Dead Men Don't Cry

A/N: Disclaimer at begining. Yeah, it took a while. Big thanks to those that pester me to write, even when my heart and mind heavily weigh. Tyr's POV. No there probably wouldnt be shelves but oh well.

Chapter 11 - Weakness

I watch the expression on his face as his hands are released from the tangle of wires overhead. He is confused, lost and afraid, whether he is afraid of me of himself has yet to be seen. He cannot take his eyes from the wound, and I cannot take my eyes from his. Within me there is a great transformation taking place. My love, my fears, my hopes, my desire - all of it is burning, decomposing, turning into smoke before my eyes. In its place are the ruins of myself, of my dignity and my stability.

I am not so hurt by the actual wound affected by the boy - it was a natural reaction to the situation, a defense mechanism. His quickly passing mindless rage was to be expected. My... allowing his the luxery of wounding me was not. I permitted my guard to fall, and when he struck me I did not react. Never in all my years did I once freeze in any sort of combat situation, but today, when he needed my alertness most, I failed him. The guilt of his new found ability of inflicting pain upon me shines bright in his eyes as we wordlessly study one another. He will hate himself for this new potential, and I too will grow to hate myself for his condition. He will not be able to forget this, not the action, but the driving force behind it, the desire to hurt me and to punie. Ie. I know just as well as he does where that need stems from.

He left her behind for me. I have never deluded myself by thinking he left for himself or for her or for the greater good. It was because of me that he sits here now in the rubble of this once proud ship and laments for his lost creation, his lost friend. He left her because he perceived the weakness within me, my weakness for him, that is even now expressed through my pain. I love him not wisely, but all too well.

It occurs to me that I have lost control of myself and these weaknesses of mine. On second thought, I am not so sure I ever had control. One looks upon me, sees that I am Nietzschean, that I am always the stronger one, and assumes that I am the master of the situation, but in actuality I am more the slave than anyone could imagine. I was a slave once to Dylan, or at least the creature that now controls this ship, a slave to his need for power and dominance and his lust, and when my dignity could suffer no longer I lied down and wished for death. Now I find a new sort of submissiveness within me. I am now a slave to my own emotions for this young human, and incidentally a slave to his as well. In the end, my weakness will destroy me.

I know that it is time for me to walk away, and I am resolved to do so, by rey resolution is paper thin at best. Never have I felt as empty as I am begining to feel now. I love him deeply, more deeply than I love myself, and I recognize that if I do not gain some control over myself and this weakness that we will not leave this ship alive. As it stands, I am the unofficial leader of this impromptu rescue mission, which it seems has already failed. My lack of objectivity could cost him, and the rest of us, our lives.

Even if it did not, even if a supposedly perfect possible future reign supreme, would we ever find any true happiness? The captain, now undeniably insane, would be dead. The ship? Destroyed most likely, sense it seems now to be irreparably damaged. We might still, find the magog, alive and cured. The five of us would wander without purpose throughout a dying universe, and within years we would face the end of that universe, knowing all along that had our past actions differed that the destruction could have been deverted. Without Dylan Hunt and his commonwealth, this universe is damned. How heavily would the knowledge of our fate weigh upon us? Would we wake each morning and count the days until we shall never wake again? And the one who pulled the trigger, who brought an end to the once great hero's life, would he ever find forgiveness? He it will be, though the actual identity is yet to be seen. Beka has not the heart to kill Dylan, in the shell of the man she can still see the fof hof her friend, hence her recent injury. Trance... the creature, I do not doubt, is not of this universe, or at least the universe as we know it. She has always seemed more spectator than player in this game of life we live, and I would not be surprised to find some rule that prohibits her from interferance. That leaves it to the boy and me.

There is a fear within me that is will be the former. A fear that my weakness will somehow defeat me, that I will have to watch the last of his humanity and goodness die within him, that I will have to wash the blood from his hands. He would not recover. Each day he would die more and more, become more and more distant, and I would lose him.

