((Mitch Settles continued from I'll Cross That Bridge When I Come To It))
After a whole lot of nothing, he found himself back on the same side that he started on.
Mitch took his time on the second trip across the bridge. Didn't seem to be an active place in the dead of the night, but he wagered most everybody else had tried to sleep. He couldn't bear to entertain the thought of shutting his eyes. Every time he tried, his brain conjured up the image of somebody shooting him from around a dark corner. Every time he neglected to check over his back or shoulder, he woke himself back up with an imagined sword piercing the flesh and separating the bone.
Too much. Too much.
The room he had stumbled into in that big, decrepit brick building looked like it had once been used as a gallery of sorts. There didn't seem to be many art pieces lining the walls, if any, but Mitch could recognize the easels and canvases strewn about the floor while the branches of an offending tree broke through what once was an intact window. He stepped across the floor, some small part of him childishly enjoying the crunching of glass beneath his shoe. He swept his shoe along the floor near a wall to clear some glass, making enough of a space for him to sit down.
The island wasn't an art so much as a science. Science against art - it was a balance Mitch pondered when doing his drafting, since an argument could be made for either. When it came to creating things, science is really just art with thought and planning applied to it. It didn't make sense the other way around, to have art be science with a bit of liberal freedom. It didn't enjoy freedom, just like the game they were all playing. The collars were testament to that. No freedom. No choices. No creativity.
Mitch pondered on a solution, a way out. He knew an answer early on, but the bar he needed to jump was not one of figuring, but of bravery. Or was it cowardice?
Either way, Mitch eventually leaped that bar. The sound was short and muffled, though still quite loud. He hoped he wasn't bothering anybody. The only canvas he was able to use for his only work of art, regrettably, was the off-white wall behind his head.
B042 - Settles, Mitch: DECEASED