The small office was dark, the only light being a dim glow coming from an old lamp hanging above a desk. The room was still, silent, dead. A figure sitting in the chair reached forward, his arms coming into the light. He set two objects upon the desk; the bottle of whiskey making a sloshing sound as its half-drank contents mixed around from the disturbance, the other settling down with a heavy metallic thud.
“For a long time now, I’ve been fighting against you.”
The voice drifted from the darkness; strained, slowed and a bit slurred.
“Like a fool I thought I could win. Thought I had a chance.”
The voice was calm.
“I’ve fought for too long. I am tired.”
The defeat in the voice was absolute.
“You…”
The figure leaned forward, his face coming into the light now. Raphael looked exhausted, utterly drained. He hadn’t slept for days, unable to keep his thoughts off of what she had said. What she had done.
“I never thought you’d sink this low…”
His tone was weary, his words bitter.
“…to take from me the only thing I had left. The only thing I loved anymore.”
He fell back into the chair again, the darkness once again covering his face.
“You bastard. After all I’ve done for you. All I’ve accomplished in your name. Did it all mean nothing? Was I playing the fool in your grand opera?”
Raphael’s hand reached out and grabbed the bottle again, lifting it up into the darkness. When it reappeared moments later, it was only a quarter full.
“After I finish this, I’ll have nothing left.”
His hand lay motionless for a second before seizing into a fist. Suddenly he let out a laugh.
“It’s been a long journey. I appreciate you dragging it out for me. I appreciate driving the nails in slow.”
A moment of silence.
“So much wasted time. Running errands for the unappreciative.”
Suddenly his voice drifted through a range of emotions. Anger.
“So much I’ve done for her, so many sacrifices….”
Hopelessness.
“…I can’t help but think that if I had done just one thing differently…”
Mirth.
“…things could have been so much better…”
Sorrow.
“…why? Why? Why why why why why?”
Resignation.
“….”
Again the bottle is picked up and disappears into the darkness, returning at only an eighth full.
“I was ready to follow her to the depths of hell itself. I would have done anything for her. I gave her my absolute loyalty. Above myself, above the Empire, above you…”
Raphael lets out a small, weak laugh.
“Perhaps that was the problem.”
He is silent for a moment.
“Complete, utter loyalty. And what do I get? I have it thrown back in my face. For my hard work and selflessness I get…I get…news of another. To share herself with such a beast…”
His voice goes quiet as he can’t even process the thought, his mind spinning in circles trying to make sense of everything. Finally a soft, desperate whisper emanates from the darkness.
“How could you?”
The bottle is picked up once more, but this time it returns with the rest of him. Leaning forward he examines the other object on the table as he holds the bottle with his left.
“Congratulations, God.”
He picks up the hunk of metal, the grip fitting into his hand comfortably. He hefts it a few times, feeling its weight.
“You’ve won.”
Raphael set the bottle of whiskey back down on the table and leaned back, once again disappearing into the darkness, taking the pistol with him.
--
This was a possible 10th Confession for my main IC blog Confessions of a Saint, and was written before, based on some assumptions I had and some ideas that sprang from that. However, I decided that I didn't really like it too much and instead just kept it on file, writing what would become #10 around 2 weeks later.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
"Broken Promises" - 11/03/2009
Stepping off of the shuttle, Raphael hefted his bag further onto his shoulder as he exhaled, happy to be back. He had promised her he would return, and now he had. She was waiting a mere fifteen minutes away, and soon he’d have her back in his arms. Feeling happy despite the disappointment his recent outing had been, he found himself humming slightly as he began the walk to her apartment.
The entire four weeks he was gone she had been on his mind, sometimes just below the surface as he focused on something else, but never was there no thought spared for her. Finally, he was returning to her, even if for only a short time. He was planning on making the most of it. Anytime either of them weren’t on patrol, he was hoping to spend together.
Entering into a large atrium that bisected a number of the floors in the station, Raphael looked up at the large, backlit dome. It illuminated the entire room, and was set to mimic the daylight cycle of the polar capital of the Ducia Family Refinery Corporation. It altered between twilight and midday; shining at the moment with the glow of a late afternoon sun.
