I'm old.
There is no denying that. I've seen many things. From the turn of the century where automation became all too mainstream. When kingdoms became nations and people started to preach the morality of individualism.
And here I sit.
The corpse is buried. Among the remains of his supposed comrades. His allies, those he had bled with, sweat with, and died with.
A small prayer is all I can offer. For the entertainment he gave, the story he weaved, and the beats that he created with his death.
"She made it out." I whisper. And that story would grow. And I would be a part of it. Unlike the merman, who seemed so intent on being the best, this was a story of underdogs. People that have to overcome a barrier far greater than they.
And traps and deceptions they hadn't met before.
I will pray.
Pray that her story is more entertaining than his. And that my own will be enriched by hers.
