Moar writings!
I am apparently on a roll, or something. This bit is longer than the last, but that doesn't mean it's any better. Read at your own risk! (You won't understand any of it, anyway!)
It was another stormy night, but at least it was more rain than thunder, so he didn't have to worry so much about the noise interrupting his thoughts. The metal roof of his small hut pinged and panged with the downpour, and the water ran in sheets down the front window. Still, it was built well enough -- he'd made sure of that, he never did anything half-assed -- and in spite of its ramshackle appearance, there wasn't a single leak, meaning he stayed dry and warm.
Warmth, of course, wasn't something he had much need to worry about these days. To his mind, he hadn't felt "warm" in decades, and not just from lack of sun or a crackling fireplace. He took a long drag on his cigarette, the dim light of the stoked flame mingling with the equally unimpressive effort of the lantern in the corner of the room, and let the smoke float lazily from his mouth, making no effort to hurry along its exit, as breathing was another of those things he didn't need to worry about.
It was a stupid habit he'd picked up -- smoking -- mostly because it gave him something to do with his mouth, since he certainly didn't use it to talk much anymore, and the luxury of fine food and drink died with the rest of the civilized world. Those were things he didn't much miss, though, at least not anymore. The habit just stuck, as habits will. But this particular cigarette was down to the butt, so he leaned over to squash it into the ash tray on the nearby nightstand.
The frame he held in his other hand, however, he hung onto for another moment, clicking through the cycling slideshow of holos and flat-picts.
A photo of his brother, back before their relationship had taken an ill-fated turn into bitter hatred and obsessive rivalry.
Another, even older than the first, was degraded with age, and it flickered and blurred almost constantly. It was a photograph of their entire squad, Silent Hawk: Steven, Shane, Kenny -- all of them, freshly formed and all too happy to be alive, not knowing the fate that awaited them.
The next, from decades later in his life, was a rather unfriendly-looking shot of himself and a few acquaintances sharing drinks in a grimy bar on the edges of society -- men he'd done several jobs with, and built up enough repute to be considered an honorary member of their little group. None of them were smiling; none of them had a reason to in that line of work.
Half a dozen more images shifted in and out as his finger tapped the button, covering at least a good fifty years of his early life. In all that time, most people probably would have accrued a larger collection, but for him, this was a significant amount. In fact, how he'd managed to hang on to these images over the years, he wasn't sure, especially when he was trying so damn hard to forget a lot of it. Some of it he'd downright hated. Some of it he still did.
He lit up another cigarette -- he'd need the distraction for this next set; he usually did, at any rate. Why he kept looking at these day after day, month after month, he wasn't sure. Maybe he was just a masochist and enjoyed torturing himself. Maybe he was just an idiot. He tugged a mostly-drained bottle of liquor up from where it sat on the floor next to the bed, and settled it on the nightstand within convenient reach.
The first image to pop up was one he hadn't even wanted to be in -- he'd argued rather vocally against it, as he recalled -- but he hadn't thrown it out like he'd threatened to; threatened her, and threatened to himself.
They were in the park, the place where they'd met, and continued to meet at fairly regular intervals, and it was an almost disgustingly bright and colorful day -- far removed from the grey days and almost constant winter weather that assaulted the continent in the present. He was dressed as sharp as ever, and she, naturally, wasn't dressed in anything but the coat of shiny black fur that covered her four-legged frame.
Where she'd gotten the camera he never did find out, though he had no doubt whatsoever that it was an ill-gotten prize, either way. He also never figured out how she'd managed to set it up without his help (he'd refused to give it), given the limitations of her anatomy, but she pulled it off all right.
The photograph that resulted from her efforts wasn't going to win any awards -- it was fairly blurry, the angle was ridiculous, he had a nasty frown on his face, and she'd only just managed to bound back into the frame before the camera went off. But then, he always suspected that's exactly how she wanted it anyway: spontaneous and against his will. He clicked past it.
