Lost
20 Sep 2021Dixon-Phyre
Even a casual observer would have noticed something amiss within the washroom aboard In Nomine Mortis. The smashed mirror, for a start. But mainly the figure of a man, stark naked, kicking, writhing and screaming in a pool of blood and vomit.Mikael had managed to punch the mirror, snatch a broken shard and drag it down his chest before it forced him to throw it away. The pain in his head was so bad, he was oblivious to where knuckles and elbows were bashed and bruised as he crashed around the room, ending up on the floor.
It had started an hour ago, as he had gulped from his last bottle of Apa Vietii, trying to make the hideous memories go away. Ending up in his cabin, drunk and wrecking the fittings, before finally locating his customised TK Zenith laser pistol, and tried to bring the barrel around to his forehead.
He couldn’t. His arm had frozen in place, and the sudden pulse of agony in his skull drove him to his knees. Feeling his stomach churning, he had scrambled for the washroom, managing to get his shirt off before he puked, all down himself and over the floor. Discarding his soiled clothes, he’d caught sight of himself in the mirror and swung a fist at it…
He knew what would stop the pain: he just had to give in to it. But he fought against it, fought harder than he had even done in his life, knowing deep down that he must ultimately fail, as his strength ebbed away. He wept as he felt his willpower slowly eroding, arms and legs braced against the walls as he gave out and everything went grey.
It was like looking through a pair of binoculars, except that everything was right in front of him as normal. The shadows at the edge of vision matched his warpaint as fingers that he could no longer feel slowly applied it to his face. A shower had cleansed the besmirched flesh, and the long cut down his chest still stung. The little cleaning robot cruised back and forth, wiping and disinfecting the floor with the spray and brushes underneath its cuboid body. He stepped over it, back into the cabin. Pulled on the RemLok and flight suit, gathered what possessions were findable in the overturned mess he had created, stuffed them into a kitbag.
Watched as the landing pad rumbled forward, and then down, taking the T-10 away into the ship storage area. Took the monorail pod to another hanger. Crossed the cold metal of the pad and stood gazing at another ship. A Zorgon Peterson Mamba: Burning Spectre. Bought months ago, engineered up to the hilt and then rarely used . But now, after a little further modification, it would do just fine.
Went aboard; stowing the kitbag, he sat down in the cockpit and watched as the ship came to life. A reflection of a face in the canopy. It was not Mikael Dixon that he saw there now. There was only -
- the other.