Hank managed himself out of his bed. So many years in the line of combat, he thought he would be used to the pain by now. Another sleepless night, adrenaline coursed throughout his entire body, but he was unsettled. He went to the bathroom and washed his face with freezing cold water that bit at his skin. Staring up at his reflection, his bloodshot eyes, scars woven across the lower section of his jaw like patchwork. Although he wanted to grin at the memory of the time he had his jaw smashed into the ground brutally by Tricky, nothing formed and he continued to be vacant of any emotion. Ah dammit, he thought, why can't I even manage a simple smile anymore? Does this happen to everyone who's heart has turned stone cold from being nothing but a damned killer? He was able to at least snicker, probably knowing he belonged in an asylum for what he's done, either that or prison for life, better yet, he believed he should be dead. Truthfully he was already dead. He had been resurrected so many times side effects started to kick in. In other words, he was so cold, some of his organ don't even work, he's a walking dead man. But that really didn't matter anymore, it was all in the past now. Nothing about it mattered to him now.
By noon there was nothing but gunfire as far as he could hear. His time was improving every time he did this. Why did he bother though? Its not like was going to use this skill on anyone ever again. Maybe he just wanted something of him to stay the same, and that was to be one hell of a gunman. As least that would cheer him up a bit. Hank put the guns back into the floorboards, that's where he keeps all his weapons and gears these days. Glancing over to the clock then to the calendar he stumbled across thoughts of getting himself out of this place. Maybe to see the city, something new, but he knew those would only become memories as well. There was hardly ever times that he left his home now, sometimes he refused to even get out of bed and face the day because it hurt so much. The void inside him was consuming every last bit of him and it hurt, too much at times.
Relaxing himself on the cough he closed his eyes, flashbacks came before him. Those really were the good old times even through all the suffering it had caused him. Much to his surprise he found himself smiling at how all that madness had begun. Just because of a boom box, he chuckled. There was a swelling pain in his chest but he pushed it to the side. A long time had passed since the last time he had got himself to laugh. Well time to get off his lazy ass and do something. Just to pass the time so that he wouldn't waste the day sulking in the past.
Sweat drizzled off his face. Who knew that cleaning the whole place and his weaponry, fixing his gear and rearranging the whole place could be so tiring. Is this how workers who have to clean stuff feel like after the day of work has ended, he questioned silently. Well I better get a good night worth of sleep because of his. Putting the last gun of his collection away he checked over his list of things he had done.
Clean rooms - check
Clean guns - check
Clean hallways - check
Fix gear - check
Kitchen - check
Rearranging whatever - check
He felt as if something was missing from the list. Trying to think of what it was he wiped the sweat of his face and stood up straight. Looking at his list once more he decided to check the whole place once more. Searching every room and hall he still couldn't put his finger on it. Not really paying attention to where he was stepping he tripped over something falling face first. Seriously he had just cleaned the whole place and triple checked everything! How could he have missed something? That just didn't seem possible. Slamming his fist to the floor he felt something, metal underneath the carpet. Recovering his tint glasses that had fallen out his started to rip the carpeting away. As he did so be cursed at himself for being clumsy and tripping over what? Air? As he removed the last of the floor covering he discovered something most interesting to him. A metal door. Grabbing the handles(which was probably what he tripped on)he heaved it open and went down the staircase into the pitch black darkness. Now of course, Hank J. Wimbleton wasn't afraid of the dark. Finding and flipping on the light switch his eyes widen to his surroundings. So this was what he was forgetting this whole time. It was HIS armory, the place he had long forgotten after the war had ended. His head ached as flashbacks started to occur before him.
How he had gotten there, when, why, everything. It was all coming back to him now. All the little details that had locked themselves to the deepest corners of his brain. His vision blurred and the flashbacks became more intense with every step forward, but he continued his way across the long room. At the end of the room he placed his left hand on something made of glass while the other remained covering his right eye. Seeing what laid behind the glass barrier, he took a step back. He just couldn't believe it, he just couldn't. His old gear, goggles, trench coat, combat boots, all of it was here, even the dog tags were here along with the rest of the set. There was only one thing he had to say.
"What's happened to me…We used to be one…" He whispered as if his gear had become and totally different person. He stared at the reflection in the glass knowing the answer to his question. It wasn't the one that had changed. He, he was the one who had changed…