in a situation like that before. My first thought was to accept it, because that seemed to be the only option. On the other hand, I was a virgin—21 years old, and I still hadn't found time to willingly meet a guy—and I didn't want that to be my first time. The bastard was like 60 years old. So, I declined. Mentally. He believed me when I told him I accepted it, and took me to his place. He was really shameless. His apartment ended up being the scene of the crime.
The problem about killing a guy with a secret life is that you don't get to have anyone on your side. Frank King was considered to be a good guy and all, so when the news came up the next day—Frank King's dead body had been found in his apartment by the police—virtually everyone cursed at the one responsible for that. That person happened to be me, but no one knew it.
The guys held me before I could teach a lesson to those bastard patriots. The fact that no one cared about my version of the story was quite annoying on itself; therefore, noticing some people were congratulating the government as if there was any merit in my doom was too outrageous for me to swallow it. I ran into the crowd, but they held me before anything could happen.
If there's anything I hate the most in this world, is patriotism. Thinking your country is superior to the other ones just because you were born in it. Not paying attention to anything bad in your country and stating it's the best country in the world when it's really far from it. Having it as an excuse to do and say stupid things. All of that because of pieces of land. In one word: Bullshit.
This time, there were two men in blue carrying me to the wooden structure.
"The last one was down. There was blood everywhere. I ran off the building, trying to convince myself I had done the right thing. Boy, it was hard."
The first thing you should know is that Bennet Associates was an evil corporation. Ironically, they sold insurances. I spent about five years trying to get over the murder of Frank King, and five more years planning my action against that firm. Why? Because, during the ten years I remained idle, I worked there, under a fake ID. I didn't want to, but I had to eat and it was getting harder. And I was good. I would never have imagined I was a natural at selling insurances. Surprisingly, no one ever found out who I was—I guess people were too busy trying to keep their own secrets to waste their time discovering other people's. Everyone at Bennet Associates had a dark background—I knew it after working there for three years. When I reached the top of the company after six years of dedication, my surprise was even bigger.
The flood of unresolved instances, allegations of corruption, lawsuits, unsatisfied clients, and hierarchical flaws that came up after I became the vice-president of Bennet Associates was frightening. I suddenly noticed I was at the wrong place, and if I didn't keep it the same way it was before, I might suffer the consequences. And, in a corrupted system like BA's, that could mean anything. You might have heard of evil corporations that kill anyone who stands between it and its goals. Bennet Associates was more or less that. I heard some terrible stories when I was still a regular employee. Most of my friends, the ones with any honor left, disappeared over the night. And suddenly I was the vice-president, and I couldn't do anything to change that if I cared about my life. It was complicated.
But I was too sick of people being stepped on by them. I was too sick of everything they had done to innocent ones. So I invested five years of my life in planning a major action against that company. Inside it, I went deeper and deeper into the functionality of its system, and learned some disturbing things about it. Outside it, I got ready for what could be the last thing I would do as a criminal. And, five years later, having reached the status of president, I was ready. I entered the company like in any other day, and went into what some people might consider a massacre. Taking guns into the building wasn't that hard; I was great at defeating security guards. Once in, I killed as many people as I could—I didn't have to worry about who not to kill, because just about everyone in there were worms. Even the secretary. Some people in there had guns as well, but it wasn't hard for me to deal with them. I kept killing people—I won't add the details—until someone called the police. Luckily for me, that person was the last one alive. So I killed him and ran off before the cops arrived. And I fled Seattle.
Suddenly, the wooden structure was in front of me. It looked like oak. That was somewhat good. The guys told me to get on it. I walked toward the stairs. They didn't leave my side. That was touching. I hesitated before walking onto the stairs. For the first time in the day, everyone was immersed in a dead silence. Each step I took on the wooden stairs sounded as loud as a gunshot. Maybe it was all psychological, but I couldn't tell. No one could. The tension that revolved around the platform had shut everyone up. And I kept walking.
"And there they were, with their guns pointing at me, leaving me without choice. I raised my arms, incredulous. It was over. After thirty-five years, it was over."
I lived in a small town in southeast Washington for three years after the BA massacre. I was able to get few attention. I stayed in my house—I found an abandoned one on the outskirts—for as much time as I could. And yet the cops found me.
