ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Invictus

Vignette - Invictus
Dramatis Personae	2014-01-04 Malthus -- and the last of his plots -- are put to rest.
Location
It is a small service; no one but immediate family -- and a few select friends -- are allowed to attend. Malthus Rogers is interred in a private cemetary out-of-state, at a plot besides his father. The tombstone is large, with dense, neat script. It reads: CAPTAIN MALTHUS ROGERS 1965-03-12 - 2013-12-29 Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. Sergeant Pointdexter has read the poem several times now. All the other attendants have left; only he remains -- dressed in a crisp, dark uniform. His scarred face -- recently healed burnt marks swell up over the left side, threatening to claim his left eye -- gives him a grim, dark appearance. In his left hand, he holds a letter, now crumpled. "I did a lot of terrible things for you," the sergeant notes. "That's not a complaint, sir. They were terrible, but they were necessary. You taught me that -- that it's strength to do what others dare not -- that a hero was someone with the strength of will to do what needed to be done, even when no one else could. Especially when no one else could." The letter in his hand crinkles beneath his tightening fist. "I had a chance to kill the enemy once, sir. I never told you. In the sewers. When we first made contact -- I had a clear shot. 45 yards. Could have put one right between his eyes. I hesitated. He had a chance to kill me down there, and he didn't." Pointdexter crouches, kneeling; his uniform shifts. He grimaces in pain, the injuries he suffered on an earlier mission still throb. "I know what you'd say. Real gentle like. 'Sentimentality, while a precious luxury in times of peace, remains a weakness in times of war'." Pointdexter's impression of Malthus consists of lowering his voice an octave and speaking with a slow, pronounced tone. "I was with you the whole way, sir. And I shot a lot of people under your orders. But I can't take this one. I'm sorry. Maybe I'm too weak. Maybe you were too strong. Maybe--" Pointdexter stiffens, straightens, rises -- and throws the crumpled up paper on the grave. It lands among the ivy wreathes. "I'm not as strong as you were, sir. Maybe no one is. But... it's over. I'm done. We're done. Save me a seat in Hell." Still grimacing, Sergeant Pointdexter limps from the site.