hal adroxis | d9 | fin

Eight years old and already an eagle-eyed sharpshooter with all the compassion of an angler-fish, the charm of a hyena, and generosity of a boa constrictor. All packed into one bite-sized little killing machine with less life in his eyes than a morgue. He took orders, blinked twice, and pulled the trigger without being asked again. Good little soldier boy, standing in line.

How I've changed.

It's not without consequence; fighting what you were born to be. It comes with black eyes, locked doors, empty plates. For a while, I was forgotten. Struck off as nothing more than an error in the system, a blot of ink on the parchment of the great Adroxis plan, blindly following Babe's burning legacy with their eyes firmly shut.




But I've found my place in all of this now, hidden away beneath the machines and the workers and the factory lines. In the dark, where the sun can't kiss my skin and the wind won't whisper me sweet treasons.

I make guns for the rich. Custom pieces so bespoke that they barely look functional in their intended use. How the elite love their bespoke toys, designed so abstractly that they no longer resemble weapons, instead appearing more as a statement - I am beautiful, I can end life. Two sides of the same coin.

Some nights I will turn the blue lamps off and light candles, sitting the amber glow of their warmth and thinking of all the people who have commissioned a piece from my workshop. I imagine them proudly displaying their latest purchase on a mantle-piece. Guns that will never fire.

I can sleep knowing that most of my work is left untouched. The only red on my hands is paint.





I know that I cannot live the life of my siblings, of my family. I don't boldly walk the streets with the family name tattooed bare across my forehead - a brash dare to anyone wanting to dethrone Nine's backstreet royalty. It's pompous. No better than the self-absorbed egomaniacs who think that owning a fully-loaded semi-automatic weapon painted in gold-leaf and rose trim makes them any more important than they actually are.

Importance. That's half the problem, isn't it? Everyone wants it, but no one really has it, and when they do, it's not for long. From beneath the streets I watch them, rats eating rats. Who will be king next? Who's turn is it to be important.

The day that it's mine is the day this all falls apart. The day they burn the flowers and bring back that dead-eyed boy with his mind so fresh for moulding and his mouth so quick to say yes sir. Their little soldier boy is still inside me, somewhere. I dread the day I have to use him against them.