Roy. PG-13. 100 words. Angst. Pastfic.
Science is godless.

The weight in Roy’s hand is real, more real to him than red threads woven into innocent white gloves. Alchemy is a science, they tell him. Precise and exact. But sometimes, it’ll surprise you. Unpredictable. Like it has a mind of its own. Like its tired of being taken for granted.

Science is godless. There’s no room in science to speak of faith and souls. It can imitate life, prolong it, but not produce it. Red water soaks the worn floorboards, stains them dark as dried blood.

A bullet to the brain will do just one thing. Every single time.


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