Foreword: This short story acts as a sort of semi-canon companion piece to the story; A Wing And A Scare. Authored by a great and aspiring writer known as 'SnowLucario'.
This piece is meant to flesh out the OC 'Konstantin Brockenbough' whom I submitted to take part in SnowLucario's Work.
It should give more insight into his character and his motivations. This takes place during Chapter 17 of 'A Wing And A Scare'.
He laid there, his chains slowly bleeding and staining and reddening the bare skin that it clad around. Any much longer and pus and sticky, clear fluids would join the blood.
The trial was a farce from the start. They needed someone to blame after all, who better to throw under the bus than the 'Student' who still held loyalty to his Fatherland?
Student. What a laugh. They were never meant to survive combat once they were finished Training. They were conscripts, no two ways about it. First he had been ripped from his home, his future.
And now they were using him as a patsy. A means to save face after the loss of their precious training center. He was going to die. If only he had forged stronger bonds with his fellow humans, then his death would mean something. Then he could be a Martyr!
For a while, he went limp. Uncaring as the chains cut and bleed his skin, he drifted off into his daydreams, imagining the other humans rising up and casting off their more figurative chains. He imagined them as flying Aces, shooting down Cornerian and Anglar alike with little effort.
The 'Anglars', ugly little bastards. He couldn't understand why those corrupt Cornerians thought he would betray the location of the Academy, that'd mean working with those filthy, bestial Xenos. And that would put his fellow man in the crossfire.
He'd rather die than betray his Planet, his Country, his Fatherland! He wanted to spit, but his saliva felt slimy and thick, that was bad, of course. Those worthless guards never brought anything worth eating to his cell. He cursed the Cornerians for not abiding to the Geneva Convention, they likely thought themselves above such things like 'Treating Prisoners of War decently', and 'Fair Trials.'
His musings were interrupted when his cell door creaked open, and light feet clicked against the cold concrete. He glanced up lazily. Ah, it was that worthless Whore Monroe, he bet she wanted to taunt him one last time.
"It didn't have to be this way you know."
The Gears turning in his head halted for a moment, and he turned his head to face her so quickly his neck cracked quite audibly. He stared, silently willing her to explain. And for only a moment, she was quiet, likely taking in how pathetic he looked.
"If you had just admitted your guilt, you might have gotten life." She sighed and shook her head, she sounded so disappointed and it enraged him because of that condescending tone he knew that she thought of him as lesser. "But you didn't even say a word in your defense, or guilt. I know you were mad about being taken to the Academy, but to betray everyone to the Anglars?"
He laughed, it was the wretched, wheezing laugh of a madman, and he couldn't help it because he just didn't get it.
"Like I would help the Anglars?" He wheezed as he let his head loll back and he writhed in his chains to make himself bleed further. "Why would I help them? You're the same to me!"
"We are nothing like the Anglars!" The cat hissed, her ears splayed back and teeth bared.
He couldn't help but giggle. "You're all filthy Xenos to me!" He began to cough, but neither did he stop laughing, the sounds coming from him a horrid symphony of wet, phlegmy hacking and hysterical wheezing. His vision became unfocused, and he barely registered the cell's door closing, likely because that high and mighty Cat bitch couldn't stand lingering around a lesser being.
He kept laughing and giggling in that cold, dark room. And he realized that his execution couldn't be too far off. As he looked towards the glint of light given off by his chains, he hatched a plan.
A painful, spiteful plan. After all, they can't kill a man who's already dead, can they?
He began to further irritate his chain-wounds, bleeding more and more, and he could feel the topmost layer of flesh began to peel and bleed away, it hurt, it hurt so much. But after laying there in the cold, wet cell, feeling anything was like heaven. Now, hopefully, the wounds would begin to fester and become septic.
A mad grin spread across his face, he twitched and his eyed rolled upwards. He refused to let them break him. If he were to die, it would be on his own terms!
And he would be home, he could already see his family waiting. He could see his father, his uncle, his Great grandparents, even a small baby no older than a year. Members of his family of whose funerals he attended.
His only reservation would that he would be there before his mother, before his little sister, before his poor grandparents. It was, after all, a tragedy for a parent to outlive their child.
But it was worth it to piss the Cornerians off. They'll never have their fancy execution.
A long bout of sickly laughter echoed thought the dungeon.
"Terra Aeternam. Long live the United States." Whispered he, as cold encompassed him.
This ends not too long before Konstantin is rescued, just before Chapter 18 starts.
First, while the narration seems rather biased and hostile, that was indeed the point, being from Konstantin's own perspective.
Second, I want to thank SnowLucario for including me in his works. It is an Honor to be able to take part in your saga.
'Terra Aeternam' = 'Long live Earth' or, 'Earth Eternal' more literally.