It was the quiet moments when he was conscious, when he was not fighting, in-between mission that he really felt the most unease. He was a tool, a machine with a purpose, and when he was not out on assignment he was sitting useless on the shelf.
The place they had given for him such times was barely habitable for an animal much less a human being but he never complained. He was not to be granted such things, such комфорт. His bare hands brushed over dirty windows as he cleared away a top layer of grim that had caked itself onto the aged glass. So thick was the years of neglect that he barely made a dent in the history that lined itself on the panes. He watched with such disinterest as the pale grey dust floated in the invisible breeze to fall onto the cold floor.
From one frozen grave to another.
The mark he left on the window barely gave any insight to what lay outside but if he shifted right in the dim light of the room he could make out an invisible being staring right back at him. A worn pale face stared back from hard eyes. A hand reached up to brush shaggy hair and this ghost did the same. He felt the dry strands between his fingers, a quick flash freezing him as he for a split second saw silky strands slicked back. Never had someone come to touch it, care for it, clean it. It had been this way for as long as he remembered…however long that was.
He stepped closer and this spirit did the same until he was close enough to reach out - stretching out his hand to hit the face - and then he saw it. The cool glint that winked at him, taunting him with its clean surface. His fingers clenched and his fist slammed into the window breaking that still being into pieces.
He turned to pace back towards the darkest corner he could find. His eyes betraying him as they glanced towards his arm once again. He scowled and shifted his gaze as if the arm would feel his hate and dissolve away from his body. They leave him in a boneyard but his arm, his most precious asset, was kept clean and in perfect working order. The ghost he saw moments before had the haggard look of a broken man, unkempt and untidy. His clothing dusty and in some places torn. He fiddled with a string on his trousers as his back slammed into the wall. He felt a jolt he barely registered as pain before he slid down to the floor.
Tilting his head he turned once again to the thing that had a permeant place on his body. He was not fooled by the shining skin, it was a weapon christened with blood, made by unclean, hateful hands. It was the dirtiest thing in the room and it was a painful reminder that while he thought of it as an extension it moved per his orders. Every drop of blood that was so carefully wiped from its gleaming surface he allowed to fall. He flexed his fingers, forcing his head back against the wall as he grit his teeth at the multitude of voices that rose in his brain. Screams and cries riddled with pain, pleas for mercy. His mind swam with the pool of blood he had drop by drop filled. His eyes tightened, willing the pounding away, as that pool pushed up against his skull like the tide coming in before a horrendous storm.
His distraction proved painful as a sound came up his throat and he opened his eyes to look down. A red rivulet pooled down his hand onto his arm and dripping, dripping - drip- di- He stood quickly as the sound outside his mind caused a quick panic. His eyes never leaving his hand as he brought it closer to his face. The nail on his pointer finger was pulled half off. Ripped jagged from one side but not completely torn away. He squinted slightly as he looked closer, noticing caught in the tear was a thin thread. His nails, uncared for and ignored by everyone would break and rip during his missions. Sometimes they would force themselves into his skin and he would break them himself. Every element of his human body was so frail. The hinderance overpowered the pain as he tore the elements from his flesh like one would rip a splinter from a wound. He didn't even hesitate as he reached up and finished what the string has started.
Dropping his hand to put the new flow of red out of his vision he looked again to the far side of his keep. The ground twinkled and glistened at him from the broken pane. He walked closer as he stared, looking-
There.
Once again he was looking upon a ghost. The broken glass working angles and light made him look unnatural. He no longer saw his hollow eyes, his unkempt strands. He could no longer see the shine from his arm or the pale wash of his skin. Too many shattered shards lined the ground and he knelt down, balancing on his feet as he used one finger to move the pieces around.
He twitched in frustration after only moments. The glass had been old, cracked before and strained. He was only the breaking point in a long line of torment. The pieces, so many pieces, laid before him splayed out as they glowed dimly in the light. He could move some around as many of the shards had edges that could easily lay next to one another but the pane was gone for good. It would never be whole again. The window once useful now just another mess to be ignored.
He turned to look at his metal arm as a cool calm settled over him. He knew all about broken, unkept things.