The prompt this was written for:
You have 300 words. The idea of ‘identity’ must be the focus of your submission. You must mention a scent, and a season. You may write about yourself or a fictional character.
Ania stared out the window, pulling her cardigan tighter as the twin suns rose on the horizon. She wore her best dress blues, a stark contrast to the cardigan, but the stiff material spangled with medals was hardly a uniform known for its comfort. Despite the season turning to warmer days, it would still take time for heat to reach the altitudes her craft hovered in. Besides, if she couldn’t choose what she could die in, then what was left to her?
Nothing, that’s what. Nothing.
The pod governor chirped the time, though she didn’t need the reminder. It was 0400 hours.
Four hours since she’d gotten the message.
Four hours since she’d come to stand at that window.
Four hours since she’d dispensed with the glass and took the bottle, knowing full well it didn’t matter how much she drank– no amount of alcohol could distract her from the inevitable.
She turned the revolver over in her hands, leaning against the curved glass, eyes closed. Clammy fingertips ran over the gun, over the name engraved on the grip. She’d pulled it out for old time’s sake– she wasn’t about to die unarmed.
Soon they’d come through that door, stinking of hubris and young eager idiots serving the Federation. Ania wasn’t afraid of death.
They’d put a bullet between her eyes and rhapsodize, “we eliminated the defector! Ania Starsinger is dead!” But you can’t kill a hero, not really. She had a statue from recycled spacejunk on Titan, and a chapel on Tethys erected in her name.
It’d be any time now.
So she sat at the window, alternating gulps that burned past her lips, and rubbed circles over her name etched on the cold metal.
Because you can’t kill a hero. Not really.