![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Break In Case of Anything [closed]
A dark, undisturbed corner in the depths of Stacy. There’s little inside except the signs of conflict, and an old, tarnished statue. What it is of is hard to say. The room is so deep within her infrastructure that, technically, no member of the ship ought to be able to reach it.
But evidently one of them has. His plant suit is scuffed and lacerated, and torn away completely from the waist up. It’s unclear whether this was its wearer’s doing or the price paid for some scuffle, but his torso clearly bears the scars from years of battle. His hair is lank and matted in the absence of a decent barber and the lower part of his face is submerged in a thick, black beard. Around the aforementioned waist is a large, well-pocketed utility belt. Its yellow-gold furnishings gleam in what little light there is. His fingernails are flecked with dry blood and in his right hand he holds a large, silver pistol that he stares at with dull eyes.
He had one fear as a child. People tell stories of wings and rodents, but no, those things merely spooked him. No, his real fear was of a weapon like that which he holds robbing him of those he loved. Rob him it did, a story which we are all familiar with. In time and purpose it was replaced by another; he took his anger and hatred and pain and fear, everything that he could no longer control and honed it, crafted it into something new, something pure, so that he might never do the same himself.
We always break our promises, but we hope the reason for doing so is ultimately worth something better. This is the question our protagonist turns over in his mind and under his breath as he does the same with the artefact in his hand. The artefact with which he had committed deicide.
And then, as that last notion skirts across his mind, he can’t help but smile. A thin, knowing smile, through which comes a voice that rumbles like a humvee.
He tosses the pistol away, “I don‘t believe in Gods.”
But evidently one of them has. His plant suit is scuffed and lacerated, and torn away completely from the waist up. It’s unclear whether this was its wearer’s doing or the price paid for some scuffle, but his torso clearly bears the scars from years of battle. His hair is lank and matted in the absence of a decent barber and the lower part of his face is submerged in a thick, black beard. Around the aforementioned waist is a large, well-pocketed utility belt. Its yellow-gold furnishings gleam in what little light there is. His fingernails are flecked with dry blood and in his right hand he holds a large, silver pistol that he stares at with dull eyes.
He had one fear as a child. People tell stories of wings and rodents, but no, those things merely spooked him. No, his real fear was of a weapon like that which he holds robbing him of those he loved. Rob him it did, a story which we are all familiar with. In time and purpose it was replaced by another; he took his anger and hatred and pain and fear, everything that he could no longer control and honed it, crafted it into something new, something pure, so that he might never do the same himself.
We always break our promises, but we hope the reason for doing so is ultimately worth something better. This is the question our protagonist turns over in his mind and under his breath as he does the same with the artefact in his hand. The artefact with which he had committed deicide.
And then, as that last notion skirts across his mind, he can’t help but smile. A thin, knowing smile, through which comes a voice that rumbles like a humvee.
He tosses the pistol away, “I don‘t believe in Gods.”