Banshee's random story
PostPosted:Sun Oct 08, 2006 2:53 pm
PROLOGUE
The handle was steel, cold and bloody. It held the harsh outside world at bay. The only man breathing didn’t pay any notice to the blood. Instead, he gripped it, turned it, and pushed. The cold Antarctic wind cut into the room, instantly freezing the blood on the handle. It had no effect on the man.
The man stepped through the doorway with long measured strides. With each step, his bare feet sank into the snow. A stronger gust came by, and left snow clinging to his naked body. The dull humming noise that surrounded him subsided as he took notice of it. He slowly turned his head to the right, and saw a glowing orange sun. As he took time to stare at the sunset, the weapon in his right hand silently began to shrink. The long blade shortened, until in his right hand he carried a featureless black bar of two feet.
Feeling a twinge in his shoulder, the man looked at its origin. A weapon was in the clutches of a dead soldier’s hand. The soldier’s torso laid 20 feet away, bowels staining the white snow. The fallen soldier had hurt him with the weapon. Standing again after kneeling to pick up the hand, the man removed fingers, one at a time, a loud crack for every finger broken off.
The twinge returned. Kneeling, the man placed his black bar in the snow. With his newly freed hand, he began to dig his fingers into the wound. He gripped the small metal object and brutally ripped it from his wound, spraying fresh blood into the frosty air.
The small metal object was cylindrical, yet crushed at the tip, splayed open. Hmm… must have been hollow at the end of this. No longer holding any value to his mind, he let the object fall from it, unnoticed. Buried in the snow, along with the fallen soldiers, it would never be seen again.
Standing back up, the man held the weapon of his wound in his right hand, holding it as the soldier had. What kind of tool could this be? He walked towards the torso of the tool’s master, using his same measured strides.
The torso lay at his feet. The man pointed the weapon that had been the origin of his own pain at the torso. Slowly, he tilted his head slightly to the side, and pulled a small hard wire near his first finger.
*Click*. He paused. Curiosity urged him to pull it again.
*BANG*
The torso jerked. Fresh new stains in the snow made themselves apparent. Despite the sense of satisfaction, his body held the urge to flinch. Flinching is for the weak. He took a moment to stare at his work, and judge the weapons worth. Deciding it worthy, he turned back towards the distant orange glow of the artificial sunset, hours old. At the sight, he recalled what fires must be falling on the rest of the organized world. He realized was smiling. Savoring it for just a moment, the smile faded back to nothingness. The sunset was made of fire… his fire.
The handle was steel, cold and bloody. It held the harsh outside world at bay. The only man breathing didn’t pay any notice to the blood. Instead, he gripped it, turned it, and pushed. The cold Antarctic wind cut into the room, instantly freezing the blood on the handle. It had no effect on the man.
The man stepped through the doorway with long measured strides. With each step, his bare feet sank into the snow. A stronger gust came by, and left snow clinging to his naked body. The dull humming noise that surrounded him subsided as he took notice of it. He slowly turned his head to the right, and saw a glowing orange sun. As he took time to stare at the sunset, the weapon in his right hand silently began to shrink. The long blade shortened, until in his right hand he carried a featureless black bar of two feet.
Feeling a twinge in his shoulder, the man looked at its origin. A weapon was in the clutches of a dead soldier’s hand. The soldier’s torso laid 20 feet away, bowels staining the white snow. The fallen soldier had hurt him with the weapon. Standing again after kneeling to pick up the hand, the man removed fingers, one at a time, a loud crack for every finger broken off.
The twinge returned. Kneeling, the man placed his black bar in the snow. With his newly freed hand, he began to dig his fingers into the wound. He gripped the small metal object and brutally ripped it from his wound, spraying fresh blood into the frosty air.
The small metal object was cylindrical, yet crushed at the tip, splayed open. Hmm… must have been hollow at the end of this. No longer holding any value to his mind, he let the object fall from it, unnoticed. Buried in the snow, along with the fallen soldiers, it would never be seen again.
Standing back up, the man held the weapon of his wound in his right hand, holding it as the soldier had. What kind of tool could this be? He walked towards the torso of the tool’s master, using his same measured strides.
The torso lay at his feet. The man pointed the weapon that had been the origin of his own pain at the torso. Slowly, he tilted his head slightly to the side, and pulled a small hard wire near his first finger.
*Click*. He paused. Curiosity urged him to pull it again.
*BANG*
The torso jerked. Fresh new stains in the snow made themselves apparent. Despite the sense of satisfaction, his body held the urge to flinch. Flinching is for the weak. He took a moment to stare at his work, and judge the weapons worth. Deciding it worthy, he turned back towards the distant orange glow of the artificial sunset, hours old. At the sight, he recalled what fires must be falling on the rest of the organized world. He realized was smiling. Savoring it for just a moment, the smile faded back to nothingness. The sunset was made of fire… his fire.