The Head-Butted Man

PROMPT: I stepped up to the platform where the ship was docked. It hadn't done more than 20 light years yet, but was showing its' wear, with the patina from shattered space dust hitting its' hull billions of times.

Long familiar chains whirred. The blades clacked, their dull-toned steel bores buzzing. All the steel connecting the ships scrapes came together to hold the ships together. The red, flat steel plates were off-center and opening in a crack. Jack felt a bolt of lightning strike the trays of silver on the ground. He shook his head. There were steel plates in the ground. The plates were broken. The man was hit by the halberd, but not by a knife. The strong, yet beak-shaped steel cut into small pieces.

“You’d be a fool not to know what kind of weapon this knife is,” she murmured, for she was over sixty years old.

Jack stopped as the fastest man on the ship to touch the knife, though the spear took a bit of getting used to. He straightened himself, and drew his sword again. A sharp metallic thud echoed to the car. The three of them saw a ball of steel strike the ground. Jack’s eyes widened. The man he’d attacked had been sitting in the dock by himself. The bullets shot into the wood, into the treetops. Jack saw the man waltz on the ground, fist and hand trembling, his gait tense. Jack focused his attention back on the woman’s face, this girl was on the ground. He raised an eyebrow. She looked straight at him with a confused expression.

“You know, you’re not alone!” She screamed, and went off. “Tear it out, boy,” he said.

A crack appeared in the man’s center of gravity.

“Tear it out, boy,” he said, to no effect, “tear it out, boy.” He took a deep breath, and rose.

The flesh was gone, but the grooves on the steel were still there.

“What, if I see another woman, I’ll do the same, to this?”

Jack glanced at the woman. It was much smaller than he remembered, but she was still pale and battered. Her shoulders were bent backwards, her face was still thick with grime, and her body was still three years old.

“What are you doing?” “Shh.”

Jack let out a shaky breath, and saw the man return to his normal routine. The man had been hit by a gun. He turned his head, and turned back to his wife, “What do you want from me?”

“No, what I want is peace. I want to be a Human.”

He smiled. He didn’t say anything, and returned his attention back to the girl’s face. The woman sighed. She should be feeling sick. She should be beginning to think of the God she could give her. Jack twisted his neck. He turned to face the blonde woman, and turned back to the car. He turned to the window and saw what appeared to be the man on the ground. He pulled out the spear. He knelt before her.

“You must be in here a long time.” He called, and he threw the spear in a circle, and, feeling a headache, turned it to head-butted the woman. He let out a short, sharp scream, and then turned and went up to the chair.

The chair was a large one. Jack put his hands on the far end, and put his right hand on the left. He curled his fingers on the back of the chair, and sipped at the wine, which was almost half full, and watched the head-butted man.

“You are in here, there’s a bomb,” he said. “No bomb!” “Your doomsday device, Sam,” the woman said, running her hands over the wound in his left arm, “it has been shipped over here, and we all know what it did to you.” She turned to look at him.

Jack took a deep breath.

“It’s been shipped, now, and we all know what it does to you, you know, man.” “And how do you know what it did to you?” the woman said, looking confused.

Jack felt the man’s fingers twitch, and the woman’s lower lip turned red. He reached out his right hand to open the wound, but that was too much, and the man threw his hand back over the girl’s head, and let the knife pull out. He felt something on his arm and then the woman’s head

[END TRANSMISSION]

---