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 Posted: Mon May 20, 2013 12:31 am
Bischofite's adjustment to this new life bore a scathing, deep-seated hatred towards those involved in its founding. How he wished to sear the skin off the taller blonde's face, or seize Alexandre's hands and hack them off. He preferred the subtle disappointments of civilian life, of seeking adrenaline from paltry thrills and finding solace in some small shelter from the rain. Simple things. Minutia. Yet now, as Benitoite informed him, it was imperative that he save the earth, via eliminating one senshi at a time? Before he embarked on this mission, he needed to save himself.
He stood, inwardly besieged, in the center of a sprawling, grassy field. Playground equipment marred its surface, standing as defiant, twisted testaments to the progressively warped city. He, too, served as another example. Perhaps that's why he found some quiet reprieve buried in the flesh of this place. In the veins. He sought that fleeting solace in the scraped wood flooring of the roundabout, or the weathered metal rungs of the monkey bars. It sounded childish, stupid even, but were these not the last remains of innocence? The gnarled husk of ignorance and simple freedoms? All these things were chased away from him, seared out with the flow of chaos.
He knew little of his new life, apart from who to kill and who to seek guidance from. Who to avoid. Who to manipulate. Who to hate.
Bischofite froze while he ran his fingers over one of the etched metal rungs. A familiar movement danced in his peripheral, tantalized him to look toward his source. He yearned to identify its origin, to extrapolate a reason for the bizarre, somewhat familiar feeling seeping into the back of his mind. He soaked in it like lukewarm bathwater.
He might've considered it mildly pleasant until he recognized the owner of those movements, those feelings.
Bischofite stalked toward the man, pursued him in a primal manner. Fueled by hate. Fueled by rage. Fueled by the blonde's inability to lift a finger while Alexandre - no, Benitoite - forcibly twisted his existence into something livid and malicious. Perhaps a taste for that unfettered fury might convince the boy of his folly. If he could only peel the man's skin away, splinter his bones, salt the wounds, then maybe he'd have a chance at understanding the sheer torture Bischofite endured, all because this capricious little fop chose to stand around with his thumbs up his a** rather than prevent the seething agony that nearly scraped his life away.
His first attempt at closure came in the form of a fist aimed toward the blonde's face. No words. No accusations. Just actions.
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Posted: Sat May 25, 2013 9:32 pm
A lieutenant was, by no means, foreign to Remarque. He had seen many—and the park had always been a hotspot for activity. In his search for wraiths, he had paid the aura little mind. It was a mistake he might have regretted, if such were an emotion he would ever admit to having. When the aura pursued, he assumed it was some agent intent to exchange words.
Remarque had made little effort to avoid the lieutenant or close the distance between the two; he was simply attending to a more pressing duty.
A rustling in the bushes made him think that perhaps he was close to the wraith—movement out of the corner of his eyes had him redirect his attention several times. And then there was movement much closer.
In all the months he had been in the Negaverse, Remarque had never truly learned to trust the Negaverse—and it was times like this that he remembered why. Most agents weren't so brazen as to go for the face. As such, Remarque could, albeit begrudgingly, forgive most agents.
Not this one.
The fist hit him so hard that for a split second he saw white. It wasn't the hardest he'd ever been hit, but that didn't mean it was any bit more enjoyable. He was moving before he had time to process what was going on—before he saw his opponent, before he thought about his actions. A punch would have been in order, but he was in an awkward position and wasn't eager to pull a muscle just to get in a quick hit. Instead, he swung his arm forward and gripped the nearest thing he could—the front of the male's outfit. The fabric bundled in his hand and he yanked the lieutenant closer before pulling him off the ground and heaving him over one shoulder. It was a fluid movement; he didn't hold the male there for longer than a fraction of a second before he was throwing him towards the hard ground.
He tasted blood—bitter, acrid, and as soon as the male was out of his hands, he reached a hand up to his cheek to massage the offended area as if by doing so was going to ease the pain. "—The ******** is your problem?" he snapped, voice uneven and angry.
A senshi hadn't gotten in a hit so good in a long time—why should an ally get the opportunity?
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Posted: Sun May 26, 2013 9:23 am
Bischofite found himself sprawled against the floor, his back throbbing from the impact. The blonde stood over him, displaying some neutered sense of indignation and irritation. He was far from instilling that same sheer pain, sheer misery, onto the stranger. The boy spat his part, his contrived little lines, and stood massaging his cheek as if to reverse the event.
