the warning signs carved your skin ; scars on your palms and the insides of your fingers ; soft blossom lips, glistening with madness; the taste of rust in your mouth, blood on your tongue ; give a boy your mouth, he'll want to die for you ; hurt that tastes so sickly sweet, like nectar ; a wild screaming weight, trapped in your belly ;unspoken depravity ; cracked glass against your own bones ; tell the stars to consume you ;
“You shouldn’t let the others hear you saying things like that,” Eshir said knowingly, smirking. She knew what the average human thought of men who showed affection to androids. Sex? Fine. But affection? Friendship? Fat chance. In a past life, when she had nearly passed as human, maybe friendship with one wouldn’t have been out of the question. She can recall maybe even having some human friends. Of course, the living breathing man on her arm who looked at her so adoringly certainly helped. But now- if any human man were to show her true affection Eshir imagined he might be thought of as deluded; unable to tell real from fake, flesh from metal, living from dead. But then again, she imagined Ford didn’t much care what the others thought of him.
She pulls down the linen cover from her mouth to drink. She probably wouldn’t have done so if it hadn’t been Ford sitting with her but someone else. Her lips black, teeth moulded copper, mouth tongueless, smile glasgowed and frankensteinian. She thanked him for the drink. They sat in silence for a bit, Eshir conscious of the whirring and crackling that perfused from her throat as she drank. “You won’t even tell me about one daydream?” She teased, seeing how far she could take it. “Just one whimsical daydream Ford?”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
“It’s a lost cause,” The words trail from his lips that part into the most gentle of smiles as he stares back at her. “They’ll see it all written in the way I look to you.” Perhaps there was truth to his words, to the affection and companionship he so easily showed to Eshir. Although the words sounded too sweet even in his own mouth, although they weren’t quite a lie.
His eyes barley graze the sight of her jaw, the way it looks beneath the delicate cloth she wears each of the days. The sight’s far from jarring or grotesque as some may find it, rather all that exposed metal, those clinking parts, they painted sadness into her sight. The reminder that he couldn’t offer her more. He couldn’t make her whole.
One day. He’d tell himself.
“It’s been a long time since I closed my eyes and had a dream.” There’s a shrug on his shoulders as he lifts the beer to his lips again, too blaze truth for words that buried a heaviness that he hopes is hidden. “There ain’t much left to dream about for me I guess.”
He couldn’t take a moment. He wasn’t supposed to. Driving the crew the full eight hours back to Dust, apologising to Kennedy Maddox for the bumpy right, ensuring the crew was alright, if some only through direct messages because he simply didn’t have the energy to ensure they were okay. Learning of Nyx’ demise. It all came one at the time, yet felt like a sudden and heavy blow to his heart.
He didn’t go to Lord’s of Dust bar for the drink, Cian needed to bring his report and bring it in person. He gave it fully, including the death of his crew member, it would start hurting eventually.
With his report delivered, Cian took just the tiniest moment to sit down, opening up his tablet to start planning some form of memorial for Nyx, write a few words in appreciation of him. But he could barely find the right things to say.
Shoulder hurting, alcohol working only a little, he wasn’t suspecting anyone dragging him from his stool. He watched Ford with an expression of deviance. “Not the time, Stanford,” he said, pushing against Ford’s arm to let him go.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
An ache had long since settled in Stanford’s chest, where a beating against his rib cage only grew more rapid. Where sorrow turned to anger, slowly simmering. And that beating turned to pounding. A creature in his chest, tearing at his insides until his fists balled in his captains collar, and knuckles turned white at the grip.
Alcohol already burnt through his chest, and stained his breath as he held Cian inches from his face, unbothered by the way he attempted to break from the grip. His jaw clenched, and words not quite a whisper, more a demand as they leave his mouth. “No! You’re not telling me what to do, you fucked up, Captain.” The word spat from his mouth, venom lacing each syllable.
“What was that back there?!” His grip finally loosening around Cian’s collar, instead opting to let go, only to push him back. Forceful, hoping to bruise where the two collide. Hoping to leave that lingering pain. “You fled, you left crew to die and abandoned the fight. Rafael would never have given up a fight.”
