Forlorn Hope (open)

The sharp rhythmic pounding carried around the Den. Some of the workers paused in their labours and wondered where the thundering was coming from. Others had already found out and were watching in hushed awe, whispering to each other as the large man with broad shoulders and thickset arms continued to strike the unforgiving metal of the 40 gallon steel drum over and over.

The steel drum had been hung from the tree like a boxing bag, and the drum itself had been twisted and beaten out of shape with each powerful strike of the clenched fists. Sweat dripped from the brow of the blue eyed man, and the veins in his arms and chest began more pronounced with each relentless blow. Those watching could not tell if he was mad or showing off. His face may as well have been carved from marble for the lack of emotion it showed. No sign of pain, no hint of weariness.

He was the truck driver, a giant of a man who was usually in a good mood. He helped cart around crates and shift boxes, and didn't hesitate to assist with menial chores like cutting wood or clearing back the forest tracks around the Den. The other workers liked him. If something needed doing, the big man could be counted on to help. But not today.

No one wanted to get close to him or ask him what was wrong. There were rumors of course. Woman troubles. But no one was brave enough to talk to the usually jovial giant as he continued to relentlessly attack the steel drum.

He'd been like that from two hours without pause or respite. And the fact that his hands weren't bleeding, brusied or cut gave those who watched him cause not to get to close. So they watched and waited. And the sharp rhythmic pounding continued to carry around the Den.

Ezekiel was aware he was being watched, but he didn't care. The one pair of eyes he wished would watch him refused to. He felt used, discarded, abandoned. And the dull pain of striking the steel drum was nothing compared to the pain in his chest. It had been some days since his excursion to the Cabin in the forest with Alyshia and she had not returned his calls, was always busy at work, and could not be found when he needed her most. And it burned him up. Was it something he had done?

The steel cried out in protest as his massive fists struck with the force of sledgehammers. Perhaps the VR had caught wind of his relationship with Alyshia and decided to squash it then and there. Or maybe she had been scared off. Ezekiel didn't know and at the moment he didn't care. It hurt to much to care. So he took refuge in his strength.

Maybe coming to Nachton had been a big mistake. The kinfolks at the Den were nice and all, and they treated him as an equal. But Ezekiel had always hit the road - or the bottle - when the going got tough. And he was through drowing his sorrows in a 40 ounce of Jack Daniels. He had felt needed, wanted - now he felt nothing.

"Alyshia won't see you." The young man at the store had been awkward saying the words, and apologetic at the same time. He had flinched beneath Ezekiel's gaze and Ezekiel had seen fear in the young man's eyes. Like Ezekiel was really going to snap the neck of some store clerk.

The steel continued to buckle and twist on the chain. Ezekiel breathed deeply, sucking in the crisp morning air and threw another jab at the steel drum. The drum shivered and glared back at the man with contempt.