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Re-Bourne Pt 1
Topic Started: Mar 7 2008, 10:25 AM (224 Views)
Stainless
Advanced Member
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Imagine something for me. Imagine being airborne, you’re a bird, fluttering high, so high, free and without a care in the world. A life on wings, it’s a thing of beauty.

Until you get sucked into the twin propelled engines of the red-eye flight out of New York.


How can I describe this place? It's an in-between place,. It's a grand hallway that leads you nowhere. It's like a banquet dinner made up of all the left-overs. It's like a sports team made up of the people never picked. It's like a mother without her child. It's like a body without a heart. It's almost there but not quite. It's filled to the brim with personal items yet it's empty because the people who own them aren't here to love them.

It's a long way down, his eyes glaze as he tries to focus on the pavement, 42 stories of unbridled and untainted pure air. He could fall so easily and finally breathe.

Desolate. That's the only word for it. Your fashionista's would call it minimalistic, your cynics would slate it for what it was.

Enter the cynic.

Well, this place is a whole lot of fuck all…

They call me Bourne. They being a generalising name for the people I‘m known to. First names? Never really bothered with ‘em, must be the army training in me.

Her Majesty‘s Army, there‘s a million stories there, with a million and one unhappy endings, spose there‘s only one that matters though. The one that lead me here.


The view is astounding, an overhead plane passes, the setting sun burning an idyllic backdrop to the steel eagle soaring across it’s path. His shirt billows in the wind as he drops it from the roof, flitting backwards and forwards before resting on an open window corner. His back ripples with muscle, the defining thing to note however is the long red line lasting more than a foot as it diagonally punctures his spine from right shoulder to left hip.

Got this one in a fight with a Welsh bloke after a Chelsea game. Hadn’t even gone to the match, and I fucking hate Chelsea. I must look like the sort, one of the cockney bastard’s pouring out of the gates after the game had ended. Don’t suppose it mattered to him, or the six inch shard of glass that caused this beauty. The army don’t take kindly to football violence, and the pleas of innocence fall on deaf ears when you’re talking to a guy just looking to make an example, exert some authority or some such shit.

Turns out it’s the quickest way to get yourself dishonourably discharged. Who knew right?


The gloves find the same fate as his shirt, dropping 42 floors in seconds, nothing more than a dark speck on the pavement below…perhaps it’d look better with a little red. His hands, burly, rough, but the knuckles, they leap at you much like the scar across the back. The skin is tough and scabbed over, freshly torn perhaps. He holds his hands out in front of him, a wry smile the only emotion purveyed.

These are the only two things I could ever rely on, whether I was belly deep in muddy water pulling myself through just to survive, or whether they were my meal ticket.

A guy can make a living if he can handle himself, perhaps not the grandest one, but he can get by. If somebody’s nose has to get broken to put a ten dollar steak on the table, better the other guy’s nose and my table right?

The only difference is, when you wake up in a morning and you miss the regime, your hands hurt and you need a fix. You need that high, that organised regulation, but at the same time to orgasmic rush of just hitting some cunt in the head over and over…

…you need a new proving ground.

My name’s Bourne, you’ll get to know me…
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Centurion
Advanced Member
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Good stuff man, very interesting. I do hope there is more.
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