Cindy
*sigh* ud know this if u read the silmarillion...
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- Feb 28, 2018
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A soft blanket of fog began to roll into the wood as the morning quietly gave birth to daylight. Nested deep amidst the thicket, the chirps and whistles of distant birdsong cloaked the hills in a gentle serenity that had become almost alien in the days of the occupation. It took decades for a sense of symbiosis to establish itself between the native creatures of Earth and the invasive species that had spilled out from the borderworld, transforming the wilds of a scarred world into an otherworldly tranquil domain.
Along the trickling stream that remained at the bottom of the otherwise dried-up river, a log cabin stood. Its age chronicled a homestead that had predated the coming of the Combine and before the clay of the world was forever reshaped. And there it remained, amid the depths of the forest, untouched by the occupation that came and went. Its prior occupants, however, were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they suffered untimely fates, or they had merely been displaced by the grand calculus of the Combine's relocation logistics. Since then, a new inhabitant had taken up residence, someone far from unscathed by the new world.
As the day reached eight o'clock, a machine, which had been haphazardly installed within the cabin, awoke. Its blue highlights glowed from beneath the outer resin plating as it stirred with hums and hisses. The bed parted open and from it emerged a pale figure, sculpted with mechanical augments and surgical lines throughout his toned form. A clamp released from his face and recoiled upward into the base of the machine, and shortly after his eyes met his return to the material world. Morning's light shone upon him through the dusted window, which contrasted greatly from any kind of barracks he had become accustomed to awaking into. He crawled out from the bed with little to no sense of urgency, and let his feet guide his still-waking eyes to the wardrobe.
It was not long until he emerged from the bedroom and into the kitchen in logger's fashion: A rough, red flannel, and dirt-stained denim jeans that were just barely the ex-soldier's size. The kitchen remained relatively empty, only organized by habit rather than any need for its facilities. His body had long since been deprived of the need for consumption or the ability to even process nutrients in any natural way. Even so, he stood before the sink and out the kitchen's window. His discolored eyes fell upon the gentle sway of the pines and the subtle waterflows of the creek. There he stood, in silence, for nearly an hour before abruptly turning towards the door, collecting his shoes, coat and cap, and made his way to the great outdoors.
The forces that depleted him of the man he once was did not envision any sort of life beyond the purpose they had shaped him into: The purpose of a mere footman; a weapon of the regime. But in the years since his last memory replacement, the longing for peace conquered the programming that had once overwritten him. It was that moment that he took off his helm, lowered his pulse-rifle, and embarked deeper into the world, far from any population centers so that he could claim a patch of land to call his home. He knew he could never rejoin humanity in full, nor could he take part in the society of humans and vortigaunts that was beginning to unfold in the wake of the Combine's defeat. But inner peace, he knew he could find for himself.
The transhuman stepped out from the awning of the porch, basked in the crisp smell of the wilderness for a few moments, and headed for his truck. It was a simple Ford pickup, with its sides painted over with Combine signage depicting that it was once a patrol vehicle for the outlying work towns that dotted the American midwest. The engine's ignition briefly stifled the tranquil sounds of the wild, before seemingly harmonizing with it. He could not help but glance up at the pulse rifle mounted behind him, in reminiscence that he was once no different than such an instrument. Even years past the fact, it was difficult to forget.
He drove not too far upstream, where the stream had split off from a larger river, and parked along the riverside. There, he sat with his feet soaking in the river's shallow flow, relieving some of the summer's heat, and observed what he could. The occasional helicopter transporting supplies to nearby towns, panthereyes prowling the opposite riverside for prey. On a good day, he might see a deer or another earthly animal, and he would catalogue his sightings with sketches in the notebook he kept in the truck's glove compartment. He was far from an artist, but the quality of the drawings had certainly improved since he first began. But beyond such sight-seeing, his life had little other purpose. In a way, he found that delightful, if muted of true human experience.
His peace was interrupted as the rustling of ferns was heard from behind him. The transhuman eyed over his shoulder at the direction, cautiously making his way up from the riverside and towards his truck. He reached into the cabin and unmounted the rifle, checked the magazine for pulse-spikes, and pressed its stock into his shoulder as he crept toward the tree line cautiously. There was no shortage of predators in this forest- from xenofauna, the occasional lost hunter, and worst of all: humans. Were someone to find his lodging, it would surely be the end of his days in peace. They would see him as little more than an anachronism; a leftover war machine that had yet to be deactivated. He had made it this far without having to kill anyone to secure his peace, which had the fortunate upside of not forcing him to consider what he would do if such an encounter ever occurred. As he pressed deeper into the thicket, a growl grew in volume from behind a small log, and with his pulse-rifle aimed, he approached the fallen tree and peered over it.
A young German Shorthair, no more than three years old, stared up at the transhuman in a defensive stance.
She gnarled at the strange man, his scent unlike anything the dog had experienced, and that rendered him a danger. The man slowly lowered the rifle in pause, scanning ahead to see if there were any sign of an owner nearby, then down to the hound's neck. No collar. Returning his gaze to eyes of the threatened creature, he slowly stepped over the log, causing her to slowly back away from him with heightened alertness. Unsureness plagued him, unaware of how he might signal to the hound that he meant no harm. Absent of any knowledge of communicating to another animal, he searched his gut for an emotion that he had not dusted off in many, many years: Compassion. He lowered himself to the dog's level, and instinctually reached out his other hand with his palm open for the creature to see. Noon became afternoon while the standoff endured, until the dog slowly lowered its growl and approached. Its nose met his fingertips, and after a brief inspection, it began to lick his digits with a gentle whine.
The transhuman's truck arrived back at the cabin with a passenger that evening, and the homestead that that survived the Seven Hour War, the Combine occupation and the uprising altogether had found a second inhabitant. He would have to find a way to keep his new companion fed and cared for, and while to some that may be considered a burden to look after, he saw his new friend for what she truly was to him:
A purpose.
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