LOCATION: lord’s of dust
LETTER TO: @captain-dawnlight
To fight was all he ever knew. Fight against this world, with fingers that sunk into his pale ribs, and slowly pulled him into the earth. Head barley above the water for as long as he could remember. Short breaths, catching the back of his throat. Maybe it was the cheap liquor he drank by the gallons, alone in those quarters of his as the crew slowly patched up. Gunshots ringing in his ears. Blood on his hands. He looks closer, it’s just rust. Copper, staining between his fingers, and lingering on everything he touched.
The door slams behind him, heavy footsteps carrying him into the bar. Chatter stilling in the air for a moment, before rustling back to life. Every inch of him demands war.
For the fallen.
His eyes something dark, swallowed by gunpowder as he storms to Cian who sits alone. Nursing a drink- his wound. Ford doesn’t notice, he doesn’t care to stop to notice as he grasps the back of his collar and drags him from the barstool. “Somewhere private. Now.”
“Did you find anything?” Cyrus asked, half curious, mostly worried. Though he figured the worrying part was most present, on account of it slipping past his lips first. He rolled his shoulders, pushed the tension away, but despite it his fingers were still twitching around. He can’t much keep it hidden from others, although that seemed to be the one thing on his mind. Whenever he was back in the Shipyard, it seemed almost natural that he fell back into his paranoia, less inclined to hide.
With eyebrows knitted together, Cyrus stared up at Ford. Words that were meant for the Captain, found their way out of his mouth now. “I need to talk with Cian. We - Althea and I - had an almost run-in with some soldiers from Iron. They were chasing her, she was trying to get out of Crash,” he shared.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
There’s no tension in Ford’s shoulders as the two speak, steps slowly carrying him closer to Cyrus as he speaks. “Smoked out building,” He offers, not wanting to tell too much before discussions with Cian about it all. About the Wheats involvement, “A family was in it when it went off.” Words carrying from his mouth like nothing more than facts, listing a checklist of what exactly they’d found. Hoping he didn’t add anymore worry to the other’s demeanour.
Cyrus’ words hit the dense air, words that bring a simple nod to Ford’s head. He can’t help but stiffen a little where he stands, but he’s still much to casual about the situation as he asks. “How long ago was this?” His voice carrying that false ease, but there’s something sharp about his eyes as they carefully watch Cyrus for his next answer. “Do you know what kind of following this was? Tell me it was just some too drunk soldiers on the hunt for something pretty.”
“I am too high strung?” Cian merely smiled. If there was one thing he noticed on the folk fo the desert it was their constant wariness. But perhaps his was very different from the wariness of a Duster. He took a sip from the coffee right away, it was strong, not as strong as coffee in Iron, but he enjoyed it enough. At least it kept him on his toes, that was what he most needed and most craved. Control and awareness. He still found himself nodding however, at first thinking Ford was truly trying to offer him advice. Advice he might not take, because he found that for him it didn’t seemed to mater much.
“That was a jab, wasn’t it?” Cian said, one eyebrow pulled up. “It’s not that I don’t fight, Ford, I just try to avoid if it I can, and I take my responsibility as Captain to make sure I have an overview. I can’t do that when I’m in the mids of getting bullet holes.” He took another sip from the coffee that soon turned into a gulp. “Also, I just really like the taste of coffee.”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
The market place continued to bustle around them, dust kicked up beneath feet as the crowds trampled back and forth. It was so familiar here, it always would be. The way he sat so invisible amongst it all. More a part of the landscape than he was another person there. Thick skin, tanned and weathered by his days beneath the scolding sun, lined with silver scars speckling evidence of all that he’s seen. His rusted parts creaking with each move, no part of Ford was new, yet too much life burnt in his eyes to be considered old.
“Your pacifist lifestyle doesn’t save you any brownie points here,” He says simply, before lifting the coffee cup up for a mouthful. Ford’s eyes begin to wander over the place, the crowds, the stalls. Everything but the person sitting before him. “Dust is brought up on war, it’s a battlefield after all. You either have to fight it, or fight with it. Either way, Cian- You gotta fight.”
