(no subject)
Antarctica, June 30th, 2771 A.D.
The outlaw shook himself out of his nightmare, gasping for air. Sitting straight up in his bed, he was surrounded by a darkness so heavy, he couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open or closed. Though his own breathing was the only sound echoing off the bare walls, the chaotic scattered popping of gunfire still rang fresh in his ears. He fumbled around and reached under the pillow for his knife, and flipped the power switch on the wall to “on.”
The sudden light blinded the young man; he blinked several times, half to ease his aching eyes, and half to try and re-hydrate, now realizing he’d slept with them open again. After noting that nobody else was in his room, he retired the blade back to its sheath, and set it down. The clock read half past seven in the evening. Four hours of sleep. But with as many organizations hunting him as there were, four hours was as much as one could ask for.
A mirror image of him stood up from twice the room’s length away, and walked to the sink for a splash-job cleanup. The young man looked himself over. His soft straight locks of dirty-blonde hair hadn’t been touched by a barber in months, and now hung into his face. Eyes that were once youthful and idealistic stared back at him, now distant and uninspired. Prickly stubble was beginning to sprout further into a full beard, which stood out against his fair skin, now beyond pale from living in a sunless world. The once-perfect teeth were slowly becoming stained by smoke. He tried to stretch the muscles in his face, but they hardly worked anymore. Eight years of combat had taken its toll on him.
The young man stared at this pathetic image of himself in the mirror for several minutes. Nikolaus Archer. Age twenty-nine, and already retired. If only the tabloids could see him now.
The outlaw shook himself out of his nightmare, gasping for air. Sitting straight up in his bed, he was surrounded by a darkness so heavy, he couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open or closed. Though his own breathing was the only sound echoing off the bare walls, the chaotic scattered popping of gunfire still rang fresh in his ears. He fumbled around and reached under the pillow for his knife, and flipped the power switch on the wall to “on.”
The sudden light blinded the young man; he blinked several times, half to ease his aching eyes, and half to try and re-hydrate, now realizing he’d slept with them open again. After noting that nobody else was in his room, he retired the blade back to its sheath, and set it down. The clock read half past seven in the evening. Four hours of sleep. But with as many organizations hunting him as there were, four hours was as much as one could ask for.
A mirror image of him stood up from twice the room’s length away, and walked to the sink for a splash-job cleanup. The young man looked himself over. His soft straight locks of dirty-blonde hair hadn’t been touched by a barber in months, and now hung into his face. Eyes that were once youthful and idealistic stared back at him, now distant and uninspired. Prickly stubble was beginning to sprout further into a full beard, which stood out against his fair skin, now beyond pale from living in a sunless world. The once-perfect teeth were slowly becoming stained by smoke. He tried to stretch the muscles in his face, but they hardly worked anymore. Eight years of combat had taken its toll on him.
The young man stared at this pathetic image of himself in the mirror for several minutes. Nikolaus Archer. Age twenty-nine, and already retired. If only the tabloids could see him now.