12-06-2009, 03:06 AM
How many men would die before he could yield? How many would fall at his hand before he found the answers he so desperately sought? Doubt swallowed him. By performing actions unjust how could he free himself? Certainly two counts of murder would not help him cleanse his soul, but, he thought to himself, was that even what he was searching for? Perhaps his faults were so deep and so damaging that, in confronting them, peace was impossible. He hoped that was not the case. And, at the same time, the fragment of Alice’s soul that would forever reside in his urged him forward. If she advocated his actions then they could not be wrong.
While confusion encompassed every aspect of his conscience, there were a few things he had been certain of. First, that he could no longer reside in the miserable cold of the frozen tundra. As he trudged along, with his jacket and shirt being carried in toe, the howling wind raped his naked, meager frame with menacing gusts of ice and snow. And he still had not eaten. That crazy, valium-addicted girl had attacked him before he could get to the refrigerator, and, immediately following her icy antics, he had been whisked away into the coliseum.
And so, with a cigarette hanging from his lip, he headed back towards the mountain sector. It was early, and the sun was just barely sneaking over the distant horizon in both the frozen, arctic region and the area that lie ahead of him. The crimson ooze that stained his chest, which he had still not cleaned since the end of his exhausting duel with Belle Hibiki, gleamed and reflected the sun’s awakening rays. His guilt was overrun and, for the moment, forgotten as the beauty of the encroaching dawn mesmerized him in its artistic beauty. God was clearly a painter, applying tender strokes of violets, yellows, oranges and red across the mountainous sky. Unlike his explosions, this beauty was pure and it was true.
He sighed, and stamped out the cigarette on the bunker’s stone walls before he pulled open the door and slipped inside. He needed food, and he needed a wet cloth.
While confusion encompassed every aspect of his conscience, there were a few things he had been certain of. First, that he could no longer reside in the miserable cold of the frozen tundra. As he trudged along, with his jacket and shirt being carried in toe, the howling wind raped his naked, meager frame with menacing gusts of ice and snow. And he still had not eaten. That crazy, valium-addicted girl had attacked him before he could get to the refrigerator, and, immediately following her icy antics, he had been whisked away into the coliseum.
And so, with a cigarette hanging from his lip, he headed back towards the mountain sector. It was early, and the sun was just barely sneaking over the distant horizon in both the frozen, arctic region and the area that lie ahead of him. The crimson ooze that stained his chest, which he had still not cleaned since the end of his exhausting duel with Belle Hibiki, gleamed and reflected the sun’s awakening rays. His guilt was overrun and, for the moment, forgotten as the beauty of the encroaching dawn mesmerized him in its artistic beauty. God was clearly a painter, applying tender strokes of violets, yellows, oranges and red across the mountainous sky. Unlike his explosions, this beauty was pure and it was true.
He sighed, and stamped out the cigarette on the bunker’s stone walls before he pulled open the door and slipped inside. He needed food, and he needed a wet cloth.
Quote:Alexander Trafford moves from the Arctic Sector to the Mountain Sector and enters the Mountain Sector Bunker
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)