This one he'd actually taken himself, a few months down the line. It was the first time she'd come up to his apartment, and she was rather enjoying the plush couch that filled the living room of his suite. She looked just like any other dog settled down for an afternoon snooze, but he'd never seen her that way. He knew she was much more than the unfortunate body she'd wound up being stuck in.
In fact, it was around that time that he was first beginning to realize just how special she was -- if not to anyone else, then at least to him. That's probably why he'd gotten rid of her not long after, before he had the chance to do something he'd regret. What a shame it was, then, that he'd only make up for it much later by doing something he'd never forgive himself for the rest of his life.
A sigh left his lips, wreathing the small device in clinging, lingering smoke, that only reluctantly dissipated with an annoyed wave of the album. He settled his cigarette carefully in the ash tray, exchanging it briefly for the bottle, which he took a quick swig from before clicking again.
He put the bottle down on the nightstand and leaned forward against his knees, cradling the album in both hands and staring at it in silence. Barely breathing and hardly noticing it, he felt himself getting sucked into the images in front of him as they continued to go by, each one tugging at his heart more than the last.
Here were the ones. Actual, honest-to-God good memories -- the only things he missed about the world, before it all went and collapsed around him again. Even now -- especially now, maybe -- it was weird to see himself smiling with genuine happiness in these pictures. Curled up together under the shade of a tree, or kicking back in a diner with a board game on one of their rare trips back into civilization.
Then came the drawings; sketches he'd made of her, but not as a canine -- as she should have been, as she had been once upon a time, and as he'd promised her she would be again. Such a promise -- she never did believe him, but he'd meant it, he was going to find a way someday. It never happened.
And after the drawings, the videos. He lifted a hand to cover his mouth, taking a deep breath in through his nose and letting it out again, trying, as he always did, to keep himself from getting emotional.
It was so difficult -- so goddamn difficult. There she was, right in front of him! Walking lazily along a path through the woods while he followed her, filming for no reason; just because he'd happened to find this video recorder laying around, its battery still holding a partial charge.
"You realize you're a huge, honking dork, Gideon."
"Feeling camera shy? That's not much like you."
The image quality wasn't the best, but time does that. The sound was also a bit tinny, coming through the tiny speaker. But for him, it was like he was there again.
"I think this is a wee bit different, dear."
"Different how?"
"I'm just not in the mood, today, Gideon..."
"That hardly answers the question."
"You want me to bite you?"
"... Perhaps. ... Hey -- hey! Urufu, you're going to knock it out of my--"
"Let me get a look, 'ere... ah-ha. Hello! Whoever ends up finding this after I dump it in a random landfill, if you wanna know how this story ends: Gideon met a tragic end at the paws of his canine companion, who later went on to become the terror of the civilized world. ...hmmmyep, I think that sounds about right."
"If you're finished? Thank you. Hi -- pay no attention to the mutt, she's just a spoil-sport. ... Damn it... ... No, the battery is just... Ah well, so much for--"
He lowered the album, clicking it off wordlessly and staring at the now-blank screen for a while before tossing it on the bed next to him. Maybe he'd finish later, if he was feeling up to it. He considered reaching for his cigarette again, but couldn't bring himself to make the move, until finally, he simply closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands.
He sat like that for a while, silent and motionless, eventually sitting up again and rubbing at his face. The stubble of his untrimmed beard caught his attention, noting that was something he should have taken care of by now, but reminding himself that he just didn't bloody well care.
Grabbing the cigarette, he got wearily to his feet, taking another of those long, slow drags as he made his way toward the door. It was still raining, but he opened it anyway, greeted by the chill air and a soft misting of moisture. He leaned against the door frame and simply watched, smoke drifting as an afterthought from his lips, only to be whisked away into the night. The branches of the surrounding trees shifted and creaked, the underbrush of the forest barely hanging on to their own roots as they were assaulted by the whipping wind and water. He watched, and his mind continued to roll over the same thoughts that always plagued him.
