The Nineteenth Drink

by Jessie

***

Summary: This is a post-ep for "Angel Dark, Demon Bright," in which even *more* emotional pain and suffering is inflicted upon our favorite little engineer, as he contemplates the killing of one hundred thousand Nietzscheans at the battle at the WhitchHead Nebula.

Disclaimer: Andromeda does not belong to me and I really don't mean any harm by this story.

Authors Note: Yes, I've written another one. I blame Harper entirely. Which is really very mean of me, considering what I put him through in this story and in the other one (which I'm working on right now). But he's just way too cute. Especially when tortured- be that emotionally or physically. Though he is also pretty good looking when he's cocky. Or when he's got an idea. Or when he's . . . I'm gonna get to the story now. :P

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.

We won.

I'm gonna have to think about that one for a while.

And it's not just the fact that we actually won- though hell if that doesn't happen about once every millennia- it's what winning means.

I never thought winning could mean . . . this.

I, Seamus Zelazny Harper, am solely responsible for the death of one hundred thousand people. Well . . . Nietzscheans. Not people- Nietzscheans.

Which should be cause for celebration- am I right? Wine, women and song . . . well- maybe the wine.

I need something to numb down that ache in my chest. You know- the one that's slowly making it's way down into my gut, and I think I might just toss my cookies before I even reach the stash of liquor I keep around in case of emergencies.

I hate this feeling.

I need a drink.

We won. Let's think about that again, shall we? Let's consider the ramifications of that. And let's have a few drinks while we're at it. You know- just to see if we can't stop that ache from moving all the way down to my legs and making me trip all over myself.

We won. And this is a good thing.

I think.

I hope.

It's funny, in a way. Well . . . maybe not. Not laugh-out-loud funny, anyway. More like 'the-impending-doom-might-seem-a-little-better-if-we-laugh-about-it' kind of funny.

I need another drink.

But what's funny is this- and you're gonna get a kick out of it, cause I know I sure would if I wasn't currently staring into an empty bottle.

Where did I put that other one anyway?

What's funny is the fact that in the end I got exactly what I wanted. Not only did we win, we destroyed those evil, bastard Nietzscheans while we were at it. And all thanks to me- Seamus Harper, brilliant, good-looking, yadda yadda yadda, and so on and so forth- you get the idea.

I really am something, aren't I?

And I don't mean that in the way you're probably gonna take it.

I mean that here I am, the only person on this ship who has really any reason to kill those Nietzscheans- to want to see as much pain inflicted upon them as possible- yet I'm probably the only one who's sitting around feeling like crap because it actually happened.

For once in my life, things work out how I want them to- and I have to have second thoughts directly after the deed is done. How very . . . typical.

All right- I get it. The universe is one big joke on me. I'm sure some one, somewhere is laughing his ass off right at this moment.

I think I need another drink.

You know- you'd be surprised how much alcohol the human body can handle if their mind is set on it.

I should have listened to Trance. To Dylan. To . . . it doesn't matter now, does it? I mean- the Nietzscheans are all dead now anyway.

You know, for a moment back there, I almost wanted us to blow up along with all those bad ass Nietzscheans- end this shitty existence there and then.

But I'm not gonna think about that right now.

Come on- I just saved the world from Nietzschean invaders. I single handedly created *history*. I . . . again with the 'yadda yadda yadda.'

I don't want to listen to myself right now.

And- just so you know- I can hear you smirking over there at the idea of me not wanting to hear the sound of my own voice.

We won.

That phrase is getting harder and harder to define with each swallow- have you noticed that? Or is it just me?

Maybe there's an order to it. Maybe after the first drink, things start to clear up a little. And after the fifth- the phrase starts to make sense. And after the tenth- they just become words.

Maybe after this next one, they won't even be that anymore. Maybe they'll go back to being what they've always been- that illusive thing that never in my life have I achieved.

Not until now anyway.

Ironic. That's the word I'm looking for. My entire life has been one ironic little Shakespearean tragedy.

That guy had a lot of irony in his stuff.

And yes- I've read Shakespeare. Stop gawking.

All right- so I only read the parts that I didn't draw schematics over when there wasn't any paper around- but still.

What was my point again?

Maybe after the fifteenth, even Shakespeare won't look so bad.

Maybe winning isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Or- you know- maybe . . . maybe I need just one more drink.

There's a lot to be said for hard liquor.

We won.

I've got to get tired of saying that sooner or later. And then- maybe- the ache will get the hell outa my system.

You know- I bet Dylan isn't downing one very fiery shot after the other about this. I bet he's in his quarters brooding and doing his whole macho captain thing. I bet . . .

"Harper?"

I bet Trance will walk through that door in the next fifteen seconds calling my name.

