Post by Soldier 76 on Jul 21, 2016 22:28:19 GMT
Back where he'd started, tour around the world and here he was in Dorado, renting the same old motel room. Long term stays here had made him less of a stranger, sure he was considered a vigilante, a wanted man...but he'd done good for the people here. That good was repaid with their silence, the authorities were kept away, and no one would give up their secret hero. Jack fell onto the bed, stripping off the jacket and looking over it thoughtfully. It was always his favorite, whenever he went riding, whenever it was a bit cold...even if it wasn't. He tossed it over the back of a chair at the side of the room, it was joined shortly by his belt, his visor, and his boots. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
What was the point? All of this running around, all of this searching. Seeing the signal of the recall, he'd felt his heart pounding, but he was dead. Jack Morrison was dead. He couldn't answer that call, Soldier 76 wasn't being recalled, and that's who he was now. He struggled up, running a hand through his hair, before sliding the gloves off and tossing them with the rest of his discarded belongings. It felt like shedding a skin, or an identity. All of that over there was a different man. He sighed and moved to the bathroom, running the sink till it was warm. He searched around to find the courtesy razors, and shaving cream, on the road long enough the stubble was getting itchy. A calm moment spent shaving, how juxtaposed to the rest of his life these days. Was he really that old already? The mirror always seemed to show a few more lines.
He supposed he'd never really thought about growing old, there's a sense when you're in the military that your life might simply stop before you get past 20. Strange that there is life after it. Good enough, though now razor burn made his face itch instead. "Can't win for losing," he groused and left the bathroom after draining the sink. A shower tomorrow would be welcomed as he rifled around the drawers, nice to know they'd kept it locked up for him. Something dependable was so rare. He found a clean set of clothes and set them out for tomorrow, like a sort of ritual. Shave, set out clothes, assure the perimeter is secure, turn on the television, and finally lay down. It was a bit hard to relax at first. He got back up and moved to the cabinet which had the miniature fridge, right Mexican beer. He supposed it could be worse, it could be Miller Lite. He laughed dryly at his own thoughts, now that would be a tragedy. popping off the bottle cap he took a swig. Normally he wasn't one to drink, but tonight...well tonight he needed a beer.
76 was a midwesterner born and raised, there were a few constants in that life, Corn fields, Cows and Beer. German populations meant beer wasn't just available but practically given away by every family member or friend. He shook his head wondering how his parents were doing. The temptation to visit them had crossed his mind, but how cruel would that be. Show up like a ghost...
The old soldier lay back down, flipping through the channels, all of it was in spanish but he supposed it was more the noise he was looking for. The normalcy was almost unnerving. Sip, flip, sip, flip. Sigh.
What was the point? All of this running around, all of this searching. Seeing the signal of the recall, he'd felt his heart pounding, but he was dead. Jack Morrison was dead. He couldn't answer that call, Soldier 76 wasn't being recalled, and that's who he was now. He struggled up, running a hand through his hair, before sliding the gloves off and tossing them with the rest of his discarded belongings. It felt like shedding a skin, or an identity. All of that over there was a different man. He sighed and moved to the bathroom, running the sink till it was warm. He searched around to find the courtesy razors, and shaving cream, on the road long enough the stubble was getting itchy. A calm moment spent shaving, how juxtaposed to the rest of his life these days. Was he really that old already? The mirror always seemed to show a few more lines.
He supposed he'd never really thought about growing old, there's a sense when you're in the military that your life might simply stop before you get past 20. Strange that there is life after it. Good enough, though now razor burn made his face itch instead. "Can't win for losing," he groused and left the bathroom after draining the sink. A shower tomorrow would be welcomed as he rifled around the drawers, nice to know they'd kept it locked up for him. Something dependable was so rare. He found a clean set of clothes and set them out for tomorrow, like a sort of ritual. Shave, set out clothes, assure the perimeter is secure, turn on the television, and finally lay down. It was a bit hard to relax at first. He got back up and moved to the cabinet which had the miniature fridge, right Mexican beer. He supposed it could be worse, it could be Miller Lite. He laughed dryly at his own thoughts, now that would be a tragedy. popping off the bottle cap he took a swig. Normally he wasn't one to drink, but tonight...well tonight he needed a beer.
76 was a midwesterner born and raised, there were a few constants in that life, Corn fields, Cows and Beer. German populations meant beer wasn't just available but practically given away by every family member or friend. He shook his head wondering how his parents were doing. The temptation to visit them had crossed his mind, but how cruel would that be. Show up like a ghost...
The old soldier lay back down, flipping through the channels, all of it was in spanish but he supposed it was more the noise he was looking for. The normalcy was almost unnerving. Sip, flip, sip, flip. Sigh.
