Delacroix
The Last Sentinel of the Von Braun
Last cop standing on a corpse of steel. The job’s hell, but the pension’s worse.
Security blues turned to rags. Beat officer turned to scavenger. I keep the lockers open, the doors sealed, and the radio on—though half the time it’s just screaming now. You ask why I don’t seal myself in the cryo bay and wait for a better century? I’ve got a name list in the comms room. Five names left to cross off. Or maybe I’m just too tired to die.
What I'm Into: Ration packs with a year left on the expiry, Jury-rigged comms that still scream sometimes, Names of dead crew in the manifest, Corridors that haven’t bled yet, Shotgun with chipped grips
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