“Maybe they would,” She laughed, thinking deeply for a moment, “it would probably be more fun that way,” a fire in her eyes and a violence in her voice. Acknowledging this tasted sour, the admission that most of the crew had gunpowder in their bellies, a need to fight that only required the smallest spark.
She let her mind wonder back to the hypothetical night out. Her and Ford dancing. Maybe if they weren’t the way they were; rusty and dustworn, they might have looked the part. It had been a long time since Eshir looked the part.
“Is that what I dream of?” she pondered out loud, words fizzing off her electric tongue. “No,” She answered solemnly. She dreamt of lying next to someone every night, hearing slow and regular breaths in the hazy hours of the morning, the sky pink. Borrowing their softness in an effort to feel alive. To feel organic. Playing a sick game of house, human and android. She didn’t tell Ford, but instead left her answer hang in the air.
“What about you?” she asked suddenly, half curious, half demanding. Surprised by her desire to continue the discussion, her and Ford usually shared an unspoken agreement that such prickly topics remained unearthed.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
A fire stirs deep in the woman, something grotesque- something so painfully human despite every inch of her that protests otherwise. He understand it, that drive for something more. They all did. In their own kinds of ways, for their own reasons. Ford fought because he had nothing left to live for. He’d fight because it was all he knew. To keep pushing against the world that tried to bury him again, and again. It’s easy for him to forget sometimes, that others fight for that feeling burrowed in their bellies. Begging for the thrill. He still would be left wondering which one drove the android before him.
“You’re a woman worth starting wars for, Eshir.”
A smile flashes across his lips, hand on the fridge as he tosses her a can from across the room. Despite all the aching parts, he still moves so fluid across the room, so unmistakably human. Allowing the fridge door to close behind him, followed by the gentle fizz of his opening can swallows the silence that takes over the room. Ford’s eyes heavy on her own for a moment, words something distant in his mouth for he knows he closes his eyes, and all he knows are echoes. Red. Explosions. Distant cries of voices he knows too well.
He dreams of pain, before the ever engulfing nothing.
“Not much of a dreamer, myself.” He offers, the ghost of a smile still present in his features, and yet he knows there’s all too much given away in his tone. Eshir does that to him, buries into him like fingers pressing into a bruise. “To much livin’ to do in the day to spend all night dreaming for me.”
“Wanting to take Crash – that would have been my guess,” he hummed in agreement. He’d swapped one army for another, but the cause stayed the same. There was one unflinching goal he was working toward, had been aiming for his entire life. His mind worked well when it came to tactical strategy, but it seemed to fail when it came to understanding why people did certain things. Why they blew things up. Why they abandoned an army. Why they betrayed one another. Gabriel had known who he was supposed to be and never once questioned it. It was a simple fact of his life and didn’t require much analysis to understand his motivations.
“Even on the edge, it’s still in a war zone. They have no idea of what peace is.” Peace. A conceptual idea. Even Gabriel didn’t know exactly what it was, but nonetheless, he clung to the idea desperately.
He considered their options. Considered whether people would be fleeing in dark corners or blending in with the crowd. His eyes continuously scanned the surroundings, looking for anything that stood out as unusual. While his muscles were tense, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice, he did it best to make it seem he was just worried about the explosion. “We better stick with the crowd, Ford. It’ll draw less attention towards us, and we can see if there is anyone who seems to stand out. It’s more people to eavesdrop on. We can listen and see what the people are saying.” With that, he made a beeline to the crowds, slipping in like an average civilian and confident Ford followed.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
Unlike Gabriel, Ford would understand the destruction that came with life- the need to fight for something. Why a Dust born man would fight for the Green Army, and why despite the protests, the constant battle to hold onto something, he’d slowly replace those human parts with others that crumbled and squealed. Broken through and through, and yet, he’d still fight.
The City of Dust, just like Stanford, might never know what peace is. Knowing only war your whole life can do just that. But Ford doesn’t know how to voice those thoughts into something out loud, instead he nods with a solemn discontent in his tone. “This city doesn’t deserve it.”
With Gabriel’s suggestion, he simply nods and keeps wading their way through the crowd, sticking to those bustling groups. Slowly inching their way closer to the smoke plumes, as his heart finds a way to beat in his ears. Voices all around carrying from the gossiping groups, red dust against his clothes, clinging to the bottom of his boots. Following Gabriel through the sea of people.
