viscerealist: (Bored sneer)
[personal profile] viscerealist
[The communicator is far too close to whomever is speaking. It’s all lips and teeth, a chin lazily cradled in a calloused hand, and an excellent view of greying stubble. What can be seen beyond the all-too-close figure is drab, dimly lit, and all bars and concrete.]

How can a stranger be called a hero? … It’s far too subjective a word to apply to someone from a separate world --a separate reality. Particularly when who the hero of a story is very often determined by something as arbitrary as who claims the title of the victor. Me, I’ve been called a great many things in my life. Many of them unpleasant. None of them ‘hero’. Not until today.
Suppose I should feel flattered... I don’t, but it's possible I should.

[He sighs and leans back a bit, rising up from leaning on his desk in front of the communicator. The shadows in the room lit only by the screen still keep him largely obscured, though it’s clear there are deep lines in his face. Dirty, light brown hair hangs in his eyes.]

We were all brought here --seemingly at random-- by a machine working on some programmed concept of what makes a hero. Some carefully coded algorithm that seeks out saviors. What are the criteria, I wonder? Strength? Bravery? Morality is subjective, so that’s out... Dedication? Lawfulness? Can’t be that... There are laws against almost everything considered traditionally ‘heroic’, aren’t there?

Maybe she’s just looking for balance. For each influence she brings in, a counter weight. A machine, I would wager, would realize there are no such concrete, measurable attributes as ‘good’ and ‘evil’, after all. Everyone is the hero of their personal story....however tragic, horrific or vulgar.

Now...there’s me. I’ve been a soldier for truth. A lone crusader. A slayer of evil men. A martyr to my cause, in the end. A very heroic tale, if you look at it that way. Simply. In the black and white terms necessary for heroes to exist. So here I am.

Julian Priest. Artist. Newly anointed ‘hero’.
[He smirks slightly, a breathy laugh escaping through his nostrils as he leans his cheek on his hand.]
At your service, I suppose...


capeandcowl: (Default)

January 2014

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