The boxlike compartment steams of the uncertainty that lingers about it.  The cries reverberate as they echo loudly from within the box. He can hear it, oh he can, as the action of inner fear flows through it. 

The compartment. It is not just an object of fascination. It is reasoned as more value than the fear that flows about it. It is an object of walled-in terror. Terror that echoes back to the one who voices it. Terror he can feel gnawing on the souls who house the cage. 

Tall. Sharp and wretched to the core, he stands. Watching as the peals of cries reach his ears. He spits the disgust that clings oh so close to him. He aches to slit the cries. Feel the gush of blood as it storms his veins but no. Not now. The time is never right. 

The High Order is always eager but never eager to flow the blood. They are never eager to just take and kill. Never. He grunts, hearing them as they whisper and claw out troubled words to the One Unseen, but their pleas fall on deaf ears for the High Order never leaves their number one code.  He takes out his RM- 96. 

Clasped hard in his hands. Watches as the light glints off the deadly tool. It is not just a weapon but the lifeline to his roots. Flashes of memories stride over his mind. The first clasp of the RM-96. His first shot. His first kill. The blood. The thrill of adrenaline as it pumped his heart and the power of a job well done. 

He shuts his eyes against the images. Images that
ravaged what he was and what he had been. His grip
fastens on the gun but his hand shakes. Then he groans as he bashes it against his temple. The cool metal is music to his ears. 

The beat-like echo of the gun elapses much of the cries that echoes through the box. He cries out in pain then, the butt of his gun drawing out blood. He gazes at the blood trickling upon his hands. Blood not of others but his own. Eyes, obsidian like his soul wonder the shadows as he slumps to the floor and within the compartment prayers echo once again to the One Unseen.