CHAPTER 23: You don't need to be a Hero

The two men walked into the room where Alex lied awake and rejuvenated by his sleep. Sleep was something that Alex always wanted as a human, but could never get. He was always tired, cloudy, and dazed. He would lay in his bed, his thoughts wandering about, so desperate for his body to realize its condition and correct itself. Insomnia was immensely aggravating, and Alex rejoiced at its riddance. Finally, he could fall asleep whenever he wanted to and get up hours later without a problem.

"I think I'm ready now." Alex said in a calm, quiet voice. The pain was still haunting and its roots clung deep in his thoughts, but Alex had realized just how much control he had over his own body. Hormones rushed to keep the venom's ghost at bay, and happy thoughts were in the forefront of his mind. It was a nice feeling, the feeling of control. Though he could even delete his memory of the past torment, he refused. He remembered the memory in disgusting vibrancy, but it was now just that, a memory. It served as experience, none-the-less. Alex figured that one day, when he was wiser and well-aged, he would look back on all of his experiences nostalgically whether it be good or bad. After getting out of bed, he ambled over to Frilo and Holts, careful not to disturb his aching body.

"So, what do we have planned? I'm interested to see..." Alex said in a voice louder and more enthusiastic than his prior remark. He wondered what gift of knowledge he would be given today.

"You like music?" Frilo queried with a subtly smug grin. They came upon a large room with some Brotherhood and Ethiopian military members relaxing and conversing with their corresponding affiliation. There were smiles, there were tears, and everything in between. In the center of this room(which was one of the only well furnished and aesthetic places in the entirety of the base), stood a lovely piano and some instruments on their stands. Frilo took a seat on the piano's chair and looked back confidently at Alex, also signaling Holts to his trumpet. Holts picked up the instrument and wet his lips before pressing the silver mouthpiece to his face. They started suddenly without the need for a countdown, as if they'd been keeping time this entire time. Sound burst forth from the instruments and echoed brilliantly through the room and halls, catching the attention of everyone within its radius. The song was a beautiful concoction of its influences, breathing out its ancestry of jazz and many other subtle nods to the great styles of the past, yet dominating in a category of its own. It had a golden tempo and its own unique way of conveying its tone. Not too sad, not too happy, a perfect mix of raw emotions that could entrance a person of any mood. Alex's skin ran with goosebumps at the impressive melody, and wonder and happiness filled his heart, beating back his dormant pains and troublesome insecurities. The room was no longer in the real world, it was another land where war was extinct and understanding flowed like rivers that spread and branched without origin or destination. At that moment, everyone in the room felt an odd sense of connection and awe. People from different walks of life, different callings, different homelands, different tongues. They were all connected to this art called music, a testament to the power of the human mind and soul. If the world worked through music, fights would end in friendships, arguments in knowledge, and prejudice in appreciation. By the end of the song, Alex felt enlightened and joyful. There was not the pressure of immense chains weighing down on his feet or his chest. The beast named depression had now fled from his heart upon seeing an enemy far greater than him. Alex now felt a confidence one hundred times greater than before, and the illusion of wisdom crowned itself on his head. He smiled innocently again, with a heart that felt like facing one-hundred foes.

"When we were young like you, Alex, Holts and I were good friends. I was blind, without many true friends. Holts, however, was always there for me, and saw me for who I was deep within, past this facade of a blind man. He noticed my talent for rhythm and beat, as that was the one thing that would truly connect us. I could not see what he could, but we could both hear the beauty of lyrics and music. He heard how I sang, and encouraged me to take up an instrument, specifically piano. I declined at first, fearful and nervous, but he begged me day in and day out. I still refused him until the day he offered me a deal. He would learn the trumpet and the saxophone at the same time I learned the piano, and we would play together. I liked the idea, so we stuck with it. At first, we were terrible, only just learning how to figure our instruments out. But we stood strong, practiced almost every day, and lapped up the wisdom of professionals we occasionally met whenever we could. We became more synchronized, and I learned to appreciate Holts more. How could he stick with me, a blind teenager that was destined to have an isolated, lack-luster future? At that point, I not only gave up my hatred for my blindness that had tormented me over the years of my youth, but I wholeheartedly embraced it. I always got comments from others on how unfortunate it was for me to be blind. How little they knew! It was a blessing, and I was truly happy. We even earned a name for ourselves and our works. Then, sometime after high school, World War III was brought into existence courtesy of those TA fiends. After much desperation, the U.S. drafting called Holts into service, and I could not go with him. I was a useless blind man, after all. Although looking back on it, it was better that I had not gone with poor Holts, as he was one of the few survivors of that so-called "war". All of those people he had joined to fight with and had grown to love so much were gone, thieved of their lives as Holts listened and watched in terror. He had realized the inevitability of the situation, and escaped, only barely. He made it back onto a desolate base as the US had finally declared its surrendering. However, this was not the end of his struggles. As the allied nations laid in confusion and disaster, he was forcibly taken, along with thousands of other unfortunate souls, into experimentation. They all were kidnapped by none other than the Foundation, the very same one responsible for the creation of Midnight. Yes, Holts was amongst the victims trapped, pinned by its claws. Holts again watched in disgust and dismay as countless experiments with X-enigmas were performed, death and disability commonplace amongst the results. Holts himself was a survivor of one such experiment, hence his unique ability to create that venom, along with powers originating from his own X-enigma, which you have yet to see. After this, he had been lucky and brave enough to risk his life formulating a plan of escape with some other successful experiments there. The plan worked. However, only one other was able to make it out with him."

