C1 Once A Warrior

Year 2041.

I groaned as I woke up to the relentless ticking of my old mechanical clock that could be easily considered an antique at this point In time, its steady rhythm drilling into my skull like a jackhammer.

The thin beams of sunlight slipped through the window blinds, cutting across the room in pale streaks, just enough to remind me that the day had long since started without me.

My head throbbed, a deep, pulsing ache that made my temples feel like they were caught in a vice.

I blinked a few times, my crimson eyes adjusting to the dim light. My tongue felt like sandpaper, dry and foul from last night's drinking.

The taste of stale beer and cigarettes lingered, coating my mouth in something bitter. I turned my head slightly, vision blurry but focused just enough to make out the time. 14:00.

"F*ck... I feel like Ill keel over and die any second now..."

I muttered, my voice a low, gravelly croak.

I reached for the coffee table's drawer, pulling it open with stiff fingers. The painkillers were inside, nestled among crumpled receipts, an old lighter, and a half empty pack of cigarettes.

I popped two pills into my mouth, grabbed the still not finished beer bottle from last night, and gulped it down. The liquid was warm, flat, and disgusting, but it did the job.

I let my head fall back against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Cracks stretched across the peeling paint like scars, splitting the plaster into jagged veins.

It was a far cry from the modern build apartment I used to live In then I was still In the army. I exhaled slowly, rubbing my bloodshot and swollen from too much drinking eyes before forcing myself upright.

A sharp twinge shot through my back as I sat up, my body protesting the movement. I glanced down at myself, my once chiseled torso now softened by time and neglect.

My beer belly folded slightly as I leaned forward, and I scowled.

"What a f*cking disgrace Ive become..."

I muttered under my breath.

I used to be a biological super engine, a war machine born, bred and honed to perfection. I could sprint for seconds with almost a dozen kilos strapped on me, endure climate that would drop lesser men, and fight through exhaustion like it was nothing, sleep depravation? Hunger? Extreme cold? Extreme heat? Pouring down rain to the point It looked like a pipe burst open In g*ds bathroom? No problem just give me a pack of ciggarettes and a can of energy drink and I could keep going.

Now? Now, just sitting up felt like an accomplishment.

My tattoos stretched awkwardly as I shifted. My right side chest, shoulder, neck, back, arm was covered in ink, the symbols twisting with the excess flesh beneath them.

My left ribcage and left forearm bore its own markings, a stark contrast to the beer belly that now weighed me down.

The designs once meant something, power, resilience, fearlessness. Now, they felt like relics on a rusting ship.

I grunted and pushed myself up, my legs one of them sporting an upper tattoo sleeve stiff as I shuffled toward the bathroom.

The cold floor bit at my bare feet, sending an unpleasant shiver up my spine. As I passed the mirror hanging on the wall, I stopped.

The man staring back at me was a shadow of who he used to be. White with a string of black, unkempt, unwashed and oily hair fell over my forehead, barely concealing the bloodshot exhaustion in my crimson eyes.

My stubble was uneven, my skin lined with the weight of time. My beer belly protruded In all their glory.

The bulky muscle on my arms was still there, buried beneath the years, but it was dulled, softened, tired.

I flexed my arm absently, watching the ink shift over my skin. These arms were once feared, capable of crushing throats, wielding blades, delivering death with ruthless precision If they ever got the chance to. Now? They mostly lifted beer bottles and flicked lighters.

"Tch,"

I clicked my tongue in irritation at my dad bod and kept walking.

The bathroom was as cramped and grimy as the rest of the apartment. The tiles were cracked, the sink perpetually leaked, and the mirror had a streak running down the middle that no amount of wiping could fix.

I twisted the faucet. It groaned in protest before sputtering out a weak stream of cold water.

I splashed it onto my face, inhaling sharply at the chill. For a brief moment, the headache receded, but as soon as I straightened up, it came roaring back.

I leaned against the sink, gripping the porcelain edges.

"I should start working out again,"

I muttered, my voice echoing slightly in the confined space. But deep down I knew I wouldn't. Sighing again I reached for the toothbrush sitting in a plastic cup by the sink.

The bristles were frayed, its handle stained from weeks of neglect. I turned it in my fingers, considering the effort it would take to actually use it. Then, with a defeated sigh, I placed it back in the cup.

"Too much work,"

I muttered. Instead, I grabbed the bottle of mouthwash, twisted the cap open, and brought it up to my lips, after scrambling my teeth with It I screwed on the cap and placed it back on the counter.

"Good enough,"

I said to myself, trying out my own breath which smelled of ciggarettes, alchohol and mouthwash. Turning toward the toilet, I lifted the lid and prepared for the next challenge.

I fumbled for my once mighty lance, now nothing more than a limp, shriveled worm. My gut, an unshakable reminder of my former glory, made it difficult to even get a proper grip.

I adjusted my stance, shifting my belly awkwardly to get a better angle.

"Come on, you piece of s*it,"

I growled under my breath, trying to aim. A few agonizing seconds passed as I struggled, adjusting, repositioning, fighting against my own damn body.

Finally, I managed to align everything properly. But even then, it wasn't over. The stream was weak, hesitant, as if my body itself was mocking me.

I clenched my jaw in frustration, eyes narrowing at the ceiling as I willed my bladder to cooperate.

"For f*ck's sake,"

I cursed.

"I can't even take a g*dsdamn piss properly, and I'm only fourty!"

The words hung in the air, bitter and humiliating. Eventually, relief came, but it took longer than it should have.

The moment I finished, I pressed the toilet's button and washed my hands, staring at the mirror again as I did.

White hair. Crimson eyes. Unhealthy pale skin. Once, these cosmetic features carried an aura of intimidation and at the same time were the chicks ultimate magnet. Now, they just looked tired.

Shaking my head, I left the bathroom and headed to the kitchen.

I opened the fridge, the faint hum of its struggling motor filling the silence. The cold air hit my face, a weak breath of relief against the stale warmth of the apartment. I peered inside.

Leftover pizza. Beer. That was it. I stared at the pathetic excuse for a meal, then shrugged.

"Oh well."

I grabbed the pizza box and pulled out a couple of slices, tossing them onto a plate before shoving it into the microwave.

The old machine let out a strained beep as I punched in a random time and hit start. While it hummed to life, I twisted open a beer bottle, bringing it to my lips.

The bitter taste coated my tongue, washing away the dryness from before. I took a few gulps, exhaling slowly as I leaned against the counter.

The microwave dinged. I grabbed the plate, took my beer, and headed to the small, worn out couch. With a grunt, I dropped myself onto it and reached for the remote, flipping on the TV.

The news was exactly as I expected. Unemployment rates skyrocketing. Famine in several regions. Natural disasters worsening.

Pollution levels at a record high. Political scandals, corruption, small scale wars, basically same s*it, different day.

I snorted and took a bite of my pizza. The cheese was rubbery, the crust slightly stale, but I didn't care.

"The world Is going to s*it as always,"

I muttered, washing it down with another gulp of beer. The reporter's voice droned on, listing off another disaster, another crime, another hopeless statistic.

I chewed absentmindedly, eyes barely focused on the screen. Finally, I had enough. I grabbed the remote and turned the damn thing off.

Silence filled the apartment again, save for the ticking of the old mechanical clock. I sighed and got up, taking another swig of beer as I made my way back to my room.

The PC sat in the corner, its screen dark, waiting. I dropped into my chair, the leather cracked from years of use, and pressed the power button.

The familiar whir of the system booting up filled the space, the screen flickering to life.