For so many years, the only thing they'd had was each other, because the rest of the world didn't want them. But that was the way he'd liked it; he hadn't wanted anything more than that. Then the fire had come down from the sky, beams of destruction annihilating cities and killing billions in an instant. After that, it wasn't a matter of the world not wanting them -- it was a matter of the world being a broken, dying beast on its last leg, unable to support what was left of itself.
His brother had died that day, he knew. He had no way of checking, of being sure, but he had a feeling. Her family, such as it was, were likely gone, too -- he'd never known for sure about that, either, but it seemed hopeless to think otherwise.
At that point, they were more alone than ever, because this time they had nowhere -- absolutely nowhere -- to run to. No towns to slip into for a night's rest in a motel, or to eat a hot meal at the local bed and breakfast. No sympathetic travelers to share supplies with them, no signs of life to remind them that things would someday turn around for the better. All that was gone. There was no one and nothing. Or at least, so they'd thought.
The first resistance groups started to crop up some years after the man-made disaster that had broken the world's back. People who thought they could make a difference, never mind that the enemy outgunned them and outnumbered them a hundred-thousand to one. He'd thought they were crazy, and he still did.
Urufu, though... she was so far past cynical she'd gone full circle and become an idealist. Whether it was her desire to help others, or just her thirst for payback on the ones who'd destroyed what little she had left, the only thing he'd known was that he'd wanted no part in it. To him, more than ever, their well-being and happiness relied on them looking out for themselves, not sticking their necks out on the line for a hopeless cause.
She'd managed to convince him, though. Not because he was desperate, like her, for any kind of hope, but because he was willing to do it for her. And then everything went wrong, of course. They were lucky they got out of it alive, really -- very lucky -- and once again they went on their way, alone, just the two of them.
At the time, he was just glad they were both still in one piece, he didn't even have time for I told you so's or finger-pointing. But when they happened upon another group of would-be heroes, he had to draw the line. He wasn't going to let themselves be taken in by a charismatic do-gooder a second time, not after they barely survived the last failure.
But these people are better organized, she'd argued. They have plans, they have resources, they have a chance.
That may well be, he'd countered, but it isn't going to be with us.
As it turned out... it just wasn't going to be with him. He couldn't deter her. She'd made up her mind, she couldn't simply walk away, like he could, and ignore the few others out there trying to fight back and make things better. He was selfish, and he knew it -- he just hadn't planned on her being so selfless by comparison.
She'll come around, he'd told himself. This one will fail, like the last one, and I'll find her again -- and then she'll understand.
But he never found her again. He never heard from her again, never even heard about her again, and decades later it still ate at his soul, boring a hole in the deepest part of him. He'd cried countless times -- him, someone who never cried, had spent whole nights wailing at the sky, the dirt, at himself, wondering why he'd walked away from her. Was she dead? Was she alive somewhere? If she was, would she even want to see his face again after he just abandoned her?
His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a figure in the trees, running awkwardly through the pouring rain and gusting wind, with little more than a long coat to battle the forces of nature at work this night. He flicked his cigarette out into the rain and stood up straighter, straining his eyes to see who or what was approaching his shack.
When the figure was close enough for the light from the door to illuminate it, it slowed, trying to see him through uplifted arms that were attempting to keep the rain out of her eyes. Yes, it was a she -- that much was obvious by now, as she crept another few feet toward the minimal safety of the door's overhang.
She let her arms down a bit, revealing a youthful-looking face framed by thick violet hair, which was currently plastered to her pale cheeks, and her blue eyes peered up at him beseechingly, though with a great deal of hesitation as well. "Ex... excuse me... sir, I -- that is -- if it's all right, I could really--"
"Just for the night," Gideon replied wearily, not looking or sounding the least bit worried or curious about the matter. Because in truth, he just simply didn't care who she was or where she was going, and if she intended to rob him blind... well, good luck. He didn't have anything of worth but his memories anyway.
