"Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet." Cyrus Farivar

Sunday, January 6, 2013


            The Spare knew death was always a possibility. He knew that being a Knight of Cydonia – as they liked to refer to themselves – meant he would very well leave St. Benedict behind for combat. With skirmishes brewing in the Middle East, Parliament elected to get involved. They were joining other members of the UN to help calm the tides and provide security for ambassadors and citizens. James didn’t argue when his unit received their orders.

            It was the commands that got him here, staring up at the blue sky. His ears were ringing, as he shifted his head, seeing boots come in and out of cloudy vision. Someone was talking to him, inquiring words he couldn’t hear. The Spare felt himself growing tired, opting to close his eyes instead of follow the flurry of activity.
            Feeling a constant rush of wind, he opened an eye to see the blades of a helicopter. At some point they had put him on a stretcher, thoroughly strapped down as they rushed to the medevac.

            Adjusting his crutch, he started down the hallway. It was slow going, the prosthetic hindering what was normally a casual walk. He remained within the Palace at Latcharbour ever since his return to St. Ben. The media was pressing for an interview, but The Spare continued to decline, promising he would in the near future. For now, he just wanted to feel normal again.

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