((I feel like writing. So have some filler.))
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Somewhere south of Durem, in a beat up hotel last night...
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Chaos nursed a glass of whiskey, staring out the window at the stars. George, Chaos, Private First class. Turncoat, back stabber, betrayer. He wasn't entirely sure which title fit best anymore. Flashbacks flew through his mind. The war on the coasts of the pirate alliance. The betrayal. His confusion, grasping for someone or something to side with and finally settling on an intangible descriptor when he found no one. The G-bots, the scouting, his duels.
Swirling the glass, he questioned it. All of it. He didn't fully understand why he did the things he had done, or what had truly guided him in the direction he'd gone in. What had he hoped to gain? He had no direction. That's why he had been so easy to manipulate during the G-bot takeover.
He couldn't quite put his finger on it. In no way did he desire to be a foot soldier again. The feeling as the enemy rushed the front lines was indescribable. Every good intent, every ounce of pride and determination ebbed out in that moment, and suddenly the only thing he was filled with was fear and an intense desire for self preservation at any cost. He could not, would not put himself in that position again.
Almost entirely countering that, however... He loved the action, the danger, the adrenaline. Not knowing if he'd actually make it through. He liked one on one fights. In this way he was conflicted because if at any point there was a chance of dying or losing, he would do whatever it took to get out alive. Fleeing... He was very good at fleeing. If that made him a coward, he was glad of it. Cowards lived. This indecision and confusion truly earned him the nickname Chaos.
He took a long sip. This was nothing more than nostalgia, truthfully. The true question to ask himself now was where he wanted to go with this, what he wanted in the end. He'd earned a reputation for messing things up. Wherever he showed up, he would always make the situation more confusing if not necessarily worse. This was a reputation he could use.
Chaos wanted to live. To survive. But not without some danger. There wasn't anything material that he particularly wanted. Fortune came and went. Whatever sense of affection he had felt dead and hollow now. He abandoned what friends he had on the battlefield. Should he run into them again, they would gladly put a bullet in him. If they were capable of it. And Jacob... If he felt anything that could be confused with affection, it was still that sense of rivalry with that kid. He would kill him ten times over if he could, to prove his own skill... and yet he never truly wanted Jacob dead because it meant there would be no more duels.
The drink was nearly empty now, and he still had no real answers. Perhaps, despite how inconsistent and indecisive he was... Perhaps Chaos actually wanted control. Enough control to keep the action moving but without putting himself in danger. But what action did he want, he wondered? He had turned to crime after the war because he felt irredeemable. He felt dirty. Not worthless, but still low. He felt it was the only way to go, being a deserter.
But that simply wasn't the case. He could pull himself from the fire and start helping people again if he chose, just as easily as he could blow up the most important buildings in Barton in the name of garnering attention. He could do whatever he wanted. He was Chaos, he had no ties. No real grudges. There were no rules to follow.
He considered that for a while, before looking down at a blank white controller resting beside his empty bottle. It had taken a lot of doing to get that contraption. He was still uncertain why he wanted it, or what he would do with it. But he liked having the choice to use or not use it. Again, Chaos enjoyed control. He smirked slightly at the sheer irony of it. This next mission would be fun... and if it went well, it would make him one of the most dangerous men on Gaia. That would be something of an accomplishment, he supposed. Good enough for now.
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Isle de Gambino
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Tilung's descended into one of contemplation. "Fighting your own isn't easy, but there were no other alternatives we hadn't tried. Your military did it's best to safely diffuse the situation with as few casualties as possible. They did honorably. Best not to dwell on the unpleasant parts and try to take one's mind off it."
Tilung followed. When Hyde finally slowed down, he bent to check one of the bodies of the demolitionists. He he opened the woman's eyes, and looked deep into them. Then he lifted her arm, feeling for certain bodily flows. "They haven't been gone long. While I wouldn't say their blood is warm, the body certainly isn't stiff yet."
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