Out With The Old...

::The rain had soaked his white T-shirt and glued it to his skin.  It had turned the dirt into a slosh of mud.  The rainwater dripping down his bangs and brow mixed with sweat and sore hands as he continued to dig, having tossed the shovel aside once he had hit the casket.  Now a mere foot or so of dirt was all that remained in his way.  He stood up to catch his breath, staring down at what he had left to do.  Shaking his head before taking a moment to sit, he places his butt on the grass and his feet down in the mud::
Look.  I know you never liked me.  That’s fine.  But you were my father.  The least you could have done was act like one. 
::The rain was coming down in sheets, making it hard to see clearly.  The figure wiped his brow with the back of his hand; almost wiping his face with his palm before remembering it was full of mud.  He breathes a sigh, looking down into the hole before standing up and continuing his dig::
I mean I know our rivalry started when I left home and fell in love with Maya.  But that’s your own damn fault for hating the humans so much.  And when you killed her that was your mistake.  I didn’t care that you sent me away.  But that wasn’t enough.  You took her away from me.  I couldn’t forgive you for that.
::He leans down again, taking another heaping handful out of the hole and tossing it aside::
At that point, dad, it was completely clear that you needed to be stopped.  But then I found out that you had ties to the NiteFyre clan.  So I guess, in a way, I owe you a debt of thanks for inspiring me into my current profession.
::He reaches down again, grabbing another fistful of mud, and seeing the bite on his wrist::
Though…that, too, came at a price.  But even then, I still refused to let your breed of hate overcome me, dad!  Even after my whole life had been taken from me, I still refused to let you win.  Maybe that’s another part of why you despised me; I just wouldn’t quit. 
::Wiping his hand over the casket, clearing it of any remaining filth, he stands up again, looking down at it::
Not that any of that matters now, right?  I mean come on, man.  You’re dead. 
::As he said the last his eyes drifted over it for a moment.  Dead?  Sure, but that bastard had supposedly been killed before.  At that thought his eyes shifted out of the grave and across the grass, next to the shovel to his revolver.  His insurance::
And this time…I’ll make sure of that.
::He got up out of the hole and grabbed the gun called Fate before hopping back down onto the casket once again.  Leaning down, holding the gun in his left hand his right went for the side of the casket as he started to open it.  His thumb pulled the hammer back.  He could feel his throat starting to tense up with the possibility that he may still be alive in there.  Without further hesitation, he pulled the casket open, slamming it against the wall of the grave, and shoving the barrel of the gun into the face of his father.  With the long white hair reaching down to his shoulders and brick red eyes staring up at nothing, there was no doubting it.  That scar on his chin was only further proof it was Argus, sure enough.  A sigh of relief came over him.  It was over.  It was finally over.  Then his eyes were drawn to the right wrist.  That golden bracelet.  Sort of a crown of his people, it was worn by the king.  He chuckled to himself::
You always did say I’d have to pry it from your cold dead hand.  I never figured you’d be right. 
::The young man reaches down and unclasps the wrist gauntlet, lifting it up for his eyes to fully behold the spoils of all his work::
No, this isn’t over.  Not by a long shot, dad.
::He stands up, replacing the golden wrist gauntlet onto his own wrist::
No, on the contrary, dad.
::He grabs the revolver, pointing it to the head of his dead father::
I’m just getting started.
::He pulls the trigger letting a loud thunderous bang roar through the field with great satisfaction before crawling up from the grave.  He begins placing the gun back into its holster, then raises his right hand—gauntlet and all—toward the dead body’s new home, that hole in the ground, and flipping his middle finger up before walking off::

=~=~=~=~=~=

So this is it, huh?  This is what’s left?  I guess I kind of saw this one coming, though.  Yeah, I had my suspicions.  I always knew I’d end up alone in the end.  All those times of going back-to-back, fighting side-by-side with a number of people…apparently it amounted to nothing. 
Then again, maybe it is better this way.  I mean with all of you gone, at least now I don’t have to worry about protecting anyone but myself.  Hell, look at it this way.  Now that you’re all gone, now I can finally go back home.
Home.  There’s a place I haven’t been in a long time.  A place I belong.  A place I should have gone back to quite a while ago.  Maybe there’s someone there that needs me, who knows.  Now that mom’s dead, that leaves dad alone.  Of course Rose hasn’t been back either. 
::In the nighttime shadows of a one bedroom apartment, as the light from a street lamp throws a bit of a glow through the window, there can be seen the glimmer of a black sheath , followed by a blue sash, then a silver hilt being stuffed into a black duffel bag.  A T-shirt, some jeans, and a map were next to follow the katana.  The figure suddenly stops and looks to the duffel bag::
Then again, I’m not sure any of them would recognize me.  I mean it has been so long and…I’ve gone through some changes.  On the other hand, I’m sure dad will want to hear all about how his son has had such wonderful adventures and how they led me to seek and grasp justice for our family members that were killed, isn’t that right? 
::A slight smirk creases the lips of the figure as the bag was zipped up and placed outside the door.  The figure turns and grabs an urn off the coffee table, and walks out.  As he does, though, just before the door is being pulled shut behind him, he looks down to the urn and asks it a question::
What’s wrong, Lamia?  Nothing to say?
::The figure dons a broken-in New York Yankees cap, and with that he is on his way.  Back home.  To have stories told about him in some far away land where he will continue to exist only as a memory.::