@spec-b asked:
do you ever think about anyone other than yourself? ❜
Could he, in good conscience, say he had? Were not deeds more vocal than words? And if this were his truth he might attest to the selflessness in his attempt to find them.
The pen in his hand balances precariously unheld atop the skin between thumb and index where in thought he'd spin it. If this question warranted thought, he might have. Instead, it arrested. The only word which can form under the accusation is a name. Four lettered and dagger shaped.
However his lips press paper thin against one another to display his condemnation, furrowed brows sharpening to a point in the wrinkles above his nose.
"You should be the last person to judge." A merc for hire, damn the planet, fill his pockets as it were? Wasn't that what started his crusade? It just so happened that the pests in the slums were persistent enough to wear him down.
"And no. I don't." Never again he means. The agony of being too late comes nightly, walking dreamscapes hand in hand with guilt and oceans of blood in the middle of a battlefield, a bastion, awash in the acrid bite of gunpowder. At least he knows where He is buried. That he is buried.
Tseng does not dream of the same luxury.
