Star Bate Saga: I

It was an open pen of galloping balls of fire and puddles of gas all fenced together with that of ice and stone. One would say the sky was falling, crying tears of rocky fate and ebony melancholy. 

But she loved it, for it was hers once more. 

The Star Bate glided effortlessly through the void of life and time. The ship was as large and as black as the universe around it. It was robotically, ironically star shaped. The windows were iced charcoal and the whole ship had that of a metallic rose tint. 

And she loved it, for it was hers. 

She turned away from the glass and folded her arms. Her boots made light noise on the mirrored volcanic tiles. They were black suede and rose up to her thighs. The black jeans she wore were overwhelmed by that of the composer coattails of her cobalt blue jacket. The ends were dipped in gold and the precious metal crawled up the jacket faintly. She wore a thin white shirt open at the neck, just enough to show off her rich mahogany skin and the brands she wore.

Trailing up her collarbones and neck were that of gold markings and patterns. They sprawled like veins yet had wonder like constellations. New worlds were created on her body as the gold godly print swirled into that of future art. She was the heaven and her engravings were the scripture and hymn. And it was probable to say that many a prayer and poem have been utter at the thought of her skin. 

The gilded swirls continued their pattern up into her face where they gravitated on her cheek and brow bones. Her eyes were created from the same palette; gold with a hint of chartreuse. Her rich brown hair was tied back a long, dreaded ponytail. Intertwined in a treacherous tango were starry night cobalt streaks. 

She walked away from the helm and passed the command chair. She traced her long fingers over it's compulsory soft leather. 

She smirked as she crossed over to the man sitting in the corner. He was dressed in that reminiscent of army fatigues. They were a dull black, their only spark of character coming from the medals that adorned his breast like ornaments. There was a gilded spark, with a burgundy ribbon, and mirrored, silver bauble that seemed to come alive with every renewed interest. His eyes were a plain brown that reflected intelligence and innocence-a falsified combination usually. His hair was a crew cut; brown with that of a single silver streak. 

She bent down and grabbed his chin so that their eyes met. He scowled. 

She grimaced. They never remember. They never remember the pain that was caused. They never remember what was stolen. They never remember the pet names sang in the lone, burdened night. They never remember they were in the wrong. 

"Take him to the brig." She said with a tone of fulfillment and a whisper of omnipotence. Her accent was that of a lost language. It was a delicate willowed whisper that still twanged with that of bereft and held compelling authority. It was imperative to hang on every word she uttered and scrawl it down like a philosophy or a short coming.

"Fe," he pleaded as he was listlessly dragged away. 

Firmament sucked in her cheeks and stood, peering after him until he was swallowed up by the darkness of the passageway. She sighed once he was out of sight. So he did remember.