"The documentary scene. Upon the fractured screen. The dreadful poem scrwled upon the crumpled page.
(creative_muses)"Sometimes it is not enough to do our best; we must do what is required." - Sir Winston Churchill
Some days he fucking missed Manticore. Okay, lets be fair. He never missed those shitty uniforms but still. Some days he missed Manticore. He just wasn't sure this was one of those days. He was never sure exactly which days those were.
He sat stone still outside the motel room and pondered moving, but he knew it would hurt so decide that he's just give that a pass, thanks. He'd settled into being numb like an old pro. Because, lets face it, he was. Just another of the many useful life skills Manticore taught him. The handlers where pretty damned effective life coaches. It was their way or, well no, their way was the only way. And liquid courage involved a vial and syringe, not a rocks glass and a shot of cheep scotch.
It's not that he wasn't home. Clearly he was. Even he couldn't resist his own witty repartee. And where there was wit there was someone home. It was just that he was numb. Or, maybe uncaring was more accurate. He didn't think numb left you with much of a sense of humor. But that seemed to be one of the few things that was still, with out a doubt, undamaged in his half assed mental check list.
He was at home in a battle. He could turn off and tune in, all goal oriented and a predatory love of the hunt. It was after that left him confused as fuckall.
The trouble was after. It was a well known fact that he didn't deal for shit. He knew how to be a weapon. Being a person was still something he was pretty new at.
What was the point of feeling after it was all over?
After was when you had to face up to your losses. And he wasn't thinking much beyond that right now.
Muse: Alec McDowell/X5-494
Fandom: Dark Angel
Word count: 309
Open to RP
Some days he fucking missed Manticore. Okay, lets be fair. He never missed those shitty uniforms but still. Some days he missed Manticore. He just wasn't sure this was one of those days. He was never sure exactly which days those were.
He sat stone still outside the motel room and pondered moving, but he knew it would hurt so decide that he's just give that a pass, thanks. He'd settled into being numb like an old pro. Because, lets face it, he was. Just another of the many useful life skills Manticore taught him. The handlers where pretty damned effective life coaches. It was their way or, well no, their way was the only way. And liquid courage involved a vial and syringe, not a rocks glass and a shot of cheep scotch.
It's not that he wasn't home. Clearly he was. Even he couldn't resist his own witty repartee. And where there was wit there was someone home. It was just that he was numb. Or, maybe uncaring was more accurate. He didn't think numb left you with much of a sense of humor. But that seemed to be one of the few things that was still, with out a doubt, undamaged in his half assed mental check list.
He was at home in a battle. He could turn off and tune in, all goal oriented and a predatory love of the hunt. It was after that left him confused as fuckall.
The trouble was after. It was a well known fact that he didn't deal for shit. He knew how to be a weapon. Being a person was still something he was pretty new at.
What was the point of feeling after it was all over?
After was when you had to face up to your losses. And he wasn't thinking much beyond that right now.
Muse: Alec McDowell/X5-494
Fandom: Dark Angel
Word count: 309
Open to RP