Looking Bach

You see the monster.

Wolfe stands before you, his gun drawn, malice in his heart. You wonder if the malice is for you; his creation. You remember all the things you have done, all the murders you have committed to find him. It has lead to this moment, a voice says, though you aren’t sure whose voice it is. Wolfe fires his gun at you, you fire back. You inject yourself with drugs to be able to defeat him. You imagine yourself tearing him apart with your hands. You imagine soaking yourself in his blood. You want to exact revenge on him. Don’t.

You are running at Wolfe, your gun in one hand and your other a fist. Now is your chance to tear him apart with your hands, and the excitement sharpens your mind. Don’t, Bach. No one deserves this, you’ve killed enough. You tackle Wolfe and begin screaming words that sound foreign to you. You scream at your creator, a sense of desperation in your voice. You can’t kill him. He was your creator. Why doesn’t he want me anymore? Why did he throw me away? You, Bach, rages within. You, Tom├ís de Victoria, cools your internal fire. You can shoot Wolfe in the head. You want to.

Don’t, Bach. Let it go.

He made me! He will answer for this, all of this!

Stop!

Wolfe grins and kills himself. You were powerless to stop it. You were powerless to stop your creation. You were powerless every time you’ve fire your gun, powerless when you caused the deaths of many, powerless to see the world as anything but a killing field.

You are soaked in blood, your own and Wolfe’s. You want to say your name, but Bach fades away, content to disappear with Wolfe forever. de Victoria wishes to remain. You don’t know your name. But as you look at yourself in the reflection from a piece of broken glass on the floor, you almost scream in terror. You see what you are, and have become.

You see the monster.

Looking Bach

Penumbra huntedbuddha