It was another stormy night, but at least it was more rain than thunder, so he didn't have to worry so much about the noise interrupting his thoughts. The metal roof of his small hut pinged and panged with the downpour, and the water ran in sheets down the front window. Still, it was built well enough -- he'd made sure of that, he never did anything half-assed -- and in spite of its ramshackle appearance, there wasn't a single leak, meaning he stayed dry and warm.
Warmth, of course, wasn't something he had much need to worry about these days. To his mind, he hadn't felt "warm" in decades, and not just from lack of sun or a crackling fireplace. He took a long drag on his cigarette, the dim light of the stoked flame mingling with the equally unimpressive effort of the lantern in the corner of the room, and let the smoke float lazily from his mouth, making no effort to hurry along its exit, as breathing was another of those things he didn't need to worry about.
It was a stupid habit he'd picked up -- smoking -- mostly because it gave him something to do with his mouth, since he certainly didn't use it to talk much anymore, and the luxury of fine food and drink died with the rest of the civilized world. Those were things he didn't much miss, though, at least not anymore. The habit just stuck, as habits will. But this particular cigarette was down to the butt, so he leaned over to squash it into the ash tray on the nearby nightstand.
The frame he held in his other hand, however, he hung onto for another moment, clicking through the cycling slideshow of holos and flat-picts.
A photo of his brother, back before their relationship had taken an ill-fated turn into bitter hatred and obsessive rivalry.
Another, even older than the first, was degraded with age, and it flickered and blurred almost constantly. It was a photograph of their entire squad, Silent Hawk: Steven, Shane, Kenny -- all of them, freshly formed and all too happy to be alive, not knowing the fate that awaited them.
The next, from decades later in his life, was a rather unfriendly-looking shot of himself and a few acquaintances sharing drinks in a grimy bar on the edges of society -- men he'd done several jobs with, and built up enough repute to be considered an honorary member of their little group. None of them were smiling; none of them had a reason to in that line of work.
Half a dozen more images shifted in and out as his finger tapped the button, covering at least a good fifty years of his early life. In all that time, most people probably would have accrued a larger collection, but for him, this was a significant amount. In fact, how he'd managed to hang on to these images over the years, he wasn't sure, especially when he was trying so damn hard to forget a lot of it. Some of it he'd downright hated. Some of it he still did.
He lit up another cigarette -- he'd need the distraction for this next set; he usually did, at any rate. Why he kept looking at these day after day, month after month, he wasn't sure. Maybe he was just a masochist and enjoyed torturing himself. Maybe he was just an idiot. He tugged a mostly-drained bottle of liquor up from where it sat on the floor next to the bed, and settled it on the nightstand within convenient reach.
The first image to pop up was one he hadn't even wanted to be in -- he'd argued rather vocally against it, as he recalled -- but he hadn't thrown it out like he'd threatened to; threatened her, and threatened to himself.
They were in the park, the place where they'd met, and continued to meet at fairly regular intervals, and it was an almost disgustingly bright and colorful day -- far removed from the grey days and almost constant winter weather that assaulted the continent in the present. He was dressed as sharp as ever, and she, naturally, wasn't dressed in anything but the coat of shiny black fur that covered her four-legged frame.
Where she'd gotten the camera he never did find out, though he had no doubt whatsoever that it was an ill-gotten prize, either way. He also never figured out how she'd managed to set it up without his help (he'd refused to give it), given the limitations of her anatomy, but she pulled it off all right.
The photograph that resulted from her efforts wasn't going to win any awards -- it was fairly blurry, the angle was ridiculous, he had a nasty frown on his face, and she'd only just managed to bound back into the frame before the camera went off. But then, he always suspected that's exactly how she wanted it anyway: spontaneous and against his will. He clicked past it.
