Introspection
The big black sword is stabbed into the mesa top in front of him, like an especially shiny gravemarker.
His ionic displacer rifle lays across his lap.
For the longest time, he just sits there, staring at the sword and the gun, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he’d be locked in a deep bout of meditation. He’d never learned how to completely block out his own mind that way.
The Obliterator, he thinks, represents the person he tries to be.
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