Destruction Battery smiled as she rummaged through the boxes. An old, abandoned warehouse so full of goods was a rare oppertunity and she was more than happy to take it to her advantage.
Piston squeaked from inside her rucksack and she opened it. The little guinea pig popped its head out, nose snuffling and whiskers twitching, its glimmering brown eyes shining with curiousity. She lifted him out carefully and stroked his long, mousey blond fur gently. She placed him into her spare gun holster on her silver studded belt and continued with her foraging as the little creature dozed off again.
Her scavenging proved fruitful, her bag bludging with food, water, medical supplies and, of course, a fair amount of alcohol. She stumbled through the junk, stubbing her boot against a crate. She cursed as it upturned, spilling its contents everywhere in a cacaphony of crashes and bangs. Somehow, Piston was still sound asleep, lost in his guinea pig dreams.
A book slammed in front of her, kicking up dust and debries that made her cough and hack terribly. She stooped down and took it in her gloved hands.
The spine was broken and frayed at the ends, the cover was dog eared in the corners and housed a layer of thick dust, making the scrawl underneath indesipherable. She took her sleeve and rubbed the grime away, reading the words,
Grace's Memories. The title said, the words printed in an infants handwriting in dark black ink. Destruction wasn't the kind of girl to go and interfere with peoples private lives, but her curiousity was peaked; why would someone leave all their memories behind them?
She turned the first page carefully and perched herself on a crate. Piston grunted and shifted out of her gun hostler to nestle into her arms. She checked he was comfortable and turned her attention back to the yellowed pages.
It soon became apparent that this was a photography album.
The first picture depicted a man, carrying a laughing child on his shoulders. His hair was a fire engine red and his eyes a brilliant shade of hazel, a huge grin was plastered over his face. The child was small yet had a large afro sitting atop her head, stray curls of it flopping across her face. Beneath the picture, in the same childish scribble was,
Me and my daddy outside the Hideout.
There were hundreds of photos that followed alongside it, all showing the girl, Grace, and her father. But every now and then, another killjoy would crop up out of nowhere, appear in one picture then disappear the next.
Destruction still couldn't see why Grace would have left all these memories. Memories are what made life worth living for, they came to remind you how good your life really is when you're in a desperate need of happiness.
Destruction remembered every last memory she had shared with her brother, all the way up to the age of seven when they were taken to Battery City and seperated from each other. She remembered how much she had cried, days, weeks, months, unable to accept the concept that her brother was gone; the siblings were constantly joined at the hip, always doing everythimg together.
Then she had escaped, ten years old. But her brother was left behind. He was too far gone; the drugs had completely overthrown his mind and he had no emotion, not even the slightest sign of recognition of his own sister in those glassed over eyes.
A single, solitary tear dribbled down Destructions cheek and she wiped it away, wary not to drop the slumbering little guinea pig in her arm.
She went to place the albem into her bag; she was determined to hunt down this Grace and give her the book back. A piece of paper fluttered out from the last page of the book and Destruction grabbed it up, realising sadly why this little girl no longer needed her memories anymore.
A beautifully hand crafted tomb was displayed in the picture, an orange bandana laid ontop alongside a pilots helmet, that Grace was wearing in only a few pictures before. On the back was a different style of handwriting, smooth and curved lettering, written by the hand of an obvious artist. The ink was slightly smudged in a few areas where water had hit the page, water that was undeniably tears,
Grace passed away aged 10 years on September the First 2018; her tenth birthday. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you, my darling daughter, but always know that my love is always for you and I know that you are up there somewhere watching over us.
We all love you, we all miss you Grace. I'll meet you again one day Gracie and I look forward to that. But it fills me with sadness to admit that I won't be able to join you until I'm an old, old man; when Korse no longer exists and when Battery City and Better Living Industries are just names that haunt the dreams of old men and women.
I promise I'll make up for all those times when I had to leave for a meeting or a mission and we'll do everything that mortal time just wouldn't allow.
My love, now and forever,
Destruction teared up but she held them back as the door to the warehouse slowly creaked open.
"What are you doing in here?" came a voice. Destruction looked over to the small man by the door, his green pistol raised but not ready to fire. His slightly tanned and dirty face was framed by black, shoulder length, untamed hair. His chesnut eyes glimmered in the faint sunlight from the doorway. His yellow and black long sleeved shirt and deep emerald military jacket hung off him, baggily, displaying how thin he really was. His heavily tattooed arms were raised, aiming the gun squarely at her, his brow furrowed in an unwavering glare.
She panicked, losing all sense of speech and heart in her mouth. Piston caught sight of the man and shrieked in terror, burying himself into the fabric of Destruction's shirt.
The black haired man spied the bag full of goods and the photo album in her lap, at that he bristled and thumbed back the hammer of the tacky laser pistol,
"You appear to have some explaining to do..." he said, his voice barely a whisper.
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