04-27-2016, 09:17 PM
There was a child in the middle of this bandit camp. Well, the corpse of one. Right beside it, the corpse of a young, female adult, obviously the mother. Unspeakable things had happened to them both, that much was evident. How they ended up in this camp would never be entirely known, but it was obvious they were not here of their own free will. They had been dragged, screaming, into a horrible fate that they didn’t deserve, all because these savages thought the ‘verse belonged to them.
A bandit was in Matrix’s grip. The green sprite’s massive left hand was wrapped about the man’s neck, choking the last shreds of life out of him. The bandit’s eyes pleaded, begged for release. He had to communicate with only his gaze, for the pressure placed on his windpipe removed his voice from the equation entirely, and his body was too broken to resist any further. The bandit now suffered more than he ever had in his life of destitution. He would be equally content with release or his own death. He simply needed some release, whatever form that would take.
Matrix refused to give it, however. He had been too late to save the mother and her child. As he advanced, he’d heard their screams and pleas. Their throats were cut before he could reach them. This man in his grasp was one of rank and stature, for what little that meant among the culture of savages. That only meant he had claimed the helpless as his own. A single, well aimed shot had removed any evidence that he once had a right leg, save for the blood splatter that resulted. The commander had then watched his men get slaughtered. The lives of those that would defend this murderer meant nothing to the renegade sprite that plowed through them.
They were all dead. All except for this one bandit, who was trapped in the clutches of the victor. His eyes bulged. His mouth moved, but no words could escape the vice grip on his trachea. It didn’t matter. His actions were done, and he didn’t accept the consequences. Even now, he felt no remorse for what he had done. He only looked for the certain way out of this situation, whatever shape and form that would take. If he were spared, he would only continue the senseless violence he knew.
He was vermin, and his life was meaningless to Matrix. The bandit had made those innocents suffer, so Matrix would not grant him the quick death he wanted, by now. No, he would suffer, too. He would feel pain. Matrix’s cybernetic eye glowed a bright red. He countered the bandit’s fear with pure, unadulterated rage.
He could find no mercy, not even in the deepest reaches of his soul. The Guardian code meant nothing to him in a situation like this. For he had once been that child. He had been spared the destiny of becoming a similar body, but only because of the training he had and protection that came with it. To see others abused and taken advantage of, it stirred a primal anger that no conditioning, no training, could ever overcome.
The one legged bandit gasped for air as Matrix released his grip, and he fell to the ground. Only a wheezing sound could escape his throat, as he could no longer breathe properly. The damage was done. The secondaries arrived, but Matrix did not acknowledge them. The remains of the innocent family were nearby, and showed his focus and direction to any observer.
Gun snapped to Matrix’s hand as he silently acknowledged the return of Maud’dib and his completion of the mission. He listened to the man’s words, and acknowledged that they were wise, if slightly inapplicable to him. Matrix would not mourn these men, and he would do them the greatest disservice he could imagine, which was simply forgetting they existed after he extracted his own justice.
Matrix’s only response was two gunshots. One to the gut, for more suffering, and a second to the head, to eliminate the threat for good. He released Gun, and it returned to his waist. But the look on his face said it all: this was personal. Innocents had suffered, and he felt remorse that he couldn’t save them. Their methods may have been extreme and violent to some, but Matrix felt the closest thing to peace he was capable of. He was glad he had found these men.
This world was filled with darkness, but they had made things just a little bit more right.
A bandit was in Matrix’s grip. The green sprite’s massive left hand was wrapped about the man’s neck, choking the last shreds of life out of him. The bandit’s eyes pleaded, begged for release. He had to communicate with only his gaze, for the pressure placed on his windpipe removed his voice from the equation entirely, and his body was too broken to resist any further. The bandit now suffered more than he ever had in his life of destitution. He would be equally content with release or his own death. He simply needed some release, whatever form that would take.
Matrix refused to give it, however. He had been too late to save the mother and her child. As he advanced, he’d heard their screams and pleas. Their throats were cut before he could reach them. This man in his grasp was one of rank and stature, for what little that meant among the culture of savages. That only meant he had claimed the helpless as his own. A single, well aimed shot had removed any evidence that he once had a right leg, save for the blood splatter that resulted. The commander had then watched his men get slaughtered. The lives of those that would defend this murderer meant nothing to the renegade sprite that plowed through them.
They were all dead. All except for this one bandit, who was trapped in the clutches of the victor. His eyes bulged. His mouth moved, but no words could escape the vice grip on his trachea. It didn’t matter. His actions were done, and he didn’t accept the consequences. Even now, he felt no remorse for what he had done. He only looked for the certain way out of this situation, whatever shape and form that would take. If he were spared, he would only continue the senseless violence he knew.
He was vermin, and his life was meaningless to Matrix. The bandit had made those innocents suffer, so Matrix would not grant him the quick death he wanted, by now. No, he would suffer, too. He would feel pain. Matrix’s cybernetic eye glowed a bright red. He countered the bandit’s fear with pure, unadulterated rage.
He could find no mercy, not even in the deepest reaches of his soul. The Guardian code meant nothing to him in a situation like this. For he had once been that child. He had been spared the destiny of becoming a similar body, but only because of the training he had and protection that came with it. To see others abused and taken advantage of, it stirred a primal anger that no conditioning, no training, could ever overcome.
The one legged bandit gasped for air as Matrix released his grip, and he fell to the ground. Only a wheezing sound could escape his throat, as he could no longer breathe properly. The damage was done. The secondaries arrived, but Matrix did not acknowledge them. The remains of the innocent family were nearby, and showed his focus and direction to any observer.
Gun snapped to Matrix’s hand as he silently acknowledged the return of Maud’dib and his completion of the mission. He listened to the man’s words, and acknowledged that they were wise, if slightly inapplicable to him. Matrix would not mourn these men, and he would do them the greatest disservice he could imagine, which was simply forgetting they existed after he extracted his own justice.
Matrix’s only response was two gunshots. One to the gut, for more suffering, and a second to the head, to eliminate the threat for good. He released Gun, and it returned to his waist. But the look on his face said it all: this was personal. Innocents had suffered, and he felt remorse that he couldn’t save them. Their methods may have been extreme and violent to some, but Matrix felt the closest thing to peace he was capable of. He was glad he had found these men.
This world was filled with darkness, but they had made things just a little bit more right.