Controlled Reactions
by ALC Punk!

"I'm a little teapot..."

The voice came from somewhere nearby, but Space Commander Travis ignored it. Gray walls moved past him as he silently stalked down the underground corridor.

He'd left behind the bright colours of the tents, the floating sounds of ignorant savages as they proved how stupid they were in feats of battle. Supreme Commander Servalan had been there, lounging on a couch in her white ermine robe. Her eyes had been sparkling with mocking amusement as she watched the combatants and revelers.

"Short and stout, here is my handle..."

It was an irritating sing-song of a voice, but he was resolutely ignoring it. He had to.

The cold in the walls nipped at the exposed skin of his face, except for where the eyepatch covered it. A strange cold, it whispered at his skin, talked to it, tugged at it like a dead lover. The walls here were thick, no one would hear a scream that echoed for a thousand years.

But the voice continued.

"Here is my spout..."

What does one do when one has decided that it's all gone wrong?

Betrayal cuts sharp like a knife, the serrated teeth ripping through bonds of trust like the skin is nothing but paper.

Water was dripping down the walls now, seeping through in bits and torrents. Staining the gray with a darker colour. The air took on a metallic tang. And Travis was reminded of blood as he watched men die around him. Or men die at his order.

The glorious Space Command, driven by its insatiable need to possess the ends of the universe, the whole of the galaxy in its grasp. And the Federation sat upon its back like a cancerous leach.

Honour used to mean something.

Gravel crunched under his boots as he walked, now, the rock having finally begun to crumble as time toiled on.

"When I get too hot, just hear me shout..."

All gone wrong and thousands of years of history slowly crumbling apart whilst blood pooled at the feet of the President and his men.

"And all the king's horses..."

The tune had changed, abruptly. It was wrong.

They sat in their hallowed sanctums and played chess with the common man. It should have been right, but it wasn't. Not any longer.

How many men had died in the raid that he'd orchestrated so long before? Blake had fired at him, anger and something else in his eyes. Blackness and pain ripped into his memory then. They'd had to reconstruct him from pieces. Parts, the sum of a Space Commander.

And are you ready to take up your duties again, sir?

There was a hole in the wall, now. A cell window. The voice was much closer.

"And all the king's men..."

Blake, at least, still had his cause.

What did he, Travis, have?

"Tip me over and..."

His brain, of course.

The cell door was squeaky with age, the sound of scuttling feet echoing away as the voice stopped. The jester looked up at him, his eyes gleaming with insanity.

"Couldn't put Humpty together again."

A giggle echoed through the cell.

In their time here, he'd seen the court's jester dragged down to the cells twice. It seemed a common occurance with him. As if his very wit offended those who lorded over him, and he had to be punished for being smarter. Travis could understand that, in a way. There had been senior officers in the Corps who had done much the same to him, and others, over the years.

Travis ignored the jester and moved to the inner room, to the old man. He didn't flinch at the stench that filled the place. Unwashed, diseased body had long since stopped bothering him.

But the old man on the pallet watched him. For a moment, the eyes almost saw him as he truly was. And then age and illusion swept over him.

Space Commander Travis touched the thong around his neck, and turned it over.

A smile crossed his lips.

Perhaps it wasn't all lost. Perhaps, in the end, things could be mended.

"Pour me out."

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© 2004 ALC Punk!.