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Time Has Blurred




BRODERICK DEDRICK EVAN WORCHESTER'S EYES BLURRED.

Still, in Warchester fashion, he waged war across the lined white A4 pages and did not give in to his inner pain. Oh how  ardently did his wrist (while gifted with near supernaturall agility like the rest of his body) beg and plead for a mercy!

But with Warchesters, there could be none.

Life was nothing but a raging battlefield and he had a name to prove,

Chaos to make quiver on an off day.

Chaos would honour the laws of carnage and war Warchesters however,  saw no need.

Therefore cries for clemency would go ignored and the  rules of ceasefire would halt with every Warchester breath he took. 

Phyrric victory is still victory.





By now the stack of papers, sketches, prototypes  and books resembled skyscrapers. The same sleek and luxury skyscrapers Broderick spent most of his childhood in.  The steel spines of the table he worked across resembled the steel and iced gazes he received at the mention of his name. The haughty eyes of parsimonious investors who thought his merciless father did not know of the secret coups they planned? The pernicious and seemingly unnoticable cracks they dented into his fathers business ventures.

But did they not know Denton Evan Andrew Dean Worchester?

  Had they forgotten his initials spelled DEAD?

Of course, corpses weren't known for their memory. Both in the minds of those who lived on  and themselves. 

Denton Warchester would make sure none would call them to remembrance.

That must be why the halls of his family's various conglomerate buildings around the globe all shared  that  Baltic cold.

Morgues had to be.





Broderick's pen snapped.

He looked from from his writing and coughed at the black smoke emitting from the page before him. His usually perfect dark hair sat tousled, haunted by his fingers running through them mercilessly.   His nose buzzed like it tended to do when his dark rimmed glasses sat on it for an eternity.

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