Wooooo! Back with a vengance baby! Lets see if I still got it. I know chapters 8 and 9 were shoddy, but I'm going to see if I can do them up right with 10. Onward.
Disclaimer - You know the drill..
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Wafts of smoke wound themselves in slow curls to all corners of the small, dark room. Sunlight slanted through the glossy window at odd angles, creating a half-lit environment that made normal vision uncomfortable. It took a while to take in the surroundings, however meager. Faded yellow walls and a flaking white ceiling showed the wear and tear of what could be classified as ages. The withered tan carpet ran the span of the floor, stopping just shy of every baseboard, which were marred and dirty as well. No one had cared about this place long enough to salvage it. With the way history had been turning, especially as of late, more and more sunrises found abandoned homes, shattered lives, and endless graves. It was that very same sunlight that filtered lazily through the distented window pane in its odd angles. The room seemed to glow, albeit faint, but it was a comforting notion in a world of preverbial darkness. A cot sat against the back wall, lonely, and a small nightstand beside it were the only furnishings other than a solitary chair.
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It had been three days. Three days since Nicholas had found this place. A week since the disaster. He couldnt bring himself to think about it anymore. He just couldnt. He sat, stripped to the waist, facing the wall. His right hand clung half-heartedly to a half-full glass of whiskey and more determinedly to a cigar crooked in his finger. He was wasting away, and he knew it. So many people had died. That wasnt him, not even in the old days. In any other situation, he would have let that behemoth kill him, all the while tossing off witty one-liners that were the edge of the knife of his humor. Not anymore.
He had stumbled upon this place by accident. Nicholas wandered out of the devestation, into the desert. It was an old refueling station. The irony of the place mocked him relentlessly. An old, gutted building, a shell of what it once was. He couldnt even find the motivation to get up and shave. To put it in terms he could face, he was scared. He wasnt capable of that. He hadnt even seen Va - -, no, dont think about him. He wasnt capable. He was just Wolfwood; previous Gung Ho and travelling Priest. That last part struck a funny note. A man of such devoted faith, such unwavering confidence, and he was shaken to his core. He had a second chance at everything; at life, at purpose, and he had used it to slaughter people that were potentially innocent. If he had any tears left, they would have fallen.
Nicholas looked up to the back wall, his new object of hatred sat there, looking decidedly inanimate. The Evergreen. He didnt even know how he had come across it again, but he had. The more he thought about it, the more he realized the details after the...whatever it was, were blurry. He had tried several times after finding his solace to muster his fury again, to concentrate and build some kind of motivation. It never worked. The viscious cycle of thoughts always came back to the killing. He didnt think he could ever escape it.
Wolfwood reached into his pocket with his left hand, taking another drink of his whiskey. He quietly removed the cufflinks he had tucked away two days hence. He stared at them. Those small silver symbols, those crosses, were everything he lived by. Everything he thought he lived by. He closed his fist around the trinkets.
"Why," he whispered, and slung them across the room, off to his left. "Why did you put me here?" his sardonic voice broke, and the tears he thought he had emptied came anew. He hadnt cried since he had died the first time, and that was oh so long ago. "Is this my hell?" He shook his head, staring down at the gun in his lap. He could do it, sure. Maybe whatever hell he was delivered to would be more of a grace than this.
"Not hell, Priest, but close." The voice came from behind him. All of the training, experience, and knowledge should have taken over, but they didnt. Nick turned slowly, sniffing and pawing at his eyes.
"Who are you?" Nicholas almost didnt care, he almost hoped this, wait -- who was this? A boy stood there, tall and lanky. He had dark, pushed up hair, and he leaned casually against the doorframe. It wasnt his penetrating green eyes or confident smile that put him out of place, it was his coat. It was long, floor length, and red. It buttoned in a strip of black down the middle, and ran into his gloves on his curled fists that were crossed over his chest.
"Someone who knows all about you." He took a few purposeful steps toward Wolfwood, and relieved Nick of his glass. "All about you," the boy drank, pulled a face, and handed it back. "That tastes horrid." He shook his head and stretched. Why did that seem so familiar?
"What do you want, boy?" Nick thought about threatening with his gun, but even he knew it would be a hollow taunt.
"Its not about what I want, Priest." The moved over to the opposite wall, bent down, and picked up the two crosses. "Your coming, arent you?" He turned and casually strode toward the door.
"Where?" Wolfwood had no intention of moving.