Not that gullible, huh?

"Harper?"

She's gotta lot of nerve looking for me after . . . what did she do anyway? She did something. She . . .

"You really shouldn't be drinking all of that." Well I think that comment deserves a healthy smirk, don't you?

"Itsnotthatmuch." Memo to self- separate words in head, then speak.

"You're upset about the battle, aren't you?"

"Good for you. Tell her what she's won Bob."

"Who's Bob?"

"I don't think I can answer that question right now. Why don't you try again when there's only one of you asking it."

"Harper." It would be wrong to tell her to leave me the hell alone, wouldn't it?

Damn conscience.

"Trance. I'm going to finish this drink right . . . here. And I'd like to do it quietly."

I do *to* have tact. It was, however, wise enough to leave before this angst-fest began.

"You didn't do anything wrong. It was fate."

"And a nice little fusion catalyst- courtesy of yours truly."

"If you hadn't done what you did, than the Nietzscheans would have won. And they would have taken over Earth."

"You didn't seem so certain of that earlier."

"Well . . ." I've got her nervous. Good. She *should* be nervous.

If anything, it's more amusing.

I'm mean and cold hearted- I know. If this entire day wasn't evidence enough of that, than I don't know how else I can prove it to you.

"Dylan gave an order, and I was going to follow that order. He's the Captain. And we didn't know at the time that there would be that many Nietzschean ships. I had to stop you."

"Yeah." I'm just going to take another drink here, if you don't mind. I don't want to fight. I don't even want to talk. I just wanta sit here and drink.

"You did a good thing Harper. Sometimes things have to happen that . . . There are always different solutions for the same problem. And different outcomes for each solution. But there's only one *right* solution and one *right* outcome. And sometimes that involves . . . steps to be taken that you'd rather not take. But you have to."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" If I were a little more sober I'd probably start grilling her on how she knows so much about fate and all those different outcomes and solutions and whatever. But I can't right now.

"Sometimes the ends justify the means. And sometimes good intentions don't always lead to good deeds."

"Thanks for the pep-talk."

"Really Harper."

I hate it when she talks to me like that.

All right- I love it when she talks to me like that.

Like she actually cares what the hell happens to me. But I don't want to hear it right now. I just wanta sit here like I've been doing, and drink until I pass out. I just wanta . . .

"It's okay."

It's okay? What's she talking about? How can this be "okay"?

I want to yell at her. I want to make her take it back, and I want her to realize exactly what we've done. What *I've* done.

But the adrenaline is lost somewhere in all the alcohol.

I glare up at her, and I think she realized somewhere along the line that all hell was just about to break loose, but I don't know how. She seems relieved that I've decided not to yell.

I just glower at her. How can she mean that it's "okay"? How can she mean something like that?

She's staring at me now. But it takes me a moment to realize that the fact that I'm seeing this means that I'm staring back at her.

She looks adamant. Or determined, or . . . something. I really wish I could believe what she's telling me. I wish . . .

"It's okay." I repeat uncertainly. The idea's starting to grow on me.

I've made her smile, but I don't understand how.

"Yes. It's okay." I think I just smiled a little too, but it didn't last long.

I'm just gonna take another drink. What is this? The seventeenth? Eighteenth? I think it's the eighteenth.

Last one- I swear.

It's okay.

We won. But it's okay.

Maybe we'll win again.

And maybe when we do, we won't have to sort through all the pieces afterwards, trying to find our prize amongst everything that we've destroyed.

Trance seems a little too upbeat about this- don't you think?

Screw it. I'll ask her about it later.

If I remember.

Right now I just wanta sit. Think about death. Think about time travel. And different kinds of alcoholic beverages. And reasons why I wish I were Trance right now. Cause she sure seems a hell of a lot happier than any one else around here.

She's still staring at me, by the way. Which, I guess, means that I'm still staring too.

It's okay though. Because she says so.

She's telling me that mass murder is okay. And I'm believing her.

Maybe I'm more drunk than I thought.

But can we just let it go for now? Just this once I'd like to ignore logic and reason, and just believe her. Believe something.

Because maybe genocide isn't "okay". But I've never . . . No one's ever told me before, that everything's all right, even though it's not. I want that. Just this once. I want to let her tell me that it's okay.

We won.

I got what I wanted.

Trance is still staring at me. And I think she knows something that I don't.

But I'm not gonna ask about it. I'm just going to believe her.

I'm going to believe in good intentions. And fate. And grape-flavored good luck charms. And . . . winning.

We won.

I, Seamus Zelazny Harper, boy genius, yadda yadda yadda, saved the world today.

Maybe after the nineteenth drink that'll sound like something worth a hundred thousand lives.

The End.

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