Jun stumbled to the barracks, all he had to do was look up and walked towards the tall building which towered over Feroxi and avoid any shady-looking alleyways. Why did he even agree to the downing that sake? Why did he even question that? Every suggestion from his superiors was taken as a command and the soldier could be order to do just about anything. Hell, even if it were rat poison, he would have drunk the foul drink. It was a point of pride and one of shame for Jun. Bryan's words still reverberated within his mind - echoing and echoing again and again. At least the Commander seemed to understand the nature of duty, and sacrifice in the name of duty. But one thing was for sure, drinking was overrated. Sure, it took some of the edge off his other constant worries, but - by the end of the night out - he felt like shit. He walked to the barracks to the beat of his own throbbing headache.
Jun made his way into the building at the base of the tower, and then in the military wing of said building. Just something urged him onwards to his bad, he wouldn't just collapse in some dirty street or in the middle of the barracks when the bed was just so close, but so far away. One step after another... Why were his feet so heavy? They had only been walking for about a while or, not enough to cause this. Of course, it must have been the alcohol. Anything that happened in that damn place could be excused or explained by the booze. Never again, he would never again drink, regardless of Tsubaki's suggestions or Bryan's tricks or anything. Jun had said way too much already. Not to mention that his squadmates probably him with even more scorn than before. He reached the bunks and began to change into that dirty old t-shirt and boxers. Such a chore... Nevertheless, he clambered into bed eventually...
Sleep found him, like it always eventually did. But he woke up too early, in a completely white room that bore no resemblance to anywhere in the Ashlands. Ash, dust, even debris, would have ruined the pristine sheen. Jun looked down, he was in his uniform. Though the particular shade of it differed slightly from that which Lord Basilio forced upon his men. Even so, he still had those dirt ridden boots on. Was it okay to spoil the cleanliness of the room? Well, that didn't matter. Simply by standing there, Jun had done so already. Clumps of dirt marked his starting place in the room, marring the area around him. It was a shame, really, someone must've really worked hard to clean the place up.
Something twisted in his back.
Jun winced. However, that didn't stop him from advancing forwards towards the white table and chair that lay in the centre of the room. In fact, it was pretty much the only thing he could do. One step after another, his legs jerked forward. Jun bit his lip, whatever was in his back decided to torment the soldier - twisting and turning and whirring and hurting. Jun tried to turn his head around just to look behind him, just to see how far he had been walking like this. He couldn't. Despite his best efforts, Jun couldn't turn his head even one degree - something rigid and tight was stopping him. Nothing but forward march for this soldier. Regardless, after what seemed like a lifetime, Jun reached his destination.
Was it even his choice?
It wasn't a twist or a turn this time, but a push. His body surrendered and sat down on the chair. On the table was a pack of heavily used crayons, paper and one instruction: DRAW. Jun was puzzled, why should he doodle with crayons? What should he draw? Could he even draw to a satisfactory level? Nevertheless, the thing in his back turned and turned - almost like it was charging up something. Jun's thoughts didn't matter, it was all about carrying out the order. His hands started to grab the crayons and draw pictures faster than his eyes could see. Again and again, until his hands were covered with wax residue, until the table was covered in a mess of blues, yellows, greens, blacks, grays and red...
This wasn't right, was it?
Time seemed to stand still as one drawing unfolded beneath his eyes: a round circle, three dots (was that even correct?), a horizontal line and underneath it, a vertical one. His hand went crazy as it made black scribbles around the circle, but not under it. That done, his hand reached for the pink and brown crayons then coloured two of the small dots and the whole of the circle. Afterwards, Jun reached for the red. The poorly drawn face soon had red lips and red cheeks. His hand now hovered over the third dot. 'No.' In one burst of rage, Jun grabbed the crayon-wielding and tried to stop it. Jun's efforts just resulted in a huge, angry, crimson scribble which engulfed whatever was on the paper before. Not satisfied, Jun tore at his back.
Seeing this, the ruined face on the paper spoke to him, "One count of insubordination. Sentence: death."
Jun collapsed, gears and all.
Something twisted in his back.
Jun winced. However, that didn't stop him from advancing forwards towards the white table and chair that lay in the centre of the room. In fact, it was pretty much the only thing he could do. One step after another, his legs jerked forward. Jun bit his lip, whatever was in his back decided to torment the soldier - twisting and turning and whirring and hurting. Jun tried to turn his head around just to look behind him, just to see how far he had been walking like this. He couldn't. Despite his best efforts, Jun couldn't turn his head even one degree - something rigid and tight was stopping him. Nothing but forward march for this soldier. Regardless, after what seemed like a lifetime, Jun reached his destination.
Was it even his choice?
It wasn't a twist or a turn this time, but a push. His body surrendered and sat down on the chair. On the table was a pack of heavily used crayons, paper and one instruction: DRAW. Jun was puzzled, why should he doodle with crayons? What should he draw? Could he even draw to a satisfactory level? Nevertheless, the thing in his back turned and turned - almost like it was charging up something. Jun's thoughts didn't matter, it was all about carrying out the order. His hands started to grab the crayons and draw pictures faster than his eyes could see. Again and again, until his hands were covered with wax residue, until the table was covered in a mess of blues, yellows, greens, blacks, grays and red...
This wasn't right, was it?
Time seemed to stand still as one drawing unfolded beneath his eyes: a round circle, three dots (was that even correct?), a horizontal line and underneath it, a vertical one. His hand went crazy as it made black scribbles around the circle, but not under it. That done, his hand reached for the pink and brown crayons then coloured two of the small dots and the whole of the circle. Afterwards, Jun reached for the red. The poorly drawn face soon had red lips and red cheeks. His hand now hovered over the third dot. 'No.' In one burst of rage, Jun grabbed the crayon-wielding and tried to stop it. Jun's efforts just resulted in a huge, angry, crimson scribble which engulfed whatever was on the paper before. Not satisfied, Jun tore at his back.
Seeing this, the ruined face on the paper spoke to him, "One count of insubordination. Sentence: death."
Jun collapsed, gears and all.
