Locke
Puppet Master
Barren and burned. An area scorched by war. By conflict. Rendered ash and dust by strife. A snapshot of the galaxy's folly. Millions of places like this existed across the galaxy. Blasters and 'sabers. Sticks and stones. War was eternal. Endless. Broken only by random intervals of rest called 'peace'. It never changed. Ever. The wars of today were the wars of yesteryear. The wars of forefathers. Of ancestors. A war to end all war was comedy. Humor. A joke on life. On death.
A silent figure walked slowly, boots leaving faint prints that vanished in the wind. The wind kicked up dust and grit in small clouds. Visible one moment, gone the next. Here and vanished. Again and again. There, but not. Existing, yet absent.
The figure drew even with an outcrop of stone. Boots came to a halt at the wind-worn rock. From behind, another figure emerged. Both wore armor, both carried weapons. Both wore blank metal helmets. The first figure slowly turned its head to the second. Beneath the helmet, a pair of eyes gradually opened.
No one, was the silent answer of the second.
The first figure's head turned to face the path. Ahead was naught but dust and wind. Grit and sand kicked up and tossed as if by a child. Wordlessly, he stepped forward. The task was at hand. The signs were clear. Visible. Silent.
Ahead lay a simple line in the sand. Solitary and distinct. As if a finger dragged through the grit. A track only he could see. Boots crunched silently as he walked. As the other figure walked.
He could feel them around. Clinging to the sand. To the rock. Imperceptible, yet palpable. Like a pulse, but without heart beat. Without warmth. A chill wind in a hot climate all around. Closing in, yet keeping their distance. Hesitant. Afraid. Unliving.
They could see he felt them. Saw them. Knew him for what he was. Those that could, fled. The helpless could only watch. Hope. Pray.
Sand gave way to debris. Bits of metal and plastic crunched underfoot. Ceramics. Glass. Bone.
It was almost time.
A silent figure walked slowly, boots leaving faint prints that vanished in the wind. The wind kicked up dust and grit in small clouds. Visible one moment, gone the next. Here and vanished. Again and again. There, but not. Existing, yet absent.
The figure drew even with an outcrop of stone. Boots came to a halt at the wind-worn rock. From behind, another figure emerged. Both wore armor, both carried weapons. Both wore blank metal helmets. The first figure slowly turned its head to the second. Beneath the helmet, a pair of eyes gradually opened.
No one, was the silent answer of the second.
The first figure's head turned to face the path. Ahead was naught but dust and wind. Grit and sand kicked up and tossed as if by a child. Wordlessly, he stepped forward. The task was at hand. The signs were clear. Visible. Silent.
Ahead lay a simple line in the sand. Solitary and distinct. As if a finger dragged through the grit. A track only he could see. Boots crunched silently as he walked. As the other figure walked.
He could feel them around. Clinging to the sand. To the rock. Imperceptible, yet palpable. Like a pulse, but without heart beat. Without warmth. A chill wind in a hot climate all around. Closing in, yet keeping their distance. Hesitant. Afraid. Unliving.
They could see he felt them. Saw them. Knew him for what he was. Those that could, fled. The helpless could only watch. Hope. Pray.
Sand gave way to debris. Bits of metal and plastic crunched underfoot. Ceramics. Glass. Bone.
It was almost time.