Usually the place was full of militia pilots grabbing something to eat or some shut eye, but Raphael found it almost devoid of life. The only other person in the place was a lone pilot on the other side of the atrium; directly between Raphael and his destination. As he got closer, he recognized the lone figure.
“Garst! What’re you doing here?” Raphael asked in a friendly tone. He was glad to see familiar faces after being gone so long.
“Saint,” came his reply, his voice cool, calm.
“I thought you based out of Ohide, or had already moved out of the Empire entirely.” Raphael came to a stop to talk to his old friend. It had been a long while since the last time the two met face to face.
“I came to see you,” Garst smiled a bit, “and Shalee.”
Raphael cocked his head to the side. “Oh? How did you know I would be here? I haven’t told anyone that I was coming.”
“I’ve had a few friends tracking you on your journey.” Garst reached into his coat as if to retrieve something. “Did you think I wouldn’t keep tabs on my old friend?”
Raphael frowned a bit. “I hope you haven’t already talked to Shalee. It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Oh, she’ll be surprised alright.”
Raphael heard a loud bang and felt something hit him hard in the chest. He stood there for a second dumbfounded before slowly looking downwards. There was a small hole in his uniform where something had pierced it, and slowly reality dawned on him. He attempted to speak but all that came out was a bloody cough. He took a slight step backwards before collapsing.
Garst calmly took a few steps forward until he was standing over Raphael. “I don’t take kindly to betrayal, Saint.”
A look of confusion spread across Raphael’s face as he tried to comprehend everything that was happening. He tried to speak, to move, but his whole body had frozen from the pain.
“I loved her, Saint. You knew that. You used to defend me on it.” Garst was speaking calmly, wiping the gun down before tossing it into a bush nearby.
Raphael stared up at him, trying to speak, but was gagged by the blood that was quickly filling his mouth.
“But you stole her from me, and tried to marry her. You’re no friend.” Garst was reaching into his coat again.
Raphael couldn’t breathe. The bullet had torn through his Carina, and now breathing was impossible. Blood was filling both his lungs, and as he tried to speak, nothing but bubbles came up.
“Oh, have you something to say?” Garst feigned concern.
Raphael couldn’t speak, but he focused until his thoughts were clear. I’m not sorry for loving her.
“Slaver hound got your tongue?” Garst laughed. His hate had manifest, and he was enjoying himself. “I’ve got a surprise for you as well.” He tossed something onto Raphael’s chest.
Raphael willed himself to move, craning his neck up to see what had landed painfully on his chest. It was a datapad, its display lit up with a message.
KOR-AZOR FAMILY CLONING BUREAU
======
OWNER: SAINT, RAPHAEL
CONTRACT STATUS: CANCELLED
Garst laughed as he saw Raphael’s eyes widen at the message. “Friends in high places and all that.”
Raphael looked up from the data pad to Garst’s mirthful face. I’m sorry Shalee.
“Enjoy yourself, Saint. As for me, I’ve got to go console an old friend. You know how vulnerable women are after a loss.” He laughed again as he turned away and began walking towards Shalee’s apartment.
Raphael watched him for as long as he could, still craning his neck, straining against the pain. His vision was growing dark, his body growing cold, and thoughts starting to blur. Laying his head back down, Raphael closed his eyes for the last time.
--
Another one of my "inspired" stories (because I am an unoriginal hack), this story was inspired by the song "Rote Sand" by Rammstein, and was written as a fun little 'what if' for Saint's return from a leave of absence (as I had joined the Army and was going to basic training). Oddly, another story that could have been canon.
The entire four weeks he was gone she had been on his mind, sometimes just below the surface as he focused on something else, but never was there no thought spared for her. Finally, he was returning to her, even if for only a short time. He was planning on making the most of it. Anytime either of them weren’t on patrol, he was hoping to spend together.
Entering into a large atrium that bisected a number of the floors in the station, Raphael looked up at the large, backlit dome. It illuminated the entire room, and was set to mimic the daylight cycle of the polar capital of the Ducia Family Refinery Corporation. It altered between twilight and midday; shining at the moment with the glow of a late afternoon sun.
