Anesthetic

On some levels, it wasn't as hard as she'd thought. In fact, in some ways, it was even easy, letting go, after all this time. There was a sort of finality to it, after all the struggles of the past days. Now everything would just be done--finished, finally, to suffer no more.


Except it would be done because everything would be gone and everyone would be dead.


In a strange sort of way, the thought was comforting. After all, everyone had known for months that this was most likely how it would end. There would be no more worry, no more responsibility, no more endless fights to the death.


Because they would have lost.


She felt her brain shutting down, soaking numbly in the perverse solace of an end to the madness of the past week. But another part of her was rousing, stirring, rebelling, fighting with all its considerable might against the anesthetic affect of the possibility--the inevitability--of an end. Torn in two completely opposite directions, Lucy screamed, stood, lifted her weapon, and charged toward her nearest enemy. Inexplicably, she was unable to give up. Her fleeting sense of calm shattered, and she almost wept as her senses returned painfully to hyperdrive and her reflexes kicked into play. Her momentary respite from the battle had been like a peaceful, refreshing sleep, and this return to the fight was a kick in the ribs come far too soon.


She fiercely hoped she wouldn't lose now. Giving up and accepting defeat once had been terrible even in its serenity, and now that she'd rejected that kind of peace, she needed the kind that came with victory.





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