He calls himself the "Tin Man", and is more proud of his vintage Gibson SG guitar, than of anything else he owns, or has ever owned. He has little else. He envisions himself as a traveling troubadour, playing the space station pubs, wandering the systems, never staying anywhere for too long.
beer and a blanket
singing for a place to sleep
another space bar
He ignores the inevitable groupies, and keeps mostly to himself. It's been a long time since "she" left him, but the pain of the loss keeps him moving. He'll never fall in love again, he tells himself, never trust anyone again. It's easier to just keep moving.
love 'em and leave 'em
the man without a heart
another blues song
The cold vacuum of space is a bitter friend. It envelopes him, cradles him, even as he sings. It seems to emanate from somewhere within him, seeping out of his very soul, and his guitar screams in response.
strings stretch and screech
hollow void fills with sound
space-absorbed
When the set is over, when it's good, he's momentarily satisfied. The guitar is his lover; the music his release, his safety valve. The songs keep his barren heart from filling with needless emotion. He's proud of his embraced apathy and sterile soul.
tattooed arm
personal motto:
"no heart"
He sees the ragged, starved-looking kid hanging out on a corner of the station's shopping arcade. He's holding a beat-up Fender acoustic with a tattered shoulder strap and, as the Tin Man draws near, the kid strums a chord, and begins to play. The bustling crowd of mixed-worlders slows, beginning to congregate around the kid, who is lost in his music. There are no words, but the lilting melody is unrivaled. It pours from the kid's heart, through his fingers, and onto the strings.
The Tin Man listens in a kind of awed agony until the song is done. Then he pushes through the crowd, hands the ragged kid his beloved Gibson guitar, and walks away.
chance encounter
priceless gifts exchanged
tin man's ax