The boy stopped, "To see him," he looked over his shoulder, "He's been waiting for you," with that, he stepped outside.
Nicholas moved.
Disclaimer - You know the drill..
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Wafts of smoke wound themselves in slow curls to all corners of the small, dark room. Sunlight slanted through the glossy window at odd angles, creating a half-lit environment that made normal vision uncomfortable. It took a while to take in the surroundings, however meager. Faded yellow walls and a flaking white ceiling showed the wear and tear of what could be classified as ages. The withered tan carpet ran the span of the floor, stopping just shy of every baseboard, which were marred and dirty as well. No one had cared about this place long enough to salvage it. With the way history had been turning, especially as of late, more and more sunrises found abandoned homes, shattered lives, and endless graves. It was that very same sunlight that filtered lazily through the distented window pane in its odd angles. The room seemed to glow, albeit faint, but it was a comforting notion in a world of preverbial darkness. A cot sat against the back wall, lonely, and a small nightstand beside it were the only furnishings other than a solitary chair.
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It had been three days. Three days since Nicholas had found this place. A week since the disaster. He couldnt bring himself to think about it anymore. He just couldnt. He sat, stripped to the waist, facing the wall. His right hand clung half-heartedly to a half-full glass of whiskey and more determinedly to a cigar crooked in his finger. He was wasting away, and he knew it. So many people had died. That wasnt him, not even in the old days. In any other situation, he would have let that behemoth kill him, all the while tossing off witty one-liners that were the edge of the knife of his humor. Not anymore.
He had stumbled upon this place by accident. Nicholas wandered out of the devestation, into the desert. It was an old refueling station. The irony of the place mocked him relentlessly. An old, gutted building, a shell of what it once was. He couldnt even find the motivation to get up and shave. To put it in terms he could face, he was scared. He wasnt capable of that. He hadnt even seen Va - -, no, dont think about him. He wasnt capable. He was just Wolfwood; previous Gung Ho and travelling Priest. That last part struck a funny note. A man of such devoted faith, such unwavering confidence, and he was shaken to his core. He had a second chance at everything; at life, at purpose, and he had used it to slaughter people that were potentially innocent. If he had any tears left, they would have fallen.
Nicholas looked up to the back wall, his new object of hatred sat there, looking decidedly inanimate. The Evergreen. He didnt even know how he had come across it again, but he had. The more he thought about it, the more he realized the details after the...whatever it was, were blurry. He had tried several times after finding his solace to muster his fury again, to concentrate and build some kind of motivation. It never worked. The viscious cycle of thoughts always came back to the killing. He didnt think he could ever escape it.
Wolfwood reached into his pocket with his left hand, taking another drink of his whiskey. He quietly removed the cufflinks he had tucked away two days hence. He stared at them. Those small silver symbols, those crosses, were everything he lived by. Everything he thought he lived by. He closed his fist around the trinkets.
"Why," he whispered, and slung them across the room, off to his left. "Why did you put me here?" his sardonic voice broke, and the tears he thought he had emptied came anew. He hadnt cried since he had died the first time, and that was oh so long ago. "Is this my hell?" He shook his head, staring down at the gun in his lap. He could do it, sure. Maybe whatever hell he was delivered to would be more of a grace than this.
"Not hell, Priest, but close." The voice came from behind him. All of the training, experience, and knowledge should have taken over, but they didnt. Nick turned slowly, sniffing and pawing at his eyes.
"Who are you?" Nicholas almost didnt care, he almost hoped this, wait -- who was this? A boy stood there, tall and lanky. He had dark, pushed up hair, and he leaned casually against the doorframe. It wasnt his penetrating green eyes or confident smile that put him out of place, it was his coat. It was long, floor length, and red. It buttoned in a strip of black down the middle, and ran into his gloves on his curled fists that were crossed over his chest.
"Someone who knows all about you." He took a few purposeful steps toward Wolfwood, and relieved Nick of his glass. "All about you," the boy drank, pulled a face, and handed it back. "That tastes horrid." He shook his head and stretched. Why did that seem so familiar?
"What do you want, boy?" Nick thought about threatening with his gun, but even he knew it would be a hollow taunt.
"Its not about what I want, Priest." The moved over to the opposite wall, bent down, and picked up the two crosses. "Your coming, arent you?" He turned and casually strode toward the door.
"Where?" Wolfwood had no intention of moving.
The boy stopped, "To see him," he looked over his shoulder, "He's been waiting for you," with that, he stepped outside.
Nicholas moved.
