Under the Gun
by Daniel Snyder
 
 You don't have to say you're sorry
To look on further down the line 
Into the sun 
Too close at heaven 
Love is fine 
 
But you can't hold it like a... 
 
Somewhere in between my delerium and the outside world, I heard a noise. Three 
sharp raps. Maybe I was making too much noise, and it was the neighbors bitching 
again. 'Course, the only sound I heard was my own breathing, and I could feel my 
skull rattling every time I exhaled. Must've just been another nightmare. Like my life.
 
There it was again. No, despite everything I was hoping for, it wasn't a hallucination. 
Someone was knocking at the front door, twice--no, three times. I tried to say "Fuck 
off!", but I didn't have the energy and my nerves were shot to the fire. Plus, I had my 
cheek on the kitchen table, so I couldn't ennunciate for shit. My yell came off as a 
rather loud, unintelligible whine.
 
In response, there was an explosion from the front hallway. I sat bolt upright, 
screaming with pain at the volume and timbre of the noise. Then, as my yowl became 
a coherent "Jezus Kryst, what the fuck was that?" I identified what it had been. It 
wasn't an explosion: someone had simply knocked the door clean off its hinges, and it 
had fallen flat onto the sheet rock floor. 

Which meant, I realized, that she was back in my life again.
 --
 Two worlds apart, two together 
Into that goodnight kiss away 
One takes the hard, one the other 
Kiss away  

"Sorry, I thought I heard you screaming. What am I supposed to think?" 

Not that much had changed in the time since we had broken up. Same squid lips, 
same black hair, same clothes--white jeans and a black turtleneck, this time with a 
jacket for the weather. After she left us--what had been our band--she had done a few 
bits before going solo in some bar somewhere. It was the first time in months that our 
paths had crossed...or, rather, that she had let them cross.
 
I slumped a little in my seat, letting out a sigh. I finished it with a chuckle and 
resumed my proper posture. "Since you're here, might as well have a seat. There's a 
chair right there."
 
"Thanks." Alita picked her way across a few piles of stuff that some idiot (me) had 
strewn all across the floor. She took a glance at the various bottles, drugs and 
paraphrenalia I had spread across the table. "You shouldn't be doing that stuff."
 
"There's a lot of stuff I'm doing that I shouldn't be doing, but that I am doing," I said, 
marvelling at my wit. I poured myself a shotglass full of something--I'm not sure I 
had ever known what it was--then instead took a drink straight out of the bottle. Alita 
grabbed my wrist and slammed it onto the table, not only causing me a hell of a lot of 
pain but forcing me to drop the bottle. It shattered on the floor, playing a single 
beautiful note as the glass and liquid scattered across the ground. I glared at her. "Bitch, 
what the fuck'd'you do that for?"
 
"I am  not  going to let you kill yourself," she snarled.
 
"Yeah?" I jerked my arm, and after two tries she let me yank my wrist free. By that 
point I didn't feel like being mad anymore, I just wanted her to go away. "Wul, why 
not?"
 
" Nobody  deserves to die like this." She waited a moment for it to sink in before she 
repeated,  "Nobody." 
 
I didn't look at her. I looked at the table leg. It didn't show up after six months of 
hanging around with other bands, trying to get you shows you shouldn't have gotten, 
not caring if there wasn't a single other person in your fan club, but still not playing 
with you. It just stayed holding up the table.
 
Finally, I forced myself to ask, "What're you doing here?"
 
"I think you know why I'm here."
 
"It ain't the same thing." 
 --
 Do you feel your head is full of thunder? 
Questions never end? 
Empty nights alone? 
No wonder 
It all comes back again.  

"Well, that was a fucking brilliant show, fucking amazing."
 
Somewhere behind me there was a guy sweeping with a push broom. Every once in a 
while he'd stop pushing and grab a hand wet-dry vacuum. He'd slurp something up, 
then go back to pusing the broom. I knew that most of what he'd be getting was beer, 
but I felt like he was vacuuming my vomit up, over and over again, just to make an 
asshole out of me. How I had managed to time the purge so that the house and stage 
lights were down was beyond me. 