"You ask me what my problem is, like you don't even remember me," he retorted, seething with vitriol. Bischofite slowly sat up and turned his attention wholly toward the black senshi. "You stood idly by zat day, when Benitoite ******** up my life for good, and you don't even remember. You don't even try to recall." He slowly stood up to face the blonde, finally seeing eye to eye with him. "Your inaction is my problem, boy."
He remembered the pain of corruption; it threatened to quell his insatiable anger in its lasting memories. It threatened to cripple his thoughts with misery and heavy grief for the life he forcibly left behind. When things were simpler. Easier.
Less maddeningly obtrusive.
Stage two of his attempt at closure involved attempting to tackle the blonde to the ground. Attempting to harm him further. Attempting to clarify his boiling feelings of rage and injustice so that the dense blonde might finally recognize the magnitude of his actions (or inactions) that fateful day.
Maybe he could finally find closure in the form of messy ichor.
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Posted: Sun May 26, 2013 3:05 pm
It had been dark the night he had chased the wraith to Benitoite—when he had witnessed the birth of a lieutenant. The rain hadn't helped the situation—but even if Remarque hadn't immediately remembered the face, he remembered the accent. Of course, he knew exactly who he was dealing with after listening.
He hadn't been prepared for another attack; he assumed that after being thrown to the ground, the lieutenant would have learned his place. He did not dodge the tackle as he should have; his footing was loose and the lieutenant caught him off guard—again.
Remarque wasn't able to catch himself, and even as he fell brought a knee up to jab it at Bischofite wherever he could afford to make contact. His breath was knocked from him when he hit the ground, but it didn't stop him from flinging the male from atop of him and hastily moving to straddle him. His hand pulled back and he was geared to punch. Adrenaline pumped through him, and more than anything he wanted to break the guy's face.
That probably wasn't good for Dark Mirror Court-Negaverse relations, though—and he had been attacked by foolish lieutenants before. Most weren't so adamant about causing him harm.
"Boy?" he challenged. "Don't give me any more reason to want to hurt you, lieutenant. If you thought Benitoite ******** up your life, wait until you see what I can do. Are you going to calm down, or am I gonna have to bust up that pretty little face of yours?"
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Posted: Sun May 26, 2013 5:19 pm
He didn't even care. It didn't register. It didn't matter that his life was now permanently altered, that he could no longer look at anything in the same way anymore. It didn't matter that he became an unwilling protector, right alongside this callous man. Nothing mattered. Nothing made a difference. Nothing he said or did would ever explain the amount of irreparable damage that changed the course of his fate. He simply didn't matter.
Bischofite took the knee jab in the abdomen, just to the left of his hip. It temporarily broke his resolve with a jolt of pain, and before he could react to it, he impacted the ground with rough force and felt the weight of the blonde atop him. The pressure on his fresh injury caused him to squirm, to try to retreat from underneath the more experienced man. However, all he managed was to prolong his breathlessness and irritate the blonde. Nothing seemed to work, and if he tried any easy assaults, he would surely take the man's punch. Then again... it might be a fair trade-off.
Pretty little face? Did he think Bischofite honestly cared about his face? "Nossing you do could possibly compare, blondie! I got sucked into zis conundrum because you couldn't ******** catch your little pet! Your ineptitude is ze reason I got turned into zis! Look at my face, for ******** sake!" If the blonde intended to bring up breaking his face, then he was going to draw attention to the hellish paint splattered across it. "Tell me - do I look like ze protector type to you?" He couldn't begin to explain the ceaseless disappointment of being forcibly appointed a protector of the people. From misanthrope to magnanimous superhero?
"I would razzer see ze world burn zan defend it from some alien menace! I didn't even want to know about zis s**t, but you couldn't ******** do your damned job, and I got sucked into it!" Finally he tried to land another hit on the man, this time a strike to his stomach.
Perhaps in inflicting grievous injury, the blonde would finally come to understand his position. If not, well... he earned his pain.
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Posted: Sun May 26, 2013 6:33 pm
Remarque had an unfair advantage againts the lieutenant; being an eternal senshi might not have given him the strength a general might have, but itm ade him strong—stronger than this punk. He was prepared for hits now, staring straight into the eyes of the male below him. His right hand jerked forward, gripping Bischofite's wrist before it could make contact and swung his left, with great pleasure, into the male's cheek.
