It may be a time-worn line dished out to over-emphasise something that really doesn’t need to be emphasised, but the phrase ‘every man for himself’ is time-worn for a very reason and strikes me as particularly pertinent for the Bourbon Street Brawl, especially for someone like me. Someone who has no friends within the WWA locker room whatsoever, someone who is categorically hated by everyone he’s ever encountered.

That’s just the way I am and I refuse to change it simply because others disapprove of it. Who are they to determine what’s right and what’s wrong? Who are they to instruct me out to conduct myself? They have no authority over me and never will.

Besides, I consider being a loner, to be more of an advantage than any kind of hindrance, in this event. Going into the match, I know I’m all alone out of there, I know I have no allies to speak of, definitely no friends and I know there won’t be anyone to rely upon if things get particularly nasty. So I’ll be sharp, not having to learn the way of things the hard way, as I’m sure many of the more trusting participants will.

I will play things by how they’re advantageous to me, calculating what will help me best in any given situation, planning only for the short-term, playing things by ear, making stratagems up as the opportunity arises. I’ll team up when necessary to help take down a particularly powerful opponent and then turn on the trusting sole, without suffering even a flicker of guilt.

It seems as though this match has been solely geared to fit in with my very ideology, designed to fit in with my strengths and simply disregards my few weaknesses as they never existed to begin with.

* * * * * * * * * *

Wednesday 26th April 2006.
23:03pm.
Rooftops.
New York.

The military issue missile blindly ploughs into the building across the waym causing complete devastation, blatantly disregarding all respect for human life and putting the immediate area into a kind of war-torn hysteria that an American city has never known before. The missile promptly erupts, fiercely, flames licking out of the building, forcing it simply collapse, haphazardly spraying a variety of different sized debris onto the street below.

I feel my stomach knot up tight as I think about the civilians who were actually inside the building at the time of impact, innocent people who were just getting on with their mundane everyday lives. They’re all dead now, I know a massacre when I see one.

The knot tightens even further, as I veer closer to the edge of the rooftop and see the debris scattered across the once vibrant New York street below, the battered and broken limbs sticking out from underneath a ton or more of brick and stone, indicating to terrified passers-by strong signs of life. Most rush directly to the scene of the chaos in order to desperately attempt to dig out the obviously dead victims, but I can perfectly understand why the rest don’t.

The black government issue cars just take a side road to bypass the destroyed street and catch up the lost ground without too much strain. None of these government types, the so-called ’protectors of peace’, even attempt to stop to help with the make-shift rescue attempt. I bet they’re consoling themselves, thinking that they can’t allow anybody to see them because such a task force isn’t even supposed to exist. I bet it makes them feel just a little more human, simply ignoring the fact they don’t feel a thing for all the people they’ve killed this day. And I’m the one being hunted in this scenario. Justice isn’t blind, it just doesn’t exist for these people.

Try as I might, I can’t remove scenes of destruction that fixated in my mind and I can’t shake the primal urge to help them in their time of need. Use my abnormal abilities to help as many as inhumanly possible. In this situation, it would be the clearest form of irony you’re ever likely to find.

You may be wondering precisely why I react in such a way, given my much publicised temperament and previous signs of complete indifference, and to be honest finding these thoughts circulating through my mind is kind of surprising to me, but what you have to understand is, I want none of this.

I want to be left alone to get on with my life. To be left to succeed in the industry that I love so much. I don’t want to see death. I don’t need to watch innocents die just because of my actions. I don’t need to be constantly hunted down like a rapid animal for something I had no say in and no control over. I don’t want see any of this, but the truth of the matter is, I have to if I want to survive, if I am to sample any of the selfish desires that rule me and unlike a normal human being, they are far too compelling for me to resist.

I want to go back, but if I want to survive I know that I cannot help them. A hero would go back, despite the obvious danger posed to him and the assured consequences. But the thing about heroes is, they always wind up dead, doing something heroic and often pointless.

Do I seem like the hero type to you? I think not. Screw that.

All of a sudden, despite my rationalisation arriving at the obvious conclusion that going back there would be a very bad idea, I realise that I’ve slowed down somewhat from my previously blistering pace and as I do, I feel the bullet pierce the air, just millimetres away from my right arm, causing a hot flush of panic and alarm. I waste no time in picking up my pace, gaining velocity to my previous speeds in but a few heartbeats, desperately pushing the stomach churning scenes of carnage out of my head.

I’ll feel guilty about it another time, when my life isn’t on the line and I am alive to relive this agony over and over again. You never know, I could die before that eventuality occurs and then I won’t have to. But I guess that’s just wishful thinking.

On everyone else’s part.

To Be Continued...