This one he'd actually taken himself, a few months down the line. It was the first time she'd come up to his apartment, and she was rather enjoying the plush couch that filled the living room of his suite. She looked just like any other dog settled down for an afternoon snooze, but he'd never seen her that way. He knew she was much more than the unfortunate body she'd wound up being stuck in.
In fact, it was around that time that he was first beginning to realize just how special she was -- if not to anyone else, then at least to him. That's probably why he'd gotten rid of her not long after, before he had the chance to do something he'd regret. What a shame it was, then, that he'd only make up for it much later by doing something he'd never forgive himself for the rest of his life.
A sigh left his lips, wreathing the small device in clinging, lingering smoke, that only reluctantly dissipated with an annoyed wave of the album. He settled his cigarette carefully in the ash tray, exchanging it briefly for the bottle, which he took a quick swig from before clicking again.
He put the bottle down on the nightstand and leaned forward against his knees, cradling the album in both hands and staring at it in silence. Barely breathing and hardly noticing it, he felt himself getting sucked into the images in front of him as they continued to go by, each one tugging at his heart more than the last.
Here were the ones. Actual, honest-to-God good memories -- the only things he missed about the world, before it all went and collapsed around him again. Even now -- especially now, maybe -- it was weird to see himself smiling with genuine happiness in these pictures. Curled up together under the shade of a tree, or kicking back in a diner with a board game on one of their rare trips back into civilization.
Then came the drawings; sketches he'd made of her, but not as a canine -- as she should have been, as she had been once upon a time, and as he'd promised her she would be again. Such a promise -- she never did believe him, but he'd meant it, he was going to find a way someday. It never happened.
And after the drawings, the videos. He lifted a hand to cover his mouth, taking a deep breath in through his nose and letting it out again, trying, as he always did, to keep himself from getting emotional.
It was so difficult -- so goddamn difficult. There she was, right in front of him! Walking lazily along a path through the woods while he followed her, filming for no reason; just because he'd happened to find this video recorder laying around, its battery still holding a partial charge.
"You realize you're a huge, honking dork, Gideon."
"Feeling camera shy? That's not much like you."
The image quality wasn't the best, but time does that. The sound was also a bit tinny, coming through the tiny speaker. But for him, it was like he was there again.
"I think this is a wee bit different, dear."
"Different how?"
"I'm just not in the mood, today, Gideon..."
"That hardly answers the question."
"You want me to bite you?"
"... Perhaps. ... Hey -- hey! Urufu, you're going to knock it out of my--"
"Let me get a look, 'ere... ah-ha. Hello! Whoever ends up finding this after I dump it in a random landfill, if you wanna know how this story ends: Gideon met a tragic end at the paws of his canine companion, who later went on to become the terror of the civilized world. ...hmmmyep, I think that sounds about right."
"If you're finished? Thank you. Hi -- pay no attention to the mutt, she's just a spoil-sport. ... Damn it... ... No, the battery is just... Ah well, so much for--"
He lowered the album, clicking it off wordlessly and staring at the now-blank screen for a while before tossing it on the bed next to him. Maybe he'd finish later, if he was feeling up to it. He considered reaching for his cigarette again, but couldn't bring himself to make the move, until finally, he simply closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands.
He sat like that for a while, silent and motionless, eventually sitting up again and rubbing at his face. The stubble of his untrimmed beard caught his attention, noting that was something he should have taken care of by now, but reminding himself that he just didn't bloody well care.
Grabbing the cigarette, he got wearily to his feet, taking another of those long, slow drags as he made his way toward the door. It was still raining, but he opened it anyway, greeted by the chill air and a soft misting of moisture. He leaned against the door frame and simply watched, smoke drifting as an afterthought from his lips, only to be whisked away into the night. The branches of the surrounding trees shifted and creaked, the underbrush of the forest barely hanging on to their own roots as they were assaulted by the whipping wind and water. He watched, and his mind continued to roll over the same thoughts that always plagued him.
