Simon's Stand
Author's note:
This story is just a little something I'm working on. It's not finished, but feel free to tell me what you think of it as I go. It's a more in-depth look at a rather deep character who gets barely any revelation into his backstory. It's one of the few faults Rogue Galaxy has, but that just makes it all the better since we can write our own!
As he walked to his death, Simon had but one thought.
What have I become?
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Four hours previously.....
Simon walked off the elevator into the Dorganark's spacious lounge area, and looked around . He immediately spotted Jaster, Kisala and Monsha, gathered around the incongruous grand piano in the corner. It had been a gift to Kisala from Dorgangoa; she was playing it skillfully while Monsha strutted around the table and Jaster stared like a great galloping idiot. Typical, but Simon couldn't really blame him. She was a looker.
Lilika looked as uncomfortable with company as ever, leaning against a support pillar. When you are more awkward in public than Zegram, you've got problems. And speak of the devil, there he is. And he's in luck. With his head in a bottle of vodka, Zegram can be almost human. Simon made a bee-line towards him.
"Listen, we've got problems."
"And why do I care?" responds a typical Zegram Ghart. So much for the miracles of alcohol… Simon gathers himself for a challenge.
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Zegram spilled his drink, his characteristic calm shattered.
"You mean to tell me that we've overspent on supplies for 2 weeks without even knowing?? Dorgangoa will kill us!"
"It's not really anyone's fault. We've had so many new crew members sign on lately, the expenses were bound to go up. Besides mate, it's no so bad…
Simon immediately knew this was the wrong thing to say. And Zegram is not someone you piss off. Especially when he's in his cups.
"You Blockhead! Do you think Dorgangoa will care who's fault it is? Do you? When you tell him you've cost him 32,000... He'll fire you out of the main cannon!"
"Now wait a bloomin' second here…."
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As he finally walks toward his cabin a half-hour later, Simon reflects on the exchange. His ears are still ringing from all the yelling, and he can't help but wonder how things would of turned out if the man had been sober. Would he still have gotten the tongue lashing, or would Zegram simply have cut him in half? Probably both.
He opens the door to his cabin, and his eyes fall upon the picture of his family. Little Chie… His heart feels like an open wound. His exile has not been easy on him. While self-imposed, it makes Zegram's ranting seem almost absurd in comparison. This brings him no relief, although it does put things into perspective.
He keeps the photograph on the bedstand. It greets him every morning, the picture of his wife and child long estranged from him. He savors the pain that it brings him, mixing bittersweet with the mingled guilt at his actions and the fear of how they would judge his cowardice. He never wants to forget.
The scars underneath his mask seem almost paltry compared to the deeper, emotional ones. Wounds may heal, but a mark of cowardice on your soul stays forever. It's that scar he is most afraid of. How could they not judge him?
