Treads of Metopoli
Point Blank Shot
It was just Father and I growing up. Daddy always said she was in a better place, in a calmer place. But I knew she was dead.
We moved around a lot in those days, avoiding the major cities, “excavating for forgotten treasures” father would call it. It felt a lot like drudging through a wasteland for a disk, or an old revolver. He had a way of making it fun though… He had a certain glow about him that never seemed to falter.
My dad always tried to make the world seem so safe, always such an optimist. “There’s good in everyone,” he would say, “You just have to give them long enough to show it”. I believed him of course, as a child would believe their parent, but when I saw that man slice him open, a lot poured out of my dear father, none of it good. If it hadn’t been for that old rifle lying besides me, I would have wound up like my father.
I was just 12, you know, when that man killed my father… When he killed my innocence… When I savored his suffering, staring into his eyes as he choked on his blood.
I realized there that my father was wrong. There was no good in this world; the closest thing to good laid 4 feet in front of me, it’s intestines strewn across the floor. I went fourth from that place calm, collected and sure of two things. This world was a terrible wasteland of suffering and disparity; and the only thing I could trust was my rifle.
Years past since then, I spent my years searching the cities and museums for any hint of the lost weapons father had mentioned in his inane ramblings. Never stuck around one place too long, never know when a city will be crunched.
(alternatively, if our group objective is to obliterate the engineers guild, then the man who murdered my father was traced back to being an assassin hired by a man under the employment of a gent on the payroll of a high ranking engineer who didn’t like my fathers progress with his research)