For so many years, the only thing they'd had was each other, because the rest of the world didn't want them. But that was the way he'd liked it; he hadn't wanted anything more than that. Then the fire had come down from the sky, beams of destruction annihilating cities and killing billions in an instant. After that, it wasn't a matter of the world not wanting them -- it was a matter of the world being a broken, dying beast on its last leg, unable to support what was left of itself.
His brother had died that day, he knew. He had no way of checking, of being sure, but he had a feeling. Her family, such as it was, were likely gone, too -- he'd never known for sure about that, either, but it seemed hopeless to think otherwise.
At that point, they were more alone than ever, because this time they had nowhere -- absolutely nowhere -- to run to. No towns to slip into for a night's rest in a motel, or to eat a hot meal at the local bed and breakfast. No sympathetic travelers to share supplies with them, no signs of life to remind them that things would someday turn around for the better. All that was gone. There was no one and nothing. Or at least, so they'd thought.
The first resistance groups started to crop up some years after the man-made disaster that had broken the world's back. People who thought they could make a difference, never mind that the enemy outgunned them and outnumbered them a hundred-thousand to one. He'd thought they were crazy, and he still did.
Urufu, though... she was so far past cynical she'd gone full circle and become an idealist. Whether it was her desire to help others, or just her thirst for payback on the ones who'd destroyed what little she had left, the only thing he'd known was that he'd wanted no part in it. To him, more than ever, their well-being and happiness relied on them looking out for themselves, not sticking their necks out on the line for a hopeless cause.
She'd managed to convince him, though. Not because he was desperate, like her, for any kind of hope, but because he was willing to do it for her. And then everything went wrong, of course. They were lucky they got out of it alive, really -- very lucky -- and once again they went on their way, alone, just the two of them.
At the time, he was just glad they were both still in one piece, he didn't even have time for I told you so's or finger-pointing. But when they happened upon another group of would-be heroes, he had to draw the line. He wasn't going to let themselves be taken in by a charismatic do-gooder a second time, not after they barely survived the last failure.
But these people are better organized, she'd argued. They have plans, they have resources, they have a chance.
That may well be, he'd countered, but it isn't going to be with us.
As it turned out... it just wasn't going to be with him. He couldn't deter her. She'd made up her mind, she couldn't simply walk away, like he could, and ignore the few others out there trying to fight back and make things better. He was selfish, and he knew it -- he just hadn't planned on her being so selfless by comparison.
She'll come around, he'd told himself. This one will fail, like the last one, and I'll find her again -- and then she'll understand.
But he never found her again. He never heard from her again, never even heard about her again, and decades later it still ate at his soul, boring a hole in the deepest part of him. He'd cried countless times -- him, someone who never cried, had spent whole nights wailing at the sky, the dirt, at himself, wondering why he'd walked away from her. Was she dead? Was she alive somewhere? If she was, would she even want to see his face again after he just abandoned her?
His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a figure in the trees, running awkwardly through the pouring rain and gusting wind, with little more than a long coat to battle the forces of nature at work this night. He flicked his cigarette out into the rain and stood up straighter, straining his eyes to see who or what was approaching his shack.
When the figure was close enough for the light from the door to illuminate it, it slowed, trying to see him through uplifted arms that were attempting to keep the rain out of her eyes. Yes, it was a she -- that much was obvious by now, as she crept another few feet toward the minimal safety of the door's overhang.
She let her arms down a bit, revealing a youthful-looking face framed by thick violet hair, which was currently plastered to her pale cheeks, and her blue eyes peered up at him beseechingly, though with a great deal of hesitation as well. "Ex... excuse me... sir, I -- that is -- if it's all right, I could really--"
"Just for the night," Gideon replied wearily, not looking or sounding the least bit worried or curious about the matter. Because in truth, he just simply didn't care who she was or where she was going, and if she intended to rob him blind... well, good luck. He didn't have anything of worth but his memories anyway.