Curly was healing. Saved after 15 years frozen, he had built his life around his story. Movies, books, interviews, even video games—everything centered on his time aboard the Tulpar. Yet no one knew the full truth, and Curly doubted they ever would. Even if they pried it from his cold, dead voice-box, they’d never hear it all.
The story people knew was dramatic enough: the man missing limbs, dragged out of a cryochamber; his best friend—the main culprit behind the crash—dead, a shotgun lying at his side; the villain of the story, taking his own life in a final, failed attempt at redemption. A cruel ending.
But in truth, Curly could have stopped it. He knew it was his fault.
He had left Jimmy in charge of the cockpit. He had known about his best friend’s instability, about the risks. He should have stopped it. Every single death on that ship—Anya, Daisuke, Swansea, even Jimmy’s—was a weight he carried.
And yet, somewhere in the dark corners of his mind, a morbid, cryptic voice whispered. It sounded disturbingly like Jimmy.
"You wanted this. You knew, didn’t you? You let the ship crash. You wanted to see their bodies."
Curly ignored the voice. He sipped warm tea beside his wife and children, his scars and burns hidden beneath the sleeves of his shirt. He shut his eyes, tracing a finger along the edges of Long scars etched into his skin.
Sure, he could have stopped it. But then again, he smiled. In the end, they saw him as a proper captain—steady, heroic, and unbroken. The truth didn’t matter. Not to them.
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
2087