Usually the place was full of militia pilots grabbing something to eat or some shut eye, but Raphael found it almost devoid of life. The only other person in the place was a lone pilot on the other side of the atrium; directly between Raphael and his destination. As he got closer, he recognized the lone figure.
“Garst! What’re you doing here?” Raphael asked in a friendly tone. He was glad to see familiar faces after being gone so long.
“Saint,” came his reply, his voice cool, calm.
“I thought you based out of Ohide, or had already moved out of the Empire entirely.” Raphael came to a stop to talk to his old friend. It had been a long while since the last time the two met face to face.
“I came to see you,” Garst smiled a bit, “and Shalee.”
Raphael cocked his head to the side. “Oh? How did you know I would be here? I haven’t told anyone that I was coming.”
“I’ve had a few friends tracking you on your journey.” Garst reached into his coat as if to retrieve something. “Did you think I wouldn’t keep tabs on my old friend?”
Raphael frowned a bit. “I hope you haven’t already talked to Shalee. It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Oh, she’ll be surprised alright.”
Raphael heard a loud bang and felt something hit him hard in the chest. He stood there for a second dumbfounded before slowly looking downwards. There was a small hole in his uniform where something had pierced it, and slowly reality dawned on him. He attempted to speak but all that came out was a bloody cough. He took a slight step backwards before collapsing.
Garst calmly took a few steps forward until he was standing over Raphael. “I don’t take kindly to betrayal, Saint.”
A look of confusion spread across Raphael’s face as he tried to comprehend everything that was happening. He tried to speak, to move, but his whole body had frozen from the pain.
“I loved her, Saint. You knew that. You used to defend me on it.” Garst was speaking calmly, wiping the gun down before tossing it into a bush nearby.
Raphael stared up at him, trying to speak, but was gagged by the blood that was quickly filling his mouth.
“But you stole her from me, and tried to marry her. You’re no friend.” Garst was reaching into his coat again.
Raphael couldn’t breathe. The bullet had torn through his Carina, and now breathing was impossible. Blood was filling both his lungs, and as he tried to speak, nothing but bubbles came up.
“Oh, have you something to say?” Garst feigned concern.
Raphael couldn’t speak, but he focused until his thoughts were clear. I’m not sorry for loving her.
“Slaver hound got your tongue?” Garst laughed. His hate had manifest, and he was enjoying himself. “I’ve got a surprise for you as well.” He tossed something onto Raphael’s chest.
Raphael willed himself to move, craning his neck up to see what had landed painfully on his chest. It was a datapad, its display lit up with a message.
KOR-AZOR FAMILY CLONING BUREAU
======
OWNER: SAINT, RAPHAEL
CONTRACT STATUS: CANCELLED
Garst laughed as he saw Raphael’s eyes widen at the message. “Friends in high places and all that.”
Raphael looked up from the data pad to Garst’s mirthful face. I’m sorry Shalee.
“Enjoy yourself, Saint. As for me, I’ve got to go console an old friend. You know how vulnerable women are after a loss.” He laughed again as he turned away and began walking towards Shalee’s apartment.
Raphael watched him for as long as he could, still craning his neck, straining against the pain. His vision was growing dark, his body growing cold, and thoughts starting to blur. Laying his head back down, Raphael closed his eyes for the last time.
--
Another one of my "inspired" stories (because I am an unoriginal hack), this story was inspired by the song "Rote Sand" by Rammstein, and was written as a fun little 'what if' for Saint's return from a leave of absence (as I had joined the Army and was going to basic training). Oddly, another story that could have been canon.
"Old Friends" - 08/23/09
Shalee’s heels clicked as she walked along the pavement. Garst had just gotten back from a two week leave of absence. She was on her way to see him at the small get-together that was being thrown as a celebration. She reached the door to My Blue Heaven and pushed it open. Entering, she saw Garst and Raphael talking, laughing, and dressed in their Praetorian uniforms. They looked over as she entered Garst’s eyes widened as a grin spread across his face; Raphael waving her over with a friendly smile.