A dream, one of the few I have ever indulged, reappears crystal clear within my mind - an image, one that I fear resembles the future much too closely. The place is strange and cold to me, all metal, some walls, a large bay window, and beyond it empty space. In the background I can hear the noises of destruction - fire and explosions and implosions. The universe seems to be falling in on its self behind us, and ahead of us is that window with the empty view of numerous nameless stars, as if we are seeing the next victims of this Ragnarok and cannot save them. He sits, his back to me, silently weeping, perhaps for us, perhaps for the universe, or himself or something completely unknown to me, and he is empty. I rest a hand upon his shoulder, but he is beyond my reach and he does not feel the little comfort I offer him.

"Will they all suffer such as this? Is this truly the meaning of it all?" he asks me, and I am unable to respond, because the words are within my heart as well.

I suddenly realize how long I have been standing in front of him in silence, how long sense he moved or spoke, how much he longs to, and that I cannot allow him to. I cannot allow him to break my resolve. I turn quickly and walk towards Beka, who recently entered with a few sparse weapons in hand. She too stands silently, watching her shocked friend sitting, rubbing his wrists on the floor. She wants to run to him and envelop him in her arms, but she is afraid of him, and of hurting him. She snaps out of her reverie as I approach and looks questioningly at me, undoubtedly wanted to know how things are between me and the boy, but I do not know that myself.

"Is this all you could find?" I inquire, gesturing he lhe low grade weapons in her arms, and she seems surprised at my avoidance of the obvious topic.

"Unfortuantely. I'm not even sure if all of these actually work, and I couldnt find any spare power cells anywhere."

I examine the half dozen weapons that she lays upon a low standing crate and find at first glance that many of them in fact may not work, or may be in need of a new power cell or other component. Wishing that Harper wasn't as incompacitated as he is, I gather up the weapons and attempt once more to shove all thoughts of the human aside.

"I will see if they can be salvaged. Trance will make the next weapons search. You will stay with the boy," I order quickly. She seems distraught somehow, but nods her concurrence before I head towards the storage locker that is quickly becoming our armory. Shelves and crates dominated the room, holding various weapons in various conditions, and even more weapons components. Weapons repair was not what one would call my specialty, but I had more than adequate training and experiance in the area to be able to repair about half of the damaged weapons that had been found littering the floors of the ship. A few weapons still reamined fully intact, but many had clearly been used before.

I sat upon a large metal tool box and gingerly set the weapons beside it upon the ground and begin to examine each one. Before a whole minute had passed I became aware of the sensation that I was being watched. One last look at the weapon confirmed that there was at least a single shot left it, which was all I needed. Jumping up from the perch I was resting upon I did a full sweep of the room, looking for a target, but none was apparant at first. Then a sudden, slight movement caught my eyes upon one of the upper shelves.

The disembodied head of the avatar had blinked its eyes.

I cautious lay down my weapon and studied it for several moments, thinking that it may have simply been a trick of my eyes. Then the twitch of the faux eyelids occured again, seeming to be more a glich of the machine than a sign of cognizance. The movement was strange and almost repulsive, a grotesque of the intelligance and conciousness that once resided within the machine. Intuition led me to finally grasp the head from the shelf and examine it closer. Finding nothing conclusive I, like a child with a toy, shook the head. Nothing. The head had ceased its movement entirely. I look at it one last time before replacing it on the shelf.

There was a rattle of sorts, almost too low to be heard, then a mechanical whir and its mouth opened.

The android screamed.

I dropped the head and instinctively covered my ears and back up against the wall. The volume of the shrill cry was painful and near deafening. For several minutes the noise continued on unabated, almost convincing me that it would never end. Finally the scream ended sharply, the echo within my head filling the moments of silence afterwards. Gingerly I uncovered my ears and opened my eyes, to see the head, fallen and resting against a crate, watching me.

She smiled.

"You're late."

A/N: next chapter = Beka's POV. Soon this story will end, but not the story arc. There will be a sequel directly following. GJ me.