glove clad metallic digits wrench the door-knob, the latch unsnapping bolts with EASE as an unkempt, sparse living space is revealed. a run down area, rampant with abandoned buildings & low grade apartments. graffiti and windows shattered by vandalism & stray bullets. with a quiet click, he shuts the door behind him after a SKEPTICAL sweep down the hall, easing himself cautiously into the front room as HEAVY boots stop------ gaze watchful, listening for movement ( ; paranoia rattling the recesses of his skull ) ; for COMPANY. that this dump might be occupied by others, drifters like himself---- moving from place to place.
living is meager & he’s had worse. it’s a roof. and for all intents and purposes, paradise.
TRANSITIONING into a world he didn’t recognize. one lost to the development of time & idealism. and he’s struggling to define himself IN it, to find peace at the end of his severed strings ( ; a purpose beyond the orders of a soldier, of an asset aimed for self-destruction ) ; flesh fingers nimbly pick up an object that catches his eye; small, square, and cased in plastic. with pictures & lettering scrawled over the front. not something familiar, or remotely relevant to the life he’d once led. a life he’d been condemned to, for seventy years. but it drew curiosity, nonetheless.