“These skirmishes are getting a little tiring.” Not sure if it was an army attack or not was besides the point, these small flares of battle, these begs for attention and destruction were all they seemed to find these days. “It’s a wonder Dust isn’t tired of it yet.”
Cian quickly shook his head, he liked to be in control. Especially far from home, if he ever took to alcohol, it was when he was certain he had no other responsibilities, but he refrained from drinking it because it took away some of the sharpness. He liked the idea that his crew could count on him at any moment. That, and Cian couldn’t hold his alcohol. Two glasses usually made him feel drunk right away. “No, coffee is good. Don’t hold back on my account,” he offered, one eyebrow slightly raised as he looked back at Ford, before leading him away from the stream of people towards the nearest stand that offered drinks and food.
“I don’t go unnoticed here, it puts me on edge,” he admitted. “They see me and know I’m not from here, I find it interesting and concerning at the same time, compendre?” He sighed, gesturing for Ford to join him at a table. “They see you and know you’re one of them.”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
Ford would never admit there was an excess to the amount he may come to drink in a day, he’d only chuckle at the other’s remark and make ease way to the stall where he’d order for both of them. And without hesitation, pour a dash from the flask he’d keep in his pocket into the cup once they received it. It was a common practice one could find Ford doing when he was confident no one was looking or no one would care much to question him- reaching for that flask kept on his persons as reliably as the holster on his belt.
“You gotta losen up a little is all, you look too high strung to be from here.” A hand clasped around Cian’s back as if the jolt could put his whole body at ease, “You don’t walk like a solider, yet you look too professional to be from the mines.”
Taking a seat across from Cian, he’d rest an arm against the table. “They only see me because I’m falling apart at the seams. Where you’re all- too put together. Coffee a mid day because you’re working instead of a beer, the way your shoulders are held too straight. You might never look like you’re from Dust, your best bet’s probably passing as a soldier. But then you gotta stomach the idea of fighting for once.”
He sat down next to her, creakily. The two of them sitting there, the creaky pair. More metal than flesh between them and yet she looked at him with a humanity in her eyes that few people were lucky enough to see. “Theres not a lot I wouldn’t tell you Ford,” she said through a smile, and it was true. He has already seen her at her most vulnerable, severed and dying, what more were words to him?
“Truth be told I was,” her voice pure synth and inconsistency, Ford was over it mind you. It was sometimes nice to just turn the screen to black, instead of the deafening ochre of the city of dust. Howling yellow and rust filled your vision wherever you looked in this dry place, and looking at Ford was no exception, a man who looked almost a part of the landscape sometimes.
She let out a mechanical exhale and hunched over her knees, her fists propping up her chin. “I would like to take you to Irons one day.” She said quietly, looking out into the sand, trying to approximate the point at which red earth became red sky. “Take you out for a fancy dinner - we could have sushi or tapas. And then maybe a drink at Lady Love, you could eye up the gangsters and meet the girls. We could go dancing. I know you’d hate it but, at least you would see what I used to be like.” She said, rambling a little bit, her voice chipping away and her jaw churning unnaturally as she spoke more words than her body usually permitted her too. She felt the silence and changed the subject. “How about a beer?”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
He easily accepts Eshir’s words as if he believed them to be truth with a gentle nod, and something resembling a soft smile across his features. The truth was though he’d never ask for every detail from Eshir, he’d never be able to bring himself to- despite everything, ask for nothing but the truth. He didn’t like to make a habit of such things, for he knows someone with as many skeletons as himself can’t be pleading honesty from others. So he accepts her words, for he knows he’d never push her into a place where she’s forced to prove her honesty.
“Is that what you dream of? When you close your eyes?” Where Eshir’s voice is something synthetic, almost grating in the same way tacks against bitumen could be, Ford’s was something deep and carrying. Learnt to command, like crumbling rock, and heavy boots against gravel. Where the dryness that clung to him seared his throat until even that sounded hoarse.
“I’d let you take me and explore with you.” It wasn’t a lie, not quite. Ford knew he’d let her in a heart beat, just as much as he knew he longed never to go there. “We can dance at Lady Love, but no gangsters or girls for me. I’ll already be dancing with the most beautiful android in the room. And everyone there will see the same thing.”