“It looks like we’re all a bit overdressed for this place,” Saint joked as Shalee joined them.
“Don’t listen to Saint. You look great, Shalee. Absolutely beautiful.” Garst said as he slid over, allowing Shalee to take a seat.
Always up for a compliment, Shalee flashed a smile and said thanks as she took a seat next to Garst. The three began to drink and converse, a cheerful mood permeating the conversation. Garst grew bolder the more he drank until he finally asked the question he had been wanting to ask all night.
“How’re things between you and Zenton?” he asked, looking at Shalee.
“Not well,” she sighed. “The last kiss I got was from Raph.”
Her eyes widened. She hadn’t meant to say it, it just slipped out. She looked over at Saint, who was busy looking to Garst, awaiting his reaction.
“What?” Garst asked, surprise in his voice.
“Garst….” Saint started, but was quickly cut off.
“Shut up, Saint.” Garst growled. He turned to look back to Shalee. “When did this happen?”
Shalee remained silent, not knowing what to say. Her silence only enraged Garst.
“Saint!” he yelled, leaping up and diving over the table. The rusty bolts holding Saint’s bench in place gave way and both of them tumbled backwards. They both wrestled for a second, Garst’s inebriation giving Saint a chance against his military training. They traded blows to the face and side until Garst finally got Saint in a chokehold.
“Damn you, Saint! Damn you! Is this how you treat your old friend? You make a move on the woman I love while I’m gone!?”
Saint attempted to choke out an explanation, but could only sputter as Garst throttled him. Shalee quickly ran over, trying to stop Garst. He took one of his hands off of Saint’s throat to brush Shalee off, giving Saint the opening he needed.
Throwing a punch to Garst’s jaw, Saint was able to knock him back enough to get his foot onto Garst’s chest, kicking Garst off of him. Still coughing, Saint stood up and pulled his gun from his holster, pointing it at Garst, who was still on the ground.
“Goddamnit, Garst, you wouldn’t even let us explain!?” Saint yelled, his voice hoarse. “Have I not earned your trust? You don’t even give me a chance to speak, you just go for the throat and try to kill me!?” There was a mix of anger and hurt in his voice.
“Put the gun down, Saint.” Garst growled, loathing dripping from every word.
“Goddamnit! I’m not going to kill you, you hateful bastard. But god help me, I’ll shoot you if you so much as move. I’m getting the hell out of here. We can talk once you’ve cooled down.”
Garst reached for his pistol. Unable to shoot his friend, Saint hesitated, his trigger finger twitching but otherwise remaining still.
“You stay right the fuck there!” Garst yelled, training his pistol on Saint.
“Goddamnit.” Saint muttered, unable to think of anything but this short prayer.
The two kept their pistols on each other, Saint standing while Garst lie on the floor. Shalee stood pressed against the wall, wanting to say something but finding her voice gone.
Suddenly a shot rang out and both Garst and Saint began emptying their guns into each other, each of them shuddering as each round struck their body. Once the gunfire stopped, Garst lie dying in a pool of blood as Raphael fell backwards and began doing the same.
Shalee slid to the floor against the wall, her hands, shaking, slowly making their way to her mouth to hold back the scream that was quickly rising in her throat.
--
This story was a fun little one that I wrote for Shalee Lianne during the "affair" part of the relationship between our two characters. I had just come off of an "Inglourious Basterds" high, and wrote this in spirit of the shootout in the basement bar.
“It looks like we’re all a bit overdressed for this place,” Saint joked as Shalee joined them.
“Don’t listen to Saint. You look great, Shalee. Absolutely beautiful.” Garst said as he slid over, allowing Shalee to take a seat.
Always up for a compliment, Shalee flashed a smile and said thanks as she took a seat next to Garst. The three began to drink and converse, a cheerful mood permeating the conversation. Garst grew bolder the more he drank until he finally asked the question he had been wanting to ask all night.
“How’re things between you and Zenton?” he asked, looking at Shalee.
“Not well,” she sighed. “The last kiss I got was from Raph.”
