STRUGGLE
A new world, a new life, and the same goddamn problems would always follow. Ain’t that a bitch. Not that he cared all that much what was going on, as it had nothing to do with him. What did concern him, however, was the bad taste in his mouth, the taste of unwanted memories and painful nostalgia. And it pissed him the hell off.
So, when one of the drones decided to go on a murder spree in a local cafe, the Black Swordsman might have felt the need to intervene. And with that intervention, the ugly thing might have returned back the street without its head. Having never seen something like this before, the fact that the mechanical armor was completely empty inside jarred him for the better part of a second...
He could kill as many of them as he wanted, guilt free.
“I gotta say, I’m really getting tired of getting caught up in people’s shit ambition. Why’s there always got be a piece of shit who thinks they can rule the world?”
The Struggler wandered out of the building, his wooden blade half broken, but now quite neatly sharpened by the ripped metal of the drone he had ruined. Of course, where there was one, there was more. He looked at his chances; he could probably kill at least one with his weapon, but then he was gonna have to improvise or die. Actually dying was likely a guarantee. That would suck pretty bad actually. Guess he would just have to live and kill them all.
Sounded like a good time to him.
“That armor of yours is pretty thick. No giant man inside it either. No demon, no magic, doesn’t make any damn sense. Never seen anything quite like you freaks before.”
“I wonder what it’ll take to break every last one of you.”