Standing comes easier than the motion of sitting down, as he makes his way across the room to the fridge. “Maybe the gangsters can start a war over you.”
Cyrus had send out several messages to Cian but with no response, which didn’t surprise him too much, but did grow on his nerves after half a hour, because paranoia told him something was wrong. He was growing worried that something had happened at the shipyard, but despite it still took his time going back, walking slowly and at leisure, not giving anything away. Sometimes he checked his tablet if only to pretend he was looking up the right direction. He crossed through the market, eyes scanning the crowd lazily, thinking maybe the Captain had made it there.
By the time Cyrus made it back to the shipyard, he was as jittery as ever, yet at the same time not giving anything away until he found himself standing in the middle of the four trucks with no Captain in sight. He spotted some movement in one of the trucks that sounded very much like Ford, and walked in. “Seen the captain, duyem?”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
Sweat clung the man’s shirt to his back, and left a lingering sheen across his forehead as he made his way back to the shipyard. Soot somehow seemed to wipe its way across his face which he hadn’t seemed to notice yet, or simply didn’t care much for the black smudge. "Not since the explosion. Told us to go get a good squiz before the others got their noses in it.”
Two heavy thuds radiate through the shipyard as Ford jumps down from a truck, dense boots landing and shaking the dust from them to the ground. There’s something gentle in his expression when he sees the stress frowing the other’s brows, “Did ya need a hand with something?”
Eshir sat in the shipyard by the firepit. To an onlooker, she must have looked as though she was entranced by the flames, sitting mesmerised. The truth was a neat android programme meant she could disconnect her eyes and keep them open, useful for moments of deep undisturbed thought. Her posture was visible under layers of deep navy calico robes, taught and perfect, a giveaway. She had a thick piece of cloth draped from ear to ear, covering her smile of copper. In Eshir’s mind, this made the sound of her voice more palatable, not being able to see the accompanying metal teeth clash together, but the sound was so alien no amount of fabric could truly obscure it from what it was.
Motion sensors triggered her eyes to start feedbacking again, as she looked up to greet the man approaching her. The second in command. Eshir’s eyes lit up. Her mind was wrenched back to the memory of him heaving her half severed body up onto the back of a truck that dreaded day. Had he left it a couple more hours, the pain would have convinced her to resist his rescue and demand she be left for dead. If she could have shivered, she would have done.
Ford had a metal shoulder, which was obviously desert made. No City of Irons resident would be seen sporting such materials. The fact that they had this in common brought out a childlike excitement in Eshir. This excitement was cute but mislead, no amount of modification could make a human truly have much in common with an android unfortunately. His metal shoulder versus her metal brain and heart.
Her excitement upon seeing a familiar face prompted her to uncharacteristically call out to him, “Ford, hey,” - but the sound was blindingly electric, she was sure he wouldn’t be able to understand.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
Desert born, where a searing sun would tan his skin and weather it from hours exposed. And red dust would crawl its way into all his hinges, and suffocate him when the wind stirs and kicks it up. Now those metal parts to him rust to the same colour of copper, and dried blood- the same way he’d remember his grazed hands when he was young. Hauling scrap metal home, rust flaking against his skin, and tears in his flesh looking less and less human as the days go by.
He’d know it, that they weren’t the same. Humans, androids, cyborgs. He knew he was neither human nor ai, just as he knew the more the years went on the less he was if either. But what he did know, was just how the same they all were. Fighting soldiers made of metal, and those of flesh and bone, and bullets passed them all the same. The same pain crawls across their gaze- the same fear reflects those battlefields. Eshir wasn’t human, just as he wasn’t human. But that didn’t mean he could leave her there, decaying in a place where she didn’t belong.
Dust to dust. She didn’t deserve such a cruel fate.
“Sleeping on the job are we?” His tone offering a gentle tease as he walks closer to her, before settling himself into the seat beside her. A slow movement, his knee creaking into the position, as he looks over, a soft smile on his features. “Or were you thinking something you ain’t gonna tell me?”