Her eyes widened. She hadn’t meant to say it, it just slipped out. She looked over at Saint, who was busy looking to Garst, awaiting his reaction.
“What?” Garst asked, surprise in his voice.
“Garst….” Saint started, but was quickly cut off.
“Shut up, Saint.” Garst growled. He turned to look back to Shalee. “When did this happen?”
Shalee remained silent, not knowing what to say. Her silence only enraged Garst.
“Saint!” he yelled, leaping up and diving over the table. The rusty bolts holding Saint’s bench in place gave way and both of them tumbled backwards. They both wrestled for a second, Garst’s inebriation giving Saint a chance against his military training. They traded blows to the face and side until Garst finally got Saint in a chokehold.
“Damn you, Saint! Damn you! Is this how you treat your old friend? You make a move on the woman I love while I’m gone!?”
Saint attempted to choke out an explanation, but could only sputter as Garst throttled him. Shalee quickly ran over, trying to stop Garst. He took one of his hands off of Saint’s throat to brush Shalee off, giving Saint the opening he needed.
Throwing a punch to Garst’s jaw, Saint was able to knock him back enough to get his foot onto Garst’s chest, kicking Garst off of him. Still coughing, Saint stood up and pulled his gun from his holster, pointing it at Garst, who was still on the ground.
“Goddamnit, Garst, you wouldn’t even let us explain!?” Saint yelled, his voice hoarse. “Have I not earned your trust? You don’t even give me a chance to speak, you just go for the throat and try to kill me!?” There was a mix of anger and hurt in his voice.
“Put the gun down, Saint.” Garst growled, loathing dripping from every word.
“Goddamnit! I’m not going to kill you, you hateful bastard. But god help me, I’ll shoot you if you so much as move. I’m getting the hell out of here. We can talk once you’ve cooled down.”
Garst reached for his pistol. Unable to shoot his friend, Saint hesitated, his trigger finger twitching but otherwise remaining still.
“You stay right the fuck there!” Garst yelled, training his pistol on Saint.
“Goddamnit.” Saint muttered, unable to think of anything but this short prayer.
The two kept their pistols on each other, Saint standing while Garst lie on the floor. Shalee stood pressed against the wall, wanting to say something but finding her voice gone.
Suddenly a shot rang out and both Garst and Saint began emptying their guns into each other, each of them shuddering as each round struck their body. Once the gunfire stopped, Garst lie dying in a pool of blood as Raphael fell backwards and began doing the same.
Shalee slid to the floor against the wall, her hands, shaking, slowly making their way to her mouth to hold back the scream that was quickly rising in her throat.
--
This story was a fun little one that I wrote for Shalee Lianne during the "affair" part of the relationship between our two characters. I had just come off of an "Inglourious Basterds" high, and wrote this in spirit of the shootout in the basement bar.
"Thirsty Saint" - 09/15/09
Raphael Saint cursed, the rest of his vocabulary having left him long ago. His temper has getting the best of him, but few would blame him given his current situation. Sweat ran down his entire body, his armor having been shed hours ago. It seared his skin in the blistering heat of the engine room. His undersuit had been discarded as well, having done little more than trap the heat inside. He pondered whether the outfit he came into the world wearing would be the one he left it in as well.
Steam poured up from the metal grates that constituted the floor, turning the small maintenance room into the sauna from hell. The only light came from the glowing coils of a nearby engine. Using his undersuit as a sort of oven mitt, Raphael picked up his metal flask and unscrewed the cap. He was treated to a small blast of hot air, and then held the flask over his head, preparing to pour his favorite refreshment into his waiting mouth. Instead, he felt a thick paste flow onto his tongue with a heavy taste of whiskey. Spitting it aside, he cursed his luck. His only drink had evaporated, leaving him with only highly concentrated fermented goo.
Tossing the flask aside, Saint leaned back against the wall behind him, his head tilted up staring at the ceiling. His mind began to wander over all the different types of drinks there was to be had, just out of his reach; Whiskey, Malt Whiskey, Whiskey Sour, Lossian Amber (a whiskey). Now, he wasn’t an alcoholic; not anymore at least. Alcoholics drink to get drunk, and too much drinking had given him too high a tolerance to get drunk anymore. He once drank to forget, but now was unable to. He once drank to relieve his stress, but there wasn’t enough drink for that anymore. Now he drank out of habit.
