In Passing

Miyamoto Musashi

Vibrant Flower of Tengen
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The dull hum of engines and machinery alike surrounded the hollowed soul wandering amidst the airships and their crews. The lot of them were preparing to make their leave and hastily return those that yet lived - or had otherwise been resurrected - from whence they came.

It was but one of many such platforms - blissfully different from the one, which the accursed Space Pirate General had departed from. But even so, it mattered precious little. A pale imitation of the avatar of vengeance that had once brandished her swords with pride, a soulless, swordless husk drifted along the winds of melancholy.

Betwixt the myriad of ships and cargo the air vibrated, twisted and heaved before tearing itself apart, a black abyss forming, joining the chorus of dull hums with none the wiser. Yet to that swordless phantom it sang.

A song her ears had picked up many a time before. Whenever the universe deemed it fit to throw her elsewhere. And there was little point in resisting. Frankly, there was little point in much anything, she felt, eyes glancing toward yet another monitor, brimming with unsightly reminders of shame and anguish.

A spark of rage struck, yet there was naught for it to ignite. The blade’s edge ran dull as her gaze shifted, catching wind of the portal beyond.

And so, engineer and pilot alike paid precious little attention to the wayward soul as it drifted into the void, the opening closing in tandem with her passing.

For what is a sword
Without edge, bereft purpose
Which my soul yet yearns​
 
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