((OOC note: This is for another Roleplay community I partake in, and simply am posting this for feedback and because why the fuck not))
The only sound in the room is the resounding, eternal “Tick!” of the analog clock resting on the wall above his head. His clothes are rather relaxed; his bloodied Trench-coat rests on the back of the chair, his tie is missing, and his oxford is bloodied in the stomach. He absent-mindedly touches it, feeling the gauze that rests still on his stomach. Even now, he finds it hard to grasp that his stomach was shot clean through. In one hand sits a rather formal paper, and the other holds a half-drank tumbler of whiskey. The desk has an ashtray with a lit cigarette resting in it, smoke slowly billowing. The smoke slowly floats up to the dark gray roof of his barracks. Behind the paper rests on the desk a framed picture. The man’s familiar to him, but still a dead man. That’s the final fact.
He bites his lip, reading through the paper. It’s titled “AAR: CAPTAIN FRANK A. SCHUTTE”. He grazes over the introduction, finding it quite dull. He never read those formal introductions to the after-action-reports unless they were absolutely urgent. Even then, he would only skim it. He read two more lines, which directed him to the bottom of the report, which held a rather long list of civilian and citizen names alike. He mutters each one out to himself, going down the list. He was looking for a pair of names in particular; two people he has not seen for over four years. He wondered if they were on the list as he flips to the second page of the report.
With another swig of the whiskey, he continues along reading the names. He was perfectly casual in his late-superior’s desk, drinking from the same tumbler he had left before he walked to his death. He then set the tumbler down, reaching for his lit cigarette. With it replaced in his mouth, he continues reading. Finally, he finds the two names he is looking for. With a puff of smoke over them, he reads them aloud.
“Hector Serra – KIA. Nina Serra – KIA.” With a rather loud sigh, he sets the report down. Then, he takes the cigarette out of his mouth, and smashes it half-out on the ashtray. He was the only one left. Taking a deep breath, he finally let his mental barrier down and let both the memories, and tears flow back to him. Once more he sees his parents, elated with the sight of them. He remembers his fiancé, who also was killed earlier. He didn’t care much for her anymore; perhaps he outgrew his love. He definitely had changed since he left for Sanctuary. “Never let go of what makes you human.” His “father’s” words echo in his mind as he continues to recollect the memories once lost.
Despite everything that has occurred, there is one memory he will never forget. He recalls it vividly, even. He was nineteen years old. He had just shipped out from Sanctuary to his very first vessel; the same one he sat in now. There, he met his mentor, his father, and his friend. Now, that friend was dead, and he felt empty inside. There was a nagging feeling in his head as he continued to recall, but he shrugs it off. He remembers hearing Alan Breckenridge’s voice yell at him, and how it reminded him of his captor a mere year ago. He fought to shove those vomit-inducing thoughts back down to the deepest recesses of his mind. He remembers what he taught them, too.
“Close your eyes, and see with your mind-…” Matthew repeats the first wise words of his mentor absent-mindedly, still lost in his day-dream. He continues to recall the years they spent together, and all the assignments. He remembers finding out about Alan’s past, and trying to help him cope with his “illness.” Eventually, he arrives upon the fateful day; not even 24 hours ago. The thoughts are still dangerously vivid in his mind. He feels himself get shot again, touching his stomach in reaction. Then, he remembers Alan bending over him. Before he can horrendously recall those next moments-…
He shakes his head, sniffing smoke. His half-lit cigarette caught fire again, engulfing the ashes in the tray in to a rather dangerous fireball. He quickly takes said cigarette, and begins to grind the ashes around. Once all but one ash has been extinguished, he sighs, and takes another swig of Whiskey. He was the only one left – it was up to him to carry the legacy of Alan Breckenridge.