He had come down here to find more to drink. Having depleted his other stocks hidden throughout the ship over the course of the long journey, he had wandered in here looking for more only to lock himself in and remember that he had deemed this place long ago as unfit. The reason? It was too hot. Now he sat naked, cursing to himself and dying of thirst while he sweated out the last of his alcohol.
In case he was found, he started mentally going over his other hiding places. The bridge? No, he emptied that one last week. Behind the mirror in the men’s room? Nope, that one was gone yesterday.
He snapped his fingers, remembering the secret store he kept behind the “2 drink maximum” sign hanging in the mess. He had six or seven bottles in there; surely a couple should still be left. He cursed again, remembering that he had finished off the last one earlier that day. His mind quickly raced, trying to remember another location.
There was a hum as the electronic lock released on the door, and it slid open to reveal a figure standing in the doorway. Getting to his feet, Raphael blinked a couple times to adjust to the new light streaming in from the corridor. Walking over to the door, he sighed as he had to gently push the stunned crewwoman out of his way. Shaking a bit of the sweat off, he began walking away, in need of some fresh clothes. First, however, he needed to make a stop off at the ammo room. There were still two bottles of whiskey nestled between the ammo crates there.
--
You can't make fun of others without poking fun at yourself, and from that notion this story was born. It blows up Saint's wet habit, though at times this story could almost pass as canon as well. Who knows what you'll find at the bottom of a bottle!
Steam poured up from the metal grates that constituted the floor, turning the small maintenance room into the sauna from hell. The only light came from the glowing coils of a nearby engine. Using his undersuit as a sort of oven mitt, Raphael picked up his metal flask and unscrewed the cap. He was treated to a small blast of hot air, and then held the flask over his head, preparing to pour his favorite refreshment into his waiting mouth. Instead, he felt a thick paste flow onto his tongue with a heavy taste of whiskey. Spitting it aside, he cursed his luck. His only drink had evaporated, leaving him with only highly concentrated fermented goo.
Tossing the flask aside, Saint leaned back against the wall behind him, his head tilted up staring at the ceiling. His mind began to wander over all the different types of drinks there was to be had, just out of his reach; Whiskey, Malt Whiskey, Whiskey Sour, Lossian Amber (a whiskey). Now, he wasn’t an alcoholic; not anymore at least. Alcoholics drink to get drunk, and too much drinking had given him too high a tolerance to get drunk anymore. He once drank to forget, but now was unable to. He once drank to relieve his stress, but there wasn’t enough drink for that anymore. Now he drank out of habit.
He had come down here to find more to drink. Having depleted his other stocks hidden throughout the ship over the course of the long journey, he had wandered in here looking for more only to lock himself in and remember that he had deemed this place long ago as unfit. The reason? It was too hot. Now he sat naked, cursing to himself and dying of thirst while he sweated out the last of his alcohol.
In case he was found, he started mentally going over his other hiding places. The bridge? No, he emptied that one last week. Behind the mirror in the men’s room? Nope, that one was gone yesterday.
He snapped his fingers, remembering the secret store he kept behind the “2 drink maximum” sign hanging in the mess. He had six or seven bottles in there; surely a couple should still be left. He cursed again, remembering that he had finished off the last one earlier that day. His mind quickly raced, trying to remember another location.
There was a hum as the electronic lock released on the door, and it slid open to reveal a figure standing in the doorway. Getting to his feet, Raphael blinked a couple times to adjust to the new light streaming in from the corridor. Walking over to the door, he sighed as he had to gently push the stunned crewwoman out of his way. Shaking a bit of the sweat off, he began walking away, in need of some fresh clothes. First, however, he needed to make a stop off at the ammo room. There were still two bottles of whiskey nestled between the ammo crates there.
--
You can't make fun of others without poking fun at yourself, and from that notion this story was born. It blows up Saint's wet habit, though at times this story could almost pass as canon as well. Who knows what you'll find at the bottom of a bottle!
