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Deleted member 2717
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Above all else, a Fool.
Waste Land of Reality
He's lying down, staring at the rotten ceiling above him. His clothes lie, crumpled, on an unused end of the bed. He keeps his breathing steady. Inhale, and exhale. Inhale, and exhale. It was good, just resting for a while... Not thinking about anything, all synapses on pause. Pleasant nothingness, a rare moment of calm. What bliss it is, to simply wallow in it, to be that inky blackness incarnate. Truly, it was the most nothing anyone had ever done. Nobody could do nothing quite like this.
And yet - and there's always an "and yet" - he could not remain like this. Not forever. Not even for very long. He sits up, stretching his back and rolling his shoulders. A lazy crawl to his clothes later, and he's getting dressed. The cheap, cracked mirror in his room proudly showing him his reflection. He glances at it, before looking away- no, wait. He looks back, trying to parse what he sees... A fogged image, a clouded myriad of colour and noise where his face should be.
He can almost parse a nose, a darker spot in the centre of his face, a shadow cast by some obtuse protrusion. There's a pair of darker spots where he thinks his eyes should be, shaded bags that add decades to his age. The rest is a blur of noise and colour. The face is alien to him. A stranger's visage. How far gone do you have to be, to no longer recognize yourself?
Finger on the Eject Button
How many times has he had this dream, now? A dozen? Two dozen? Has every dream he's ever had been this one? It might as well have, considering how familiar he seems with it. That same dusty street, pockmarked by bullet-holes and punctuated by bloodstains. That same whining siren, a dread-filled hunting horn, directed at his home. Those same soldiers, always unstoppable, no matter what he tried. He's pulled along with them, as always, as they clear dimly-lit side streets and kick down doors.
It's not long before they find their mark. He doesn't need to see this, of course. Those moments are burned into his mind already, but that doesn't matter to his hippocampus, the ever-cruel thing. The dream carries on, each member of his new family, those bright minds and witty remarks, dragged out into the mud. He couldn't find the strength to close his eyes as the soldiers fired. No matter how many times he saw it, replayed over and over in visceral clarity, it never got easier to watch.
He woke up with tears streaming down his face.
Lonesome Long Way Home
And finally, the present. Those hectic days and agonizing nights, in a City who's name was lost decades ago. You're a small fish in a very, very big pond. Red jacket, white hat, hammer by your side. King of the streets, you can go anywhere, do anything.
What a horrible fate.
It's tiring, isn't it? How many good nights of sleep have you gotten since you stepped off of that train? How homesick do you get when nobody's looking? Of that home you can barely remember. It's an ocean away, now. Maybe bombed flat by the Tower. Maybe claimed by that alien infestation. It doesn't matter, now, because you'll never see it again.
A man, torn from his home. His family. Does it hurt?
Motorway South
They came. Like he was told they would. They destroyed everything. Like he was told they would. The huddled masses cried out for relief, taking refuge behind their walls and towers.
And the bugs tore it all down.
It was a promise, made to another. To look upon his works and despair. And now that goal was accomplished. The land seethes underfoot, the clouds darken, and we flee underground. To the dark, damp, quiet depths, swaddled in turbulent misery. There will be no light, here. No air. No life. Man, once proud, reduced to a crawling thing on the margin of a disintegrating world.
Kingdom of Conscience
He knows people. At least- he thinks he does. Faces blur, names slur. It's a defence mechanism. So the next time he sees murals made of people's brains, it won't be those he cares for.
King of All Kings
He rests his head on the back of the plush, blue sofa. He's sat in an apartment much too fancy for him. A mid-90's album plays in the background. He pays it no mind. The other man sits across from him, a speech on God and Life spewing from his lips. He pays it no mind. He cant find the strength to remember the man's face.
The Wide-Brim Extraordinaire
Opportunity-Giver, Benevolence-Receiver, Wide-Brim Believer. He comes and goes, offering trinkets for treasure. A business relationship, maybe. A friendship, maybe not. Who knows how things will change, now.
S-S-Strange N-Name
He steps into the empty store, curiosity dragging him through the open door. He spies her, and strikes some meaningless conversation. Strange, how a man with no face can rule over so many, so fast.
Shining Armour
He stands at the far side of a desk, delivering a fantastical report. 'Armageddon', he called it.
'Bugaggedon', the other replied. Putting so much trust in a stranger, how odd.
Vrach
Favours given with no recompense asked. Charity is a myth, what drives him?
And yet, he continues on. Helping without any expectation. He tries to do what he can for him, but there's only so much he can do to repay. The words "Thank you" can only be said so much.
A Fragile Soul
They met before, somewhere. He doesn't remember where, but her codename rings clear in his mind. She seems entirely different, now. Slumped in that corner, waiting to die. A truly rousing speech later, and she's on her feet, ready to help him. Only for her legs to be gouged by an antlion. How could he lead her into that? How could he?
Moneymaker
Ever-relaxed, Ever-ready to help, it's No-Biggie. He can't remember their first meeting. Something ineffectual. Maybe introduced by a mutual friend, or their common love of a certain band. Either way, the man is a close partner. A helper, in a Union without Unity. Someone he can trust, maybe. Still, he daren't remember the man's face.
Waking Dreams
He catches glimpses, sometimes. Those corner-of-the-eye blink-and-you'll-miss-it moments. Maybe all this skipping sleep is getting to him. Maybe he's seeing ghosts. The burned-man, the innocent traitor. He couldn't follow him across an ocean, could he? Yet- he's here all the same. Physical, or not. Sprit, or not. He haunts him all the same. He can't forget this face. Not this one.
The Sunrise Martyr
He's seen the man's face. What he's willing to show, at least. It's burnt, torn, bloodied. An agonizing mural of sacrifices made for a cause he doesn't even seen to believe in, anymore. The apathy is disquieting but not unfamiliar. The murky splotches that make up the man's face remind him of his own.
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All in time. Ask to be added.
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