Amidst the haze, the rubble, the dire twisted anatomy of the wreckage, he rose. For a moment bewildered, then alive, aware; with unwavering power and focus. His laser, poised in each direction, spinning left, right, this way and that, covering any potential threat…despite the fact none came. Just curious, unthreatening faces of people, grouped, huddled like kin, curious of this wild new being amongst them; fawning for the creature from the depths of space.
But space, from where he had hailed, was now nothing but merely a memory of anecdotal bliss. And the space he was to be afforded, simply overwhelming. A nightmare of freedom so unrelentingly persistent, that he would lose himself and struggle to survive. And yet he would. In this free world.
Survival. His punishment, his tenure; his flailing attempts at basic operation amongst a savage social construction, manifesting into a smothering blanket of discompose and self-consciously unachievable self-worth. He was alone. Alone with his thoughts, his doubts, his dreams. His heart beating, hardened from the battles of ego and remorse and yet a constant in a brutally firey rainstorm.
He was the Starchild, owner of a destiny. A destiny lost amongst a theme park of belligerents, scholars and saints. The ones in his universal landscape who both judged and tended. They were the populous. The misunderstanders who encouraged and mocked and adjudicated. They were his folly. And his repeated downfall.
He was alone. Alone in a wirey complexity of self-fashioned theatre, too perplexing for his own simplistic mind despite his obvious skill in its architecture. He was alone because he was mystifyingly nonsensical. He was alone because he was a fucking alien.
