Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
A momentary dream. As much of a dream as it could be: Nowhere. Alone. Except not alone. A pair of eyes. Eyes always on his back. Turn back. No one. Silent, except the crackle of fire; screams in the distance. The sudden sensation. A foreign one; long forgotten: Dread. Fear.
For the most part, Prometheus tossed such things over his shoulder; like the unwanted bones after a meal. They hit the floor and were swept away by time. There was a method and an orderly way to deal with these rare things. But the broom couldn’t keep up with those eating. The little cluster of troublesome things had begun to build up in his head.
How many times now? How many has it been?
To have suffered so many heavy hits; to have returned so greatly damaged after so many battles, it was a wonder the old lady had been able to put him back into one piece. He wished he hadn’t. Dealing with the old woman was almost more work than walking around wounded. Almost. The pain was nearly equal, in his opinion.
In the end, it was just another shot to his pride. A terribly sick and wounded pride. Especially in dealing with that cricket. That was the worst. At least he knew he left the other reploid to die. That sat well in his chest. There was that female reploid as well, but…the damage he retained in those fights was far too much. Losing too much, gaining too little.
Prometheus shifted position on the roof; sitting up from his more relaxed spot. Enough waiting around and getting repaired. His hand shifted to his stomach; there’s been a gaping wound there not that long ago. That feeling hadn’t left him just yet. He wasn’t forgetting anytime soon.
I’m not going to lose. I don’t lose.
He jumped up and stretches his arms up high into the sky. A few swings of his scythe at the air and then he was ready to go. Time to find the old woman. They had unfinished business; long overdue.