"Almost Green"

"Worthless Animal"

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

This was no grandfather's clock.

Just a blob of white, hung on the gray wall.

Counting away seconds, droplets of sand falling with each flick of its arms.

Gray eyes, drilling into nothing, gray thoughts, clouding the lost soul's mind. There was not a single thing to fear in the room, nothing to be afraid of, yet his heart ran rampant.

Four walls, a table, two stools in front, one beneath. No windows, no decorations, aside from the master of time ticking out the hour of his demise. It all hurt. Nothing at all had yet happened, not a single thing, but it hurt so much. It could've been the beating he took from the homeless. Could've been the wallop Croissant lent him. Blood rang in his ears, the deafening silence protesting against his very own cochlea and assaulting relentlessly. Time and time again, the sound of nothing was overbearing. Too overbearing to think, to function properly, to exist at all.

Surgically crafted to perfection, the room kept closing in on him, as if shrinking with each tiny chatter of the clock. Each tick, each tock, the walls crumbled, the ceiling fell a little, entrapping him in this prison of gray tiles and vomit-inducing white lights. How could someone willingly design, then create this cage, take a good look and think "Yes, this should put the interrogated at complete ease"? They couldn't, because its purpose never was to soothe anyone or anything. Quite the opposite.

His foot kept tapping against the floor, knee unwillingly jumping up, over and over. Vibrating like a jackhammer, completely in sync with his rampaging heart. He could feel the sweat forming amidst his jungle of unkempt curls, halo beaming brightly, flickering every now and then. The Law never truly had any problems with him, it seems like. Never struck him down for good, never took away his wings and radiant ring, always reminded to act his age and race, yet never stepped in to say "That's enough."

Never once blinked when his arms held the lead-spitting machine aimed at a field of tied up, broken captives. Didn't dare speak up as his mind mowed down the helpless, instead giving him a proud pat on the back for staying true to his roots. Sarkaz and Sankta, once barely united, now fiercely at a couple thousand year long war. Where was the Law when he held a gun to that poor, weeping woman's head? When him and W hunted down whoever they damn pleased, sometimes just for the fun of it?

It stayed silent. Why? Because it was Lawful. Because killing those devilish hounds of war had always been and will always remain the most Lawful form of worshiping the program there is. A god born of a lie, a culture built on deception, that's all it was. All it had ever been.

Yet, Andy had no idea. No Sankta knew, except a chosen few. For him, the Law was simply a blockade, an annoying flick to his nose whenever a swear word slipped through. A reminder to never shoot his own, to treat his weapons with respect and expect them to treat him just as swell.

He couldn't question the Law. How could he? Lemuel was religious, after all. Now, he couldn't question anything his beloved, little angel believed in, right?

She had a tight grasp on his life. Even in those moments when it was just the two of them, together, yet her thoughts remained focused on someone else, on a certain blueberry-haired fiend, making the boy feel so utterly useless and unwanted. She was right there, but her thoughts were far, far away, wandering through the plains of her teenage years, sweet moments spent in the embrace of a dear friend, when everything was so nice and swell, so warm and comfy. So different from his dirty past. So, so different.