~
Nebria's beautiful night glow filtered through the bedroom window. It cast a soft light upon the plush bed, and the wooden dresser behind it. Howling winds ran past the glass, beating upon is surface with their mournful cries.
Aren shut the blinds tight. His bedroom dimmed down to near-blackness, fended off by a single nightlight by the dresser. He unclasped his heavy chest plate, the last of the Terran armor, and lay it in a pile at the foot of his bed. His chest ached of healing wounds from days past.
He looked carefully down the barrel of his sidearm pistol. The wide, squarish gun was something he had always prided. Only Terran soldiers routinely used the weapon, marked as the Nebrian m340. No traditional military handgun fired a round as large as this Terran piece. Its recoil was immense; few men could fire the weapon without hurting themselves, and fewer could fire it accurately. During the Galbadian Conflict, enemy troops nicknamed it "the Compound" after some m340's were stolen, and the Galbadians suffered wrist fractures trying to use them.
Aren had owned his first m340 since he was twelve. His second, the one he was holding, was a gift from a fellow soldier, a Lieutenant Mikael Midas.
Midas had passed training with Aren, and the two were in the same military company during the Galbadian Conflict. Aren remembered Midas as an eager young man, headstrong but willing to serve, and pure in heart. He was taller than Aren and featured the pale-white flesh and straight black hair of nearly every citizen of the Terran world. Midas' face was sharp and angular; Aren remembered the lines under his cheeks and eyes, and his thin-set frown. The features perfectly reflected his serious, determined attitude.
Aren had befriended Mikael early on. They were an unstoppable team and highest decorated in their company. But Aren climbed the ladder of ranks faster than Mikael. Before long, he had risen to commander of Mikael's Screamer batallion. Mikael found himself at the receiving end of Aren's orders. The friendship promptly ended.
From then on, and by Mikael's atimate decision, the two were bitter rivals. Mikael fought viciously on and off the battlefield to rise above Aren in ranks. He strove to eclipse Aren in every respect, bearing over him with constant pressures. It was this terrible obsessive mindset, in part, that caused his death.
Aren had never completely dealt with Mikael's death, he decided. It seemed logical. He never thought about it, and Mikael never haunted him in his dreams. After all, man could only stand so much trauma at once. Perhaps someday, when his troubled mind had been eased, Mikael's shattered body would have exhumed itself to torment Aren once more.
Hyne, thought Aren, as he stared at the gun in his hand. How many demons do I have?
But he returned to his thoughts-on-hold. Mikael, or someone closely resembling him, was alive. And he remembered the harrowing events of his own demise. He was hell-bent in a vengeful rampage, and weilded the Ice magic to carry it out.
Keep your feelings out of this...you'll only get worked up. Look at the facts.
This nightmarish Mikael was one of Aren's two assassins. They were dispatched by Garden, with the intent of keeping the mysterious Trabia Stratagem from surfacing. Something about the mysterious data, and Aren's knowledge of it, had Garden up in arms.
But I don't know anything!
Aren was more confused than ever. And his confusion was putting his life at risk. He was making moves that pitted Garden against him, but he had no idea what they were. He could not go on blindly and endanger his friends. He needed a position of advantage. And it meant either turning himself in, or discovering Trabia Stratagem once and for all, and blowing the lid off whatever secret it held.
He buried his bald head within his hands, and heaved a sigh. I never was one to give up.
His augmented ears piqued; a distant ruffle of cloth carried to him from beyond his bedroom wall. Selphie could not sleep, he assumed. How could he blame her?
Poor girl, she must be tearing at the seams...
Selphie had been through so much. She had been beaten, rejected, and pushed halfway around the globe to a place she never knew existed. There had been attempts on her life. Within a number of days, she had witnessed a lifetime's worth of murder, brute violence, and utter depravity. Such things had always been at the heels of Aren Bowes.
But I'm used to it. I can deal with it...she doesn't have to...she's better than this...
She was so much better. She posessed something that he still felt discomfort in thinking about. It was not empathy, for he knew empathy well. The empathetic had the option of being unattached. But every chance she had, Selphie leapt headlong into Aren's life. She faced his his trauma with him. She cried beside him, and on a sweet occasion or two, she laughed with him.
She really cares.
And now she was paying the price. Her carefree spirit was in constant challenge thanks to Aren's multiplying demons. The more she knew of his life, and the more she forced herself in, the deeper she was doomed to fall into Aren's despair.
He heard a distant voice, Selphie's, beyond the wall. Perhaps in a restless nightmare, perhaps she cried. But her utterances were mournful; there would be no peace for her tonight.
She needs to talk, thought Aren. That's how she is. She needs to vent. I'll go see if she's all right...
He stood, and passed the dresser's long mirror. A glance became a stare, and he stopped where he was. A low light cast upon his body, and upon the mirror. He stepped away, and for the first time in ages, took in what was before him.
His pale white head was bald, and covered with long, tattooed scars. His grey pupils filled up the entire eye, searching for whatever light the room could offer, and gave the appearance of a set of empty sockets. Hairline scratches ran across his face. A tiny chunk of rock was still lodged below a massive white scar across his forehead.
Aren leaned forward against the dresser. He could barely look at himself anymore. He was beaten, bruised, and grotesque - but never worn down. His physical being was attuned to punishment. He belonged on the battlefield, where his hell-bent determination and terrifying appearance did him good. It mattered not what anyone, even Selphie, said or did to change him. Aren Bowes was beyond help.
Darkness was repelled from the small room. A bluish neon glow shined about the dresser mirror. Aren turned, and looked to his bedside, where his Nebrian battle armor radiated in flourescent color.
~
