Stranglehold/How Strong

From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe

((Note: Mostly, I'm just trying to flex my atrophied writing muscles here, based on a question Stranglehold had been asked that was so impossibly ambiguous. I'm weirdly happy with how it turned out, but it's not great art. Eisregen))

"How strong?"

The echo of her voice reverbrated in his head. He wasn't drunk yet, though he tried hard. The 240 pounds of well-oiled man-machine he called his body but treated like a racecar engine wouldn't budge before sixth screwdriver, nor would they give in to the seventh. Maybe eight was his lucky number. Stranglehold was buzzed alright though, and without focus. His choice was simple at this point; drift off in his own thought, or allow himself to be flooded by the ideas of his inmates. It wasn't a choice at all.

"How strong?"

It struck him as silly of a question then as it did now. But he very well remembered the first thought he'd had right after. The images were just as vivid as they were then or had been the day before. His fingers, digging into the steel shell encasing the Rikti Heavy until he had a solid grip. A jerk of his arms, and the entire exostructure came apart like an eggshell, the tearing metal screaming like a dying pig. The metal screaming in starkest contrast to the Heavy's rider who just hovered on its inside, fragile like a baby exposed in its mother's womb. Its kite-shaped head came around and its inhuman eyes stared silently. Did it know the concept of mercy and if so, was it begging for it now? He hadn't known. All that he knew was that the silent beady stare offended him. Stranglehold's heavy glove gripped the Rikti's skull as it had gripped its shell before, and another muscle spasm drowned the silent stare in a shower of blood.

Not strong enough to show compassion.

"How strong?"

There was another image, from the very same day. The place was an abattoir. Vanguard, Longbow, Rikti, they lay strewn across each other, in various stages of death or dying. The air was heavy with ozone from the discharge of their weapons, and it tasted metallic from the blood they'd shed. But for him, those sensations had just been background noise. The room had an overwhelming feeling of hatred and anguish. None of these souls would find rest quickly, even the ones who had already left their bodies lingered, screaming at each other, still locked in that battle that was long over. Once the shock had worn off, he'd started to shake, like a frog leg hooked up to electric wiring he'd twitched. And once he'd re-establised motor control, the subtler sensations hit him. In the seconds he just stood inside the doorway, people had died, kicking and screaming, choking and spitting. To Stranglehold, it was if the entire world screamed out in pain. And it was the biggest rush he'd ever felt.

As strong as the world was bad.

But that was not the point. That was power, not strength. Any idiot could get jacked up on Dyne and become strong enough to toss a car around. That was never the strength he'd prided himself on. His was the strength of the man who had nothing to lose and everything to gain. The man who'd leave every battlefield a winner, or beyond such mortal concerns as winning or losing. The man who'd accepted that if there was truly a Hell that was not just some alternate dimension full of emotional parasites, this was where he was going at the end of the days and so at least might make his life worth the while.

It wasn't even fatalism. If there was one thing Stranglehold did better than fuck people up, then it was getting fucked up and walking away with his head on his shoulders. Mad Gods, fallen Titans, invasion fleets... he'd tackled them all head-on and come out ahead.

He had it all worked out, he had the perfect plan that would work until it all was over. With any luck, he'd go down in flames doing something important. Or maybe he'd fall to an orbital sniper's bullet while buying cigarettes. But when it was over, he'd say ever so proudly that he didn't regret a single damn thing.

Stranglehold also knew that the plan has one big flaw.

"Hell," wrote Jean-Paul Sartre, "is other people."

That's where his damnation lay. If he stopped, he'd lose that edge. If too many people cared, he couldn't play it all that risky anymore. And if he couldn't dance on the razor's edge anymore, what good would he be? Still good, but not at the top of his game. And of course he'd still die way too young because that's what happened in this job. Bad things happened to good people... and even worse things happened to people like him.

"How strong?"

The voice in his head asked again as he moved on to the ninth drink.He paused then, and shut his eyes. Either too strong for his own good, or not strong enough to care.