He was startled by the explosion, so entranced by the plume of smoke that he forgot where he was until Cian commanded him and Ford to go investigate. With that, reality snapped back into place, but it would have been easy to go on pretending as he followed Ford to go find the cause of the explosion. They traveled in silence, the steady rise and fall of their chests enough to pass the time.
As the two men neared Crash, Garrett finally spoke, breaking the spell they seemed to be under. “Any guesses as to what could have caused this?” He didn’t expect Ford to have answers, but it seemed like a place to start, the beginning of their search for clues. It was hard not to act like a soldier. Even still, it was an identity he clung to as was evident in the way he carried himself and the way he approached situations. His eyes took in the place, noting the people staying away from the explosion, but also the curious ones, slowly edging themselves closer and closer. “The people are too panicked. It’ll only make our job harder.”
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
It was all too easy to get taken back in moments like those, an explosion breaking through the silence, the ground rattling as Ford stands there overlooking it all. The smoke rising, but he blinks and he remembers smoke trails streaming in sunlight, and blood on his boots. Having Gabriel besides him helped, it was always like that for Stanford. Being surrounded by others helping him hold together pieces. The two of them walking, the air stale around them, thick in the lungs. But they fall into step, quiet and quick, every evidence these two men were once soldiers- or perhaps still were, written across their every move.
“A stray explosion?” Ford finds himself suggesting at first. With the battles going on it’s not hard to believe one got too far lost. “Maybe a territory mark, someone wants to take Crash.” There’s no panic in his tone as they approach, gently working their way through the crowd. “Feels awful coincidental we’re here though. Peaceful town my ass.”
Gabriel was right though, those who gathered seemed to do so in a panic, making it all that much harder to make their way closer. “They’re panicked, but they’re not gonna stop us. If you want though we can see if there’s some less crowded ways in, doubt many people are cornering themselves in alleyways at the moment.”
Cian rarely left the shipyard, it felt like he was supposed to be there whenever the crew ran into trouble and needed him. So when he did find himself walking through the streets of a city, he realised right away how clear it was that he was Iron-born. The way he walked, the eyes he drew, the table that he kept in his hands at every moment.
He was glad for the big man walking beside him, even if they didn’t differ that much in bulkiness, everything about Ford was more intimidating that him. The crowd parted for him whereas they wanted to get in the way of Cian. “Coffee?” Cian asked, annoyed by the crowd and the looks, he figured he might get a bit more out of the way if he could get some caffeine.
⊹ ⊹ ⊹
It was hard not to notice the way Stanford had learnt to command a room- an army. His shoulders square, and scars speckling those parts of exposed skin that promise something dangerous. It would even reach his voice, course gravel where he’s known dehydration one too many times, but something more underlying. Something gentle that starts in his eyes, and trickles down sweet as nectar to his tone.
Amusement would break across his features when Cian finally spoke up, the way those seemed to barge right through him hadn’t gone unnoticed. “You wouldn’t rather settle down for a drink or two? You’re lookin’ a little tense.” Heavy feet carrying him through the bustle as he looks to the other beside him, in all this noise it’s hard to hear the way his knee creaks when placed down too heavy. “Besides, it’s not like any Dust coffee tastes much better than ground copper.”
Sweet nectar scent fills the air. Everything seems to tint the colour of the sun, even your skin begins to blend with the dusky surroundings. That skin that’s now rust and iron. This is his first hint that a place like this was going to consume you.
* / basics
full name . stanford hart
nickname(s) . ford
age . forty-five
gender . cis man
pronouns . he/him
orientation . bisexual
birth place . city of dust
species . cyborg
role . second in command
alignment . pro war
* / aesthetics
a wild screaming weight, trapped inside your belly ; knees in the dirt as you pray to gods that do not answer shattered glass against your own bones ; gravel tossing beneath you as you trek ; pressing fingertips into bruises ; a honey coloured sky ; swirling dust motes in sunbeams ; coffee stained mugs lingering on windowsills ; digging through couch cushions for spare change ; a suffocating humidity at dusk ; the warning signs carved your skin ; an unmade bed ; mud on the soles of your shoes ; dust clinging to your lungs ; tell the stars to consume you ; scars on your palms and the insides of your fingers ; the taste of rust in your mouth, blood on your tongue ; a dull ache where you'll never forget the pain ;
* / about
apricot glow stretching endless across the sky, where red dust clings to your lungs. you were born here, a place you call home again. where the washed colour of the sun consumes you and you begin to blend with these dusky surroundings.
