Man from the moon

Starborn003/Alone At The Edge Of The Universe

The buzzing lights poured down blood-colored light, head to the ground, he became as listless as a corpse.

Y/N sat on the throne. A little button pushed into Y/N's spine forcing him into perfect posture.

Y/N peeled his eyes open; staring at the stars far beyond him.

WHERE IS THE DESTINATION SET TO?

Y/N stood, and walked over to the complex machinery reading off various numbers he didn't care for.

However, he saw there was no destination.

Only: GO!

The control panel had been torn about like childish fingers through clay. He fiddled with the gutted console, twisted and spliced wires, but it didn't buzz, whine, or glow pitifully, it did nothing.

The discomfort in his stomach felt weightless, like butterflies. He closed his eyes—his jaw clenched—he pressed his fist into a knob of the panel.

Y/N's fist began to dent, then bleed as his skin tore apart, he pressed, and pressed, blood crawling down the machine and onto his boots.

He raised his fist—tightness in his throat stealing any breath for a war cry—and punched.

Metal cracked as blood and flesh flew onto his face. His own flesh morbidly turned into a facemask as he bashed the broken machine into crumpled metal foil.

Y/N huffed and puffed. Then fell onto the remnants of his fleeting rage, arms slicing on javelins of ripped metal. He stared at his hand as it shook rabidly.

Flames licked at his heart. Rage hot enough to undergo thermonuclear fusion.

Y/N was silent and gaunt; grief heavy enough to curve space till time lost meaning. To his comfort, drifting, the stars lit the sea.

Ad Astra

Y/N took a shower. The fabric slid off his svelte figure. He gazed at himself in a mirror for the first time in a month.

Long tendrils of hair filled with filth crawled down his back—eyelashes crammed with ash and blood—eyes that flit stimuli by stimuli, noise by noise, and—blink—the mirror screw is loose.

Y/N raised his hands to touch his lips. They were sunken, the touch felt foreign; he felt foreign.

His muscle undulated like a mountain range across his body. Y/N grabbed all his hair with one hand.

Slowly, like a spectre brought scissors to his scalp, it cut off the overgrown spur of hair.

Y/N sat in the shower, sitting his butt against the cold metal. A shower of hot water poured across his body.

Y/N's eyes drifted to his hand. It still shook. In the recesses of his mind, a rabid thought fought against the million other ideas that he'd put between it and his cognition.

The terrible thought that he'd never get home.

He sat in the shower until the water ran cold. Then, it stopped, trickling to nothing as the basin drained itself. Shining droplets of water sprinkled around the edge of the tub.

Y/N held his head low. Between his knees. Atlas would shrug towards the weight on his shoulders—yet to him—he felt as if he was rolling a boulder up a hill so steep it was nearly a wall.

The tears did not come, but he let the frigid hands of sadness touch him—slid down his throat—into his lungs. Amidst the shower, he'd drowned, silently, and was born anew.