Across the table from me, Pete kept pacing. "You show up drunk out of your mind, 
you make it through the whole set without staying on key for more than a bar and a 
half--hell, I think you made up a new key in there, we'll call it 'H'--you blow your 
lunch from whatever kind of shit you've been doing, and then as soon as you get back 
stage you pick a fight with not only everyone in the band, but the entire tech crew. 
That has got to be either art or the fucking stupidest shit I've ever seen, and I can tell 
you what the smart money's on."
 
At that point in the evening, Pete was still our manager. Someone's manager. I was 
counting the minutes until the sacks and walkouts began. It all seemed so clear, so 
clear that I couldn't really grasp what it all meant. Maybe it wasn't all my fault I 
thought. Maybe I'm just caught in between a hell of a lot of cheap fights, and people 
were picking on me because I'm an easy target. Then, I flashed back to Avid's synthar 
solo. I stepped away from the mike for a moment to get a breath of air, and when I 
raised my head again every single person in the audience was floating off in a different 
direction. I had screamed bloody murder until it stopped, then tried to make it look 
like part of the act.
 
The whole fucking thing bubbled up at once, and I slammed my head against the table 
to give myself something physical to take the place of guilt. From behind me came 
Pete's voice: "Here, let me give you a hand with that." I felt his hands running 
through my hair, grabbing great fistfulls of it and wadding it between his fingers. I 
screamed, partly because I knew exactly what was about to happen to my face, partly 
because I wanted the relief that the pain and the ugliness of the blood would bring. 
 --
 Are you living for love? 
Are you living for love? 
When the road gets too tough 
Is your love strong enough?  

"He's in the hospital, recovering. We picked him up, on battery and substance 
charges."
 
"You and your death squad goon friends." I ran the terry cloth across my face, then 
looked down at it. There was a little blood, I had torn a few scabs open. The soap stung 
my eyes. I rinsed out the cloth and swabbed my face again. "So why's he in the 
hospital?"
 
"It was his own damn fault." Alita pressed a towel into my hand. "We just wanted to 
talk, but he started getting violent. So we had to fight back, not to defend ourselves or 
anything, but 'cause we're hunter-warriors. We've got reputations to hold."
 
"And what happened?"
 
"Someone boxed his ears. Eardrums ruptured. He'll be able to hear, he can afford a 
pair of cybernetic ears. Of course, they're not as good quality as normal ones, even if 
you use mostly natural parts...so that's the music business for him."
 
I laughed. "Alita, you've got a strange sense of humor."
 
"Just doing my duty," she replied.
 --
 Are you living for love? 
Are you living for love? 
I've been under the gun 
I've lost and I've 1...2...3...  

Suddenly, everything was about touch. I stuck out one hand, and I could feel the 
smooth cement of the building. I felt the bandanna on my face becoming wet and 
warm and heavy with my blood. Whenever I pressed too hard, the pain came back, 
and my entire face tingled, tragically alive. I tilted my head back and could feel a light 
mist sprinkling half my face, my hand. It dripped into my matted hair. 

I don't remember how far I walked, it was half a block at the most. My eyes were 
closed, anyway, so I couldn't find anything even if I had been looking. It wasn't that I 
wanted to stop, it wasn't a conscious decision. It was simply the way things were going 
to be. I plopped down onto what felt like a pile of bagged trash and lay there, feeling 
the world going on around me and my own worthlessness in it. 

Maybe I blacked out, I can't remember. At some point, I heard low voices from 
somewhere nearby. Someone was walking towards me, a small group of people. The 
footfalls sounded vaguely familiar. I let out a loud groan, it was all that I could do. 
I couldn't figure out what was happening for a moment. Then a voice came from up 
above me: "Oh,  fuck ." 

