Streets [A TomTord Fanfic]

Introduction

~•[Tord's POV]•~

Cold. That's been my only feeling for a while now. Everyday is the same. Wake up, find food, survive, sleep, and repeat. This endless cycle has been going on for about three years now. After the incident, I went back to the Red Army. My arm never got better, and soon they had to amputate it. It hurt like hell, but I was too busy passing out from blood loss to feel it too much.

They fixed up that robot arm I found after the incident and attached it to where my crippled arm used to be. I've tried for so long to gain complete control over it, but no matter what I do it still has issues. It stops working at random sometimes, the bolts and nails holding some bits of it together are very loose, some little bits and pieces are missing here and there, and sometimes the blue orb on the hand goes haywire and starts firing really bright lasers all on its own. We've lost about 4000 soldiers now because of it, and the Army's budget didn't have enough to spare so I could repair it.

Since I couldn't repair the arm and we didn't have money for a prosthetic arm, I was considered weak for not being able to control my own arm. After loosing a few hundred more soldiers, the army finally had enough and kicked me out. I never got any of my belongings. I only got whatever was in my pockets and the clothes I had on. Since my pockets were pretty much empty, all I had was my current outfit and a small switchblade I always carried.

Ever since then I've been roaming the streets, trying to survive. I tried to get a job several times, but each place I went to was either complaining about me scaring away customers or the fact that my robot arm had shot some of them. As you can probably imagine, I wasn't liked very much. Word got around and soon enough no one would hire me.

So for the past three years, I've been out here on the streets. I will admit surviving hasn't been easy. I've had to do anything I could to get food sometimes. But it's better this way. No one bothers me much, no one reminds me of the past, and no one talks about them.

I'm happy about that. The less I hear about them, the less I have to remember.

That's good.

I don't want to remember.