As it was a small town, I couldn't stay home all the time without having people talking about me. I became a weirdo. The weird woman who never left her house. More attention than I wanted. But that wasn't my fatal mistake. The real problem was, I didn't destroy the security cameras. And those guys are good. They didn't take long to find me, and even though I tried to escape, they surrounded me before I could point a gun at one of them. I could have been more careful.
They arrested me. And then everything I had done came up. My intial sentence was life imprisionment. I stayed in prison for more than one decade. That was a distressing period.
I was finally on the platform. A murmur went through the audience before me. Finally, the judge showed up in those queer judge clothes, and went up the stairs—much quicker than me, I must admit. I guess he was free from all the tension of the moment. He probably had done that many times before. It was just another day of work for him. Of course, it wasn't quite the same thing for me. At last, he was standing next to me on the platform.
Only then, I noticed a guy was standing next to us. I assumed he was the executioner.
"I'm glad it's still legal in Washington. It just doesn't feel right to get killed by a lethal injection. It's too artificial, and I didn't want an artificial death. So, I made my decision."
It took them a while to gather all the information about my criminal life. When I went to prison, only fifty percent of it had been figured out—ie, the massacre. When everything else I had done came up, my penalty was aggravated to the limit. That is, capital punishment. Guess I killed too many people to stay alive without receiving glares. I didn't protest. I had done the best I could to help society. If society wanted to kill me in return, there was nothing I could do.
If I had stayed longer at freedom, I would probably have killed some politicians. Sue me, but some of those people deserve to die. Well, at least that's my point of view. Unfortunately, they arrested me before I could do it. They have great timing. That kinda afflicted me. And that wasn't the only thing. The involuntary avalanche of philosophic thoughts that invade your head when you're on death row can really ruin your breakfast.
Washington is one in two states in the USA to allow hanging as a method of execution, according to the prisioner's will. At least, they had the decency to let me choose the way I wanted to die. And I hated the possibility of dying from lethal injection. All my life had been a battle against hypocrisy and artificiality. And I couldn't think of something more hypocritical and artificial than being condemned to death and then getting killed by a method especially developed to keep the prisioner from suffering. I'd rather be hanged. It would be way less ironic. That's what I tried to keep in mind when they sent me back to prison temporarily. But it was kinda hard to avoid the thought of "I'm gonna die, dammit!"
"Isabelle Montgomery, you are under arrest by Canadian courts for damage to government property, traison, illegal possession of weapons, flee from justice, psychological damage and attempted murder, and by American courts for illegal immigration, degree murder, flee from justice, illegal possession of weapons, and mass murder," said the judge. The rope was around my neck. The executioner was waiting for his cue. No noise could be heard except for the judge's voice. I sighed. That was actually going to happen.
Suddenly, my life flashed before my eyes. Okay, that's kinda cliché, but there was a context. I was getting killed for what I had done. But then I wondered if what I had done was actually wrong. I had never killed someone for no reason. I had never commited a crime for no reason. It was all in a context. I wasn't a threat to society; I was helping it. But I guess most people were too busy getting shocked at the bloodstains in my history to care for it. I sighed again. Surprisingly, I didn't freak out.
I didn't think capital punishment was wrong. People are like plants; when a weed comes to light, you can't just give it an earful and hope it works. You have to cut it. The only thing I was disappointed at was the irony of the situation. I really didn't plan to die ironically. But I accepted it. And the judge kept speaking.
At least I had learned one thing from my experiences: The power of a melee weapon. A gun needs bullets, a bow needs arrows, a taser needs electricity. But a knife doesn't need anything but itself and a good handler. Even when it's just an ordinary knife, it's still a knife. It still has the same power to kill, destruct and harm. There's no need to reload it or aim it. And we can't question its power.
It could have been different if I hadn't fled from Canada; there is no capital punishment there. However, if I had stayed in Canada and hadn't got caught by the police, my fate would probably be the same. Hanging is the most common suicide method in Canada, and that wouldn't be exactly the right situation to be original.
The executioner was ready to pull the rope. A sack was covering my head. Everyone was looking at me. A pastor finished his prayer. Just the protocol.
I had been absolutely quiet all the time. But then, in the spur of the moment, I yell "I was helping you, you little bastards! I see ya in h-"