your shoulder once a part of you, shattered and broken by a bullet long ago- now nothing more than rusted parts holding your arm together, stretching iron up your neck. you look human enough, but you know you’ve been rebuilt and patched up more times than you’d like. right shoulder creaking every time you use it as a gentle reminder you’re not quite you. left leg still pinches when you move it wrong, these quick patch desert parts will do that. remind you constantly of the pain that once was there, searing and unmistakable.
even the simple scars against your skin remind you of such things. unhealable wounds you’re full of. perhaps it’s why you’re quiet so often whenever someone asks about you. you tell them there’s no story to tell, you’re a pirate. isn’t everyone running?
a brother was all you’d have to call family, older than you by seven years. he’d tell you lies you never believed, but they’d always be comforting to hear all the same. you’d remember the splinters in your soft-fleshed palms, and the way the dirt seared at your feet through the holes in your shoes, and grazed knees as you climb junk piles and scavenge with him. days before you were truly hardened by the sun, or the things you’d seen. once a soft petaled thing as your limbs stretched out to shape a man.
those were the days you’d already begin to lose parts of you. you still remember the day he replaced your right eye, to help you see better in the dark. you were already working in the minds by that point, and now you could venture to more dangerous parts- darker, and smaller where you could fit in through the cracks and be lowered down. he worked with you too some days, usually to pocket some of his own findings for his own work. if you knew that was how you were going to lose him, you would have done it for him yourself.
under rubble, the clawing dryness in your lungs as you heave for air. dust and dirt piles on top of you. this was the first time you thought you were going to die. where the earth swallowed you whole, with its talons sinking into your sides. and in that darkness you could see it all. now you’re so used to the feeling you wonder if one of the times it was real.
that eye plays up from time to time now, blackness swallowing your vision for a little while. but you could never replace it.
the war was your home for eighteen years, you were twenty-two and lied about your age when they asked but it didn’t much matter. wheats needed more recruits, and you figured you had nothing much to lose. you were a corporal by the time you were twenty six, and you’d fight a battle against the city of iron you always deemed worth fighting. sometimes now it’s hard to leave that battlefield, the way it swarms your dreams and clings to your back like a ghost you can’t shake. you stir awake most nights drenched in sweat- you just say you’ll never get used to this damn heat. perhaps it’s why you nurse a bottle so close, and your breath often smells of cheap liquor.
you’ve been with the crew for seven years now, second in command for the last two. you’d seen people come and go, captains dismantled, and those who’d lost their lives. you’d do anything to protect your crew, those naive days you lost too many when you were corporal still haunt you. mistakes you won’t make again.
* / tldr
stanford grew up in the city of dust with a brother as his only family. from a young age he and his brother would scavenge for scraps for cyborg and android parts, it was his brothers hobby turned to job, but with limited recourses they made do with that they could.
he’d start working in the mines at a young age. his brother occasionally as well, unfortunately one day the mine collapsed and he lost his brother to it. for a few years after that ford still worked in the mines, growing more quiet without many people to speak to. until the day he was recruited by a green man, without much else, and without much to live for- he agrees and starts serving for the city of wheats.
served from age 22-38 but lied about his age, so they thought he was 24 and forced retired at 40 as they do there. after four years became a corporal. still struggles with some ptsd and alcohol abuse lingering from these days, however he’ll never be found discussing it.
has a strong stance that war achieves things and fought for the greater good. although he fought for wheats, he was more fighting for the war to be over. has nothing against those from the city of iron, rather a problem with authority and those letting others fight battles for them.
would start a war of his own.
one of the oldest crewmembers being there for seven years now. first 5 years as a bouncer, and was offered the spot of 2nd a few times however never accepted it until cian stepped up into captain, being so new.
despite believing in the necessary of violence, and war, stanford is a warm man with gentle eyes and a hearty chuckle. he’ll be happy to show new people the ropes, and believes in comradery of a team.
