This is the last post that I will ever write.
The last few months of my silence have been built on the principle of Vir sapit qui pauca loquitur, but it seemed wrong to leave this memoir open ended. Cruel, even. Perhaps it is vain to assume that my story is followed by anyone who gives a damn anymore, but I figured that this was the right way to do things. We live and die, nothing more than words on a virtual page. I can't even give you all the pleasure of wet ink on paper, loops and dips making mountains and valleys that can capture the effective psyche of any given person if you look at it just so. I suppose, however, this will have to be enough.
I am just a man. A man that watched people die in the war, who was stuck as a medic, but I always have been that; just a man. In fact, and I think I have made this fact clear many times. My intellect has always been the only extraordinary thing about me, but it has always been evident that even I was vulnerable in regards to the most basic of vices. Fear. Pride. Self preservation. For all my bloody talking, my diatribes and speeches how I was better than the Runners or even the average Proxy, it all only turned out to be the deranged ramblings of a delusional man. Ha. I'd hardly be the first in that regard. But I always felt that I strived for honesty in my work, strived to push the limits as much as I could when it came to what I should and should not reveal to the masses. But that doesn't matter to me anymore. It's not about the "Game" or the "Challenge" or anything that juvenile or superfluous. I no longer care about whether I live or die. I probably haven't cared about such a thing for a long time, and this blog... only served to stay me off that realization. Homo praesumitur bonus donec probetur malus. One is innocent until proven guilty. But now, the only proof I need is contained within a glance in a mirror; sunken, dull eyes, deep bruises on high, thin cheekbones, purple flowers blooming on the pale, delicate skin of my neck, various cuts, inflicted with knives and glass and heaven knows what else. I keep my body breathing because that is all that I have, I spend my days alone, waiting in dark alleyways and dilapidated, abandoned relics that span from here to nowhere, waiting for nothing in particular.
I see why you all run, now. There's a certain freedom to knowing that you are only staying ahead of certain death. It frees you from physical things. Vanity and neurosis become nothing in the face of the drive of survival, but the guilt always stays, ever-present and suffocating. I almost enjoy it now, as I have certainly run out of any self-pity I used to possess. I still haven't seen Him; never really have. Maybe once or twice when I was a child. There's a certain badge of honour, I suppose, that has to do with that; how I got myself into this mess by pure chance; a balance of probabilities that lined up just so and aligned to the universe in a just right sort of way. Maybe I'm wrong. Perhaps it should be a badge of shame.
I left my post after securing the safety of my team, when it became clear that the Organization had no handle on the Crimson King anymore, about the time that he began to launch his assault with the army that we all knew he had but wished he didn't. From what I've heard from the various Runners and Proxies who would seek out my talents in the medical arts, nobody, however, knew how hard he'd hit right from the beginning. I've filled a few things in on my own while on the run (really, if they didn't want anyone digging up confidential files, they shouldn't have digitized in the first place), and apparently our favourite Scarlet Knight took down the Highest and Moriarty's operation in one stroke; after all, what did the Organization have but a vicegrip of fear and false promises of normality? What did Moriarty have aside from a drug that made you stronger, faster, sharper, and more bloodthirsty, but as we later would find out and keep from all of you, would kill you in the end as you screamed bloody murder, a slave to withdrawal? And so now the mysterious beings who calculated our every move in the name of a creature than we do not understand are now either slaughtered by the very being that they manufactured, or are currently grappling with it for control. I have no fondness for the Devil, we all know that, but at this point, a bet against him is a bet that I'm not entirely sure I would win. The Second has exceeded all expectations, and that is the part of this whole mess that should unsettle everyone the most, and yet it's almost kind of ironic in hindsight; Author, the Highest that conducted my own trial after my kidnapping at the hands of Moriarty's men, is now the direct opposition to the monster that wears the face of the result of his rather marvellous pedigree. Writer mentioned something to this effect a long time ago, and according to my research, the resemblance isn't just a co-incidence. I am, however, certain of one thing; the man that myself and many of my former Proxy brothers pushed towards certain death, Spencer Fitzgerald, was not close to being aware of his lineage. Author, however, was aware of such a thing. Perhaps he took pleasure in watching the son he never loved nor cared about be forged into a powerful tool. For the few Runners that are left, and perhaps whatever Proxies are now involved in this stupid war, maybe this will show you the kind of man Author is. No, rather, the kind of crafter Author is. To use the word "man" in this context seems to be a travesty of language. Be prepared; humanity is no longer something that dwells within him. Not anymore.
However. There is no reason for you to believe my words. After all, here I am, branded a traitor and a coward, hiding from my own crimes for no reason that I can articulate. I do not deny that I was the source of the information that ruined both Sam- no, Nightscream and myself. Why did I allow myself to trust Redlight when he came to me and planted the idea that Nightscream was hiding something; something that could be taken away in an instant? I never expected to find what I did. Never expected for such a thing to be wrenched from my hands and handed along to god bloody knows who. I never would have done something like endanger the innocent and the blameless for my own gain. That, however... is all I can advocate for myself, all I can say in my own defence. My own lack of hindsight, allowing myself to be blinded by pride... and then, then ruining the very person that I once called my ally and my friend is something that even I can't forgive myself for. Perhaps in my new life as nothing more than insignificant vermin, I am looking for redemption? Forgiveness? My own self from six months ago would be disgusted at what I've become. And yet I've found a simple happiness in accepting my own imminent death. Everyone does. It is only a matter of time before you do as well.
And as for me? I suppose my story is ending. Nightscream has every right to bathe in my blood and I... refuse to keep Sam from doing so. Perhaps this is my own, last misguided notion of what friendship is. Perhaps this is all I can give. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing does. There's a twisted but wonderful beauty in realizing that yourself, even as a living being, is nothing in the face of the cosmos. But there's also a twisted but wonderful beauty in being human, despite the weaknesses that come with that.
I've spent my whole life running from that fact. I think that it is time for me to face it.
After all, Nothing clears up a case so much as stating it to another person.
Keep alive, and yours truly,
"Joseph"
alternatively, for the uniformed,
Winston Churchill Trudeau
I'm sorry. So, so bloody sorry. For everything.