"Wait, Holts, you're an X?" Alex interrupted, his eyes widened in surprise.

"Sure am. And you should have seen this man's face when he heard my voice from across the hallway. His head swung around perked up like a little puppy. When he saw my face he broke down in tears, saying 'so this is what you look like! I've waited my entire life for this moment! Oh my gosh, Holt's, your voice has changed so much since I last saw you. Look at how big you are! And here I thought my height change was drastic!' I'll never forget that moment." Holts laughed as Frilo stood there, reaching up covering his smile of pure embarrassment.

"You sound awfully confident for someone who witnessed something so terrible. I only saw on the news as they gave death counts and extremely vague overviews of the war. They never really did capture its true gruesomeness, did they..."

"If I let the past impede me in that way, I wouldn't be standing here with you all today. You gotta learn from these experiences, and know which fights to fight. And I haven't to forget those times I fought and I suffered. I am a living testament to my friends' lives, and I will always carry their story and legacy with me like a badge of honor. I remember Briant, a shy man who made many simple mistakes but was always trying to become a better person. I remember Ross, an alleged asshole who was rude at face value, but an insecure, hurting soul on the inside. He was also drafted like I was, and at a very inconvenient time in his life. I remember Cooper, our leader, who was an inspiration to me. He would charge into danger without a second thought. I always wondered how he did it, and he told me in his last breaths. 'I am afraid. I am scared. But if I didn't go headfirst into everything, who here would? Sometimes you have to be that man, and sacrifice things you don't want to. That's just how this world works' What he said really stuck with me, and it became my mission to live like that."

"Wow..." was all that Alex could say to that. His feelings mixed into a confused motley blend, and he didn't know what to think. He now felt a different feeling of inferiority compared to what these men have been through. He was just a normal, average person, with nothing special about him. He touched the crystal on his neck, and wondered why the crystal had bonded with him. There were so many others much more worthy of the power that this crystal was supposed to possess. Why didn't it choose someone more capable like Holt's, Frilo, or even one of his supposed enemies? What did this crystal want, and what was its purpose? Alex knew of the races hidden in the stars, and the one who created this device. Why did they do it? This device seemed to be more than a mere instrument of destruction. It had many more functions that Alex had yet to uncover. Why did it come with information, but not an instruction manual? So many questions, all of which no one could answer. Alex spiraled into a genuine depression. He was not good enough, and he probably never would be. Would he even be useful to them in battle? He didn't want Frilo and Holts to die. He didn't want to die. It took him hundreds of attempts to kill Frilo once. He couldn't fathom defeating just one of his upcoming enemies with only one life. Holts noticed Alex's darkened face, and gently placed down his trumpet on its stand.

"What's the matter, Alex?" Holts asked in a soft, calm tone, the opposite of his usual deep, rough voice that was full of a special confidence and character.

"It's nothing" Alex half-whispered, trying to avoid eye contact. He was humiliated by his inner dilemma, and the shame of being affected by such obviously self-destroying thoughts aggravated him to no end. He wanted some time to himself, though even then, this feeling would probably remain.

"Let me guess, feeling outclassed? Unqualified? Overestimated?"

Silence broke out while Alex crossed his arms, his head a jumble of ten thousand words.

"Yeah, I guess so"

"Well, I can't just convince you to be happy and ignore those thoughts, but I just want to make one thing clear. You don't need to be a superman. You don't need to be a hero or a knight in shining armor. You just need to support us, give it all you got, and let us handle the rest."

Holts' talk cleared Alex's racing mind, and he looked down at his own hands, now rippled and blurred. He was crying. Crying at last. He was crying, and he enjoyed it. More. More. Let this feeling be cleansed, washed away by the streaming of his tears. He slapped his hands tightly to his face, as Holts wrapped a huge arm around him in silence. These were men that he would laugh with, fight with, and most likely die with. But there was one fact that caused him to remain disturbed. He realized that even the best photographic memory could lose its effectiveness to emotions and distractions. He made a mental note to always try to stay calm and to focus on only a handful of things at a time. He could absolutely not afford to be any worse a combatant than he already was. This body was not as perfect as he was told. Other, more serious flaws may emerge in time.