Seaslip
Bitch's Diary
It appears Bitch made an entry or two in the smoking remains of Bob's Diary, they seem slightly more coherrent for some reason..
(11th Session): Index ; What the F*ck ; Body Count ; Who's playing Who ; What's been happening
December 20th-22nd 2013:.
Well, on the bright side I've turned off the invisability device. I do
feel that using a thermonuclear plasma cannon to do it was just a little
bit excessive of them though... I mean, for all they say they couldn't see
me there was a pretty good shot I was at least somewhere between them and
Ipswitch. Still, by the time I'd stopped smoking I'd at least managed to
convince Bob that it maybe wasn't quite as nice a gun as he'd thought it
was... (although the logic was more along the lines of "there there, we'll
find you another one, this one's dripping...") So I turn my back on him
for two minutes to try an persuade the others not to go chasing around the
country after heavy artillary and bad guys, but to try thinking about
things (for once) and the next thing we know, it's on auto destruct.
Well, I ran. We all ran. Sadly we failed to run faster than the ensuing
explosion, and the next thing I knew the blast was on me, and I was
drowning in a sea of heat and dust...
So this is the afterlife. So far it's involved rather more rocks and fur
and fewer angels than I would have liked. Seems like even death isn't
going to get us out of this mess. I'm sure it was a charming idea to
lovingly bury us in a cairn rather than leaving us to the mercy of wild
beasts, but there's nothing worse than a tonne of stones to make a bad
start to a life. Actually, I exaggerate, there are things far worse, such
as discovering the groups one remaining psycho as my companion, no sign of
where the others had gone, and a rather stylish tabby coat (Trust me, I
got it far easier than Pixie). Well, life goes on, and I suppose that
can't be a bad thing, so I pulled myself together and, dragging a rather
reluctent koala with me, headed off to find them.
Stuff happens. And happened badly. I suppose it usually does around us.
If it wasn't for the fact I didn't know what to do with Pixie I don't know
if I'd have plucked up the courage to go back to them. I tried to make
contact with the group of peasents they were alternatively running away
from or attacking, but certain people (who shall remain nameless) appear
to be unable to spot a good plan when they have a chance to leap onto a
bandwagon before checking where it's going. Needless to say they
scattered, and no one else could be bothered to take a watch to find out
where they were. So that was left up to me too. At least by this time I
had most of my kit back.
It was lonely out there, that night. I wonder why they did leave me
alone? I feel... no, I refuse to say I feel inhuman. I am the same as I
always was. It's their damn insensitive prejudice that's inhuman. I can
take the pussy jokes, it's the double glances that get me, the half heard
conversations, as though I shouldn't be trusted any more. As though I'm
less than them. And I can't get the image of the hospital out of my mind,
how I just walked down shooting the innocents because I was so convinced
they were dangerous to me. There's only two conclusions I can draw from
it. Either they were still human, trapped in their skins like I am, and I
am stained forever with their calculated deaths, or else... and that's the
worst theory, because the other option is that they were wild, and they
would have killed us, and I'll go the same way. I know blood lust, you
can't stay in this line of work without feeling that wild exhillareating
power of death that brings your own life into focus. But my friends?
And then what hope of life, or love?
Like I said, it was lonely. It was a relief when someone finally came for
the wheelbarrow, and I was able to put aside half formed conclusions and
throw myself into the action. Which means we now have a half incompitent
emotional woman around the camp, stirring up hormones and creeping to
Bruce. Ah well, it's their problem now. Because after all that thinking,
some things became clearer than I wanted them to be. I'm not human any
more, and all the hopes I used to have can't fit with this me in this
world. So I either have to change it, or learn to live with it. The
latter would be easy. The world's going to the works, and now I'm one of
them, and I'm pretty and smart and trained, and I could go as far as I
wanted. I could declare war on the remaining humans, and build a world
that would accept me. Accept me in charge. Where would it end? If we
killed off the people interspecies war wouldn't be long in coming, in a
world of blood crazed animals... and power won by blood can only be kept
by blood, and I've seen so much blood.
So I have to change the world back to civilisation, and I have to change
myself back to human. And someone out there is causing this, and having
created an army of works for himself he's bound sooner or later to call
the best to his side to pledge allegiance to him. And I'm the best.
But before I can do anything I have to understand myself. I have to know
if I'll turn and slaughter my friends, and how long I'll keep thinking.
So no one's spoken to the works yet. What's a tiger? Just a big stripy
cat, that's all. They'll never notice the difference. But I watched the
group as they slept, Bruce on the ground having lent his bag to Edith,
Spock flaked out in utter exhaustion, dreaming of sustainable economies
and radio factories, and Blue sprawled in deepest sleep, the relaxation
pushing the creases of the day away until he looked as young and innocent
as he must have as a child. And Pixie, concussed under his tree. I need
them now. I even miss Bob. We'll get through this.
.