"Only Garst" - 08/04/09
There was a sharp buzzing noise that invaded his consciousness. Garst Tyrell slowly opened his eyes, blinking a couple times at the bright sunlight coming in through the windows. Subconsciously Garst reached over and turned his alarm clock off, years of the ritual making it a habit.
He sat up, and took in the sights around him. Everything was just how he left it the night before. The single items around his suite were telltale signs of a bachelor. One chair, one pillow, one set of dining ware. Garst got up and went about his morning routine of getting ready. He stepped into his shower, washing himself completely before stepping out and reaching for the single towel on the rack. After drying himself he wrapped the towel around his waist and, picking up the lone toothbrush, he brushed his teeth. Afterwards he reached for the comb, but looking into the mirror he stopped, and sighed a little inside.
Once dressed, Garst walked over to his personal communication device, and checked for any messages.
“No New Messages,” the slightly robotic voice announced. Garst stared down at the bright ‘0’ on the display, thinking to himself that he never remembered anything different. Heaving a heavy sigh, Garst walked away, moving on to the next task at hand.
While going through the files on his data pad, Garst walked over to the giant picture window that provided light to almost his entire suite. He looked out, gazing upon the bustling of the city below. In the streets he could see couples walking, business partners chatting, and teams of workers providing the services the city depended on to function. Looking into the sky, Garst noticed two Dori Hawks flying in circles around each other, beginning the elaborate mating dance that will end in a nest full of eggs.
Pulling himself away from the morning vista, Garst turned back around and began going over his files again, records of his lone wolf hunts and single ship fights. He sat back down on his bed, and after completing his check, put the data pad away back into his pocket. He took another look around his room, isolated from the rest of the inhabitants of the tower. He pulled the solitary pair of boots from under his bed, placed his feet inside of them, and began lacing them up to insure a tight fit. He thought about the solo run was planning on making today and placed his head into his hands.
Through the heavy sobs, a single word, almost incomprehensible, could be heard. “Alone.”
--
This story was originally written way back in August of '09 (as stated in the title), and was a joke story I wrote for my friend Garst Tyrell. Oddly enough this story could almost pass as canon for the character he now plays when he does RP.
He sat up, and took in the sights around him. Everything was just how he left it the night before. The single items around his suite were telltale signs of a bachelor. One chair, one pillow, one set of dining ware. Garst got up and went about his morning routine of getting ready. He stepped into his shower, washing himself completely before stepping out and reaching for the single towel on the rack. After drying himself he wrapped the towel around his waist and, picking up the lone toothbrush, he brushed his teeth. Afterwards he reached for the comb, but looking into the mirror he stopped, and sighed a little inside.
Once dressed, Garst walked over to his personal communication device, and checked for any messages.
“No New Messages,” the slightly robotic voice announced. Garst stared down at the bright ‘0’ on the display, thinking to himself that he never remembered anything different. Heaving a heavy sigh, Garst walked away, moving on to the next task at hand.
While going through the files on his data pad, Garst walked over to the giant picture window that provided light to almost his entire suite. He looked out, gazing upon the bustling of the city below. In the streets he could see couples walking, business partners chatting, and teams of workers providing the services the city depended on to function. Looking into the sky, Garst noticed two Dori Hawks flying in circles around each other, beginning the elaborate mating dance that will end in a nest full of eggs.
Pulling himself away from the morning vista, Garst turned back around and began going over his files again, records of his lone wolf hunts and single ship fights. He sat back down on his bed, and after completing his check, put the data pad away back into his pocket. He took another look around his room, isolated from the rest of the inhabitants of the tower. He pulled the solitary pair of boots from under his bed, placed his feet inside of them, and began lacing them up to insure a tight fit. He thought about the solo run was planning on making today and placed his head into his hands.
Through the heavy sobs, a single word, almost incomprehensible, could be heard. “Alone.”
--
This story was originally written way back in August of '09 (as stated in the title), and was a joke story I wrote for my friend Garst Tyrell. Oddly enough this story could almost pass as canon for the character he now plays when he does RP.
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