mi pequena estrella(Reaper/76无差)

 给汤上某张图配的文


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There lied a dirty dish in the sink. Stains floating on the water surface whichdrowned his plate. How many days had it been there? Two? Perhaps three?Morrison couldn’t recall, nor did he want to. The least he preferredto do as the first affair of entering his place after so much, was to stare atthe dirty dishes that were undone. 

 

His visor off in hand, Morrison turned to sank himself into the sofa. Itwas the one and only furniture he had. Aged and ragged. He picked it backsomewhere near the apartment because it was not fully worn out, and he neededsomething to nap on when he cannot go straight to bed. He guessed he was nolonger young. Every now and then, somewhere in his mind grew weary of theendless war he had to fight.  

 

Morrison let out a low sigh that bordered a frustrated groan. 

 

Nothing was good these days. The fights. The casualties. The world. Theinstability that soared from darkness, that overwhelmed the innocence, and alsothe ones who bear their responsibilities. Everyone was confused. Everything waschaotic. 

 

Overwatch, Blackwatch, The Talon …

 

The skin under where the visor fitted was swelling in a redden manner dueto the restless long hours. Green and purple veins threatened to push out tothe surface, painted his eyelids with fatigue. Eyes dried. The only thing hemanaged was closing them. He would have craved for more relief if his arms werenot sore and aching with wounds. 

 

He didn’t have much time though. The first glance of sun wasalready dousing the sky out the window. A slight glimpse of wind peeked throughhis curtain. He should have the windows shut for security, but he was lingeringon the edge of falling asleep.

 

He was too tired. The urge to fall into the well of a comforting darknesswas calling all over his head. Still he felt, the breeze brushed across hischeek, like a gentle kiss granted quietly and never wished to be found out. 

 

Morrison had his heed leaving him further. He felt less of his pain. At theend of his consciousness, he thought he heard a ghostly mutter.

 

So vulnerable…

 

He tried, to follow the voice, but failed. Usually Morrison would havebeen woken up by any noise. But he did not, for somehow that was the tenderestwhisper he had ever heard. It was unspeakably intimate, as if it was from anold friend. And it was that, finally drained all his strength to resist theweariness. He was at last in his dreamless sleep.

 

In an hour or so, he would have to wake up and devote himself again intosaving the world. But for now, he would rest. 

 

 

 


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