"Is that who I think it is?" 

"Yeah. That's Lee." 

"Well, c'mon, then, leave him." 

"No." I felt someone's hands pulling the bandanna off my face. Avid spoke again. 
"Lee, can you hear me?" 

"Ung..." 

"Just leave the asshole, Avid." Tamrin's voice came from behind her. "That shithead 
doesn't even deserve to live, let's go. The others aren't even waiting for us." 

"Lee," Avid said, "I'm going to call an ambulence. Don't move around, your face is cut 
but you're in pretty good shape. They'll be here in a few minutes." 

I worked some spit up into my mouth and whispered, "Don't go." 

"I've got to go, Lee, I need..." 

"You don't fucking have to give him an excuse." Tamrin walked up to us. I could 
smell him, the smell of his body sweat and aftershave, over all the other odors in the 
alleyway. "I don't give what you do with the rest of your life, but I'm not in it, and 
Avid's not in it, and Drew's not in it, and NOBODY'S in it 'cause the band's gone and 
you don't have  shit.  You're fucking bleeding and you'd better hope that ambulance 
gets over here 'cause it's a long fucking walk to the hospital. C'mon." And with that 
he left. 

Avid lingered around for a moment longer before she said, "There's a phone down 
the block, I'd better make the call." I was alone in the alley. 
 --
 Forget the many steps to heaven 
It never happened and it ain't so hard 
Happiness is a loaded weapon 
And a short cut is better by far  

I had both hands on the mug of coffee. It was cold and it was strong, I could almost 
count the grounds floating on the surface. I drank it in one shot. It tasted like hell, but 
it inched me a little more alert. I gazed back down at the table, deliberately not looking 
at Alita. 

"I need somebody. I need an audience, or a friend, or a lover, or someone. I need 
someone to sing to and play the keyboard for and just plain be around. I get lonely, 
and I get scared, and I try and hide somewhere, but the loneliness is like the air I 
breathe, I can't get away from it, it's just there." 

"Yeah," Alita said, softly. 

"So I play, or I party, or I drink, and the loneliness is there, just waiting for me. If I 
look for it, then it's already won...but I can't think about it, or else I'm going to look 
for it." I shook my head. "That's sick." 

I turned in my chair and looked as best as my heart would let me at her. "Alita...I'm 
asking you, as my friend, and former bandmate...I'm in trouble. I don't know what to 
do. I don't even know what all's wrong with me, and I feel...like I need to change, but I 
just don't know how. What can I do?" 

She thought for a minute before she said, "If you're sick, you need to see a doctor. You 
could make an appointment with a doctor, tell him what you've been going through, 
and then see if you can get yourself better." 

I goggled. "That's it?" 

She shrugged. "People are tough. Sometimes all you need is a little repair." She 
jumped down off the kitchen counter. "I know a couple of good medics. if you've got 
bus change we could get over in time for an afternoon appointment." 

I looked at her there, smiling happily at me. I wondered what all had been going 
through her mind this morning. I had bugged her about why she hadn't played with 
us--with me--in all those many days. Right there, I decided to give it up, and let her 
tell me if she wanted to. 

"OK," I said. Without further ado, I grabbed a large garbage bag and dumped all the 
pills, bottles and needles in the kitchen into it. "We gotta swing by the dumpster, I've 
got to take out some trash."
--
 Get ahead 
Go figure 
Go ahead, pull the trigger 
Evrything UNDER THE GUN  
 --
Copyright 1997 Daniel Snyder. Permission granted to distribute in any 
digital/binary/e-mail form; however, any physical reproduction is strictly prohibited. 
Based on characters created by Yukito Kishiro. Any resemblances to persons living or 
dead is purely coincidental. Lyrics from "Under the Gun" by The Sisters of Mercy, 
lyrics by Andrew Eldritch, music by Hughes/Seeman/Eldritch. Copyright 1993 Warner 
Music UK Ltd.