Glass
Glass. That’s all it was. A bulwark of glass and steel. All completely locked away from him. His fingers left smudges on the glass where he pressed a desperate hand to the smooth unyielding surface. They stood there talking, their voices transferred to them through the tinny speakers of the comm system. And he couldn’t reach them. The pit in his stomach grew as he could only stand by and watch.
Her voice was right, the order she was given didn’t make any sense, but his was insistent that she comply. The system complained – it warned – and she had to continue. He stood and watched as all at once they began to collapse on the other side of the glass. Clutching themselves – heads, guts, arms – as they did. And as the life was leached from their coils. The face of his father, who dragged himself close to the door, a goodbye passing his lips.
It was just glass. Glass. Glass. Glass. On the other side his father died. Glass wasn’t supposed to be this strong when things were so desperate, was it? His fists pounding on the surface didn’t sound any closer to breaking through. Shouldn’t it have given way just in time to pull him free? Wasn’t that what was supposed to happen to the hero? No. Not even a crack. He was barely a man mush less a hero. It was never about being heroes, but like a child he had hoped. And heroes weren’t supposed to suffer like this.
His father’s lifeless eyes stared back at him, watched hollowly as he was dragged away. She was speaking to him now, not his father. She words were sharp and scraped on the glass in his mind. Like the bulwark it kept him from her. Like his father he’d die inside of it. His gun was in his hand, the thrum of it was familiar and inviting and he found himself adjusting. Instead of an unsteady stumble behind her, he took lead, moved slowly, and kept an eye out – rifle ready.
Sealed away behind glass he was numbly aware of what said to him, what stopped their progress, and what was needed. But he soldiered on. He would continue to soldier on until the order was given. Until the radiation filled the bulwark and he too would hold himself as he died.
But no such order came. Onward they pressed and soon enough found themselves in the sheepfold of security the Brotherhood called their Citadel. He saw them as if through the glass and decided he didn’t like the idea of dying for them all too much, but he was inside the Rotunda still; his father’s still warm corpse pressed against the glass. There’s no blood but it still felt like it was on his hands. Who’s hands are on the other side of the Rotunda? Who will stand there and watch him die behind the glass?
A new voice on the other side of the glass. He spoke of Brotherhood. He spoke of honor and war. He wanted power and water. It didn’t matter if he was being honest, he spoke the order and Arsenic soldiered on.
He would soldier on inside the glass until it killed him too.