"My wraith had nothing to do with it, you ungrateful sack of s**t. Would you be content to let the world pass you by? To let others decide your fate? You should be grateful. I don't give a damn if you ever protect anyone, but you damn well better mind your mouth when you address me. I don't want to be your enemy, so don't tempt me. I'm willing to let this slide" —he wasn't really— "because you're obviously not all there in the head."
He took a very brief second to compose himself, though didn't move from atop the lieutenant; he wasn't willing to let him get up when he was in such a hostile mood. "If you don't want this life, don't want to be with the Negaverse? Then quit. Nobody's forcing you to power up, are they? Nobody's got a gun to your head. You could just as easily go back to your normal lifestyle, go back to your filthy alleyways and sewage. I don't care. Go ahead, waste all the power Benitoite gave you. Don't b***h to me about it not being fair. Get over it, boy."
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Posted: Sun May 26, 2013 6:54 pm
The punch was jolting, to say the least. Bischofite's sight blackened for a moment, before returning to him in the form of skewed images. He groaned; it felt as though his teeth might've buried themselves into his cheek. He tasted blood; his assumptions were confirmed. Finally Bischofite turned his head to regard the swaying image of Remarque, and snarled despite the livid pain residing in his mouth.
He responded in the only way that occurred to him at that moment: he spat blood in the blonde's face. "Get off me," he seethed, all the more aggravated by the senshi's insipid words. "You don't get it. Nobody's decisions matter. Ze universe will take its course regardless of our actions. If some senshi doesn't die by my hand, or yours, they'll die from some ozzer cause. My being involved in zis war doesn't make a difference, just like how you don't make a difference." He struggled against the blonde's restraint once more, to no avail.
Even in this purportedly stronger version of himself, he couldn't fight the man off.
"So get off me," he repeated. "You'f made all your points, as useless as zey are. Happy now? You've obviously talked all zis sense into me. I mean, I can definitely quit, even zough I know ze identity of one of zeir generals, and zey certainly wouldn't seek to shut me up about it. Maybe you'd do me ze favor and kill me instead." Given the man's capacity for easy rage, it seemed a proper option.
If this wasn't his path, he'd die. It was as simple as that.
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Posted: Sun May 26, 2013 8:01 pm
Remarque remained straddling the male for a brief time longer as he reached up his arm, wiping the spit and blood onto his sleeve. He wasn't as worried about hygeine as he was about unwittingly picking up some disease. But his mouth had been closed; nothing got in his eyes.
If he caught something, he'd do worse things to the lieutenant than kill him.
He stood, not because he cared for Bischofite's request, but because he was done. Mostly. Remarque half-heartedly kicked the male in the side before stepping away from him; it wasn't enough to do real damage, but might have been enough to cause a bit of discomfort. "You whine. Maybe Benitoite should have killed you, for all the trouble you're worth. If you want to die, be my guest. But it won't be by my hand. You're not worth my time."
No matter how annoying or troublesome anyone might be, Remarque had yet to kill. He had a lot of darkness in his heart, but murder was not something he was willing to grapple with. This was a war. They were soldiers.
But beneath that bloody, painted face was a civilian that he had seen—once. A pessimist and a nuisance, certainly, but still a person. Remarque hadn't yet been able to detach himself that far.
…Plus, that wasn't something he would look forward to explaining to Benitoite.
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Posted: Sun May 26, 2013 8:11 pm
Bischofite sat up abruptly when the blonde left him. His remarks were scalding, and he was left scathing and stripped of his dignity. It only proved what he'd been desperately avoiding: this was his path. He was supposed to protect a thousand faceless civilians, in a thankless effort, during a war that next to no one knew about. What sort of fate was that? These people would seek solace or face death with or without him. So why was he chosen in the first place? Just on the whim of some spindly little kid?
And now this man had the audacity to walk away and leave him there, cursing him for weakness?
Bischofite struggled to his feet, despite the pain of being tossed around like a ragdoll by the obviously stronger man. He had no words to rebuke the blonde's statements; he lacked the wit to formulate a vitriolic retort. Instead he stood dumbly, having unknowingly revealed a piece of himself to someone who cared little for his sentiments, for his life.
Perhaps he had a point. He could remain as Alois, despite the information he was privy to, and ignore the war pulsing through the veins of Destiny City. However, could he manage that now, lacking the shroud of ignorance to shield his eyes?
No.
It was all he could manage to walk home, nursing his wounded pride on the way. Little came of their meeting, and little he was left with.
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