Post by Solomon Moon on Feb 17, 2020 4:25:39 GMT -5
Solomon
It was dark in the Quad. There was snow piled up beside the walking paths, and the trees wore fluffy crows of white that looked like mourner's veils in the dim light of the lamps that lined the rows. They were bowing beneath the weight of the snow, as if gathered around a casket looking in sadly upon the dead. Sol half imagined that they were looking at him.
It was cold out, the weather still that of late winter to early spring. A chill touched his flesh through the light cotton shirt of his pajamas, and his bare toes on the cobbles were starting to hurt as his blood fled from his extremities and back into his core. The seat of his sweat pants were damp where they touched the surface of the bench. It had been somewhat frosty when he sat down. A gentle breeze rolled through, and it felt like it passing right through his skin and hitting his very bones. His right shoulder was a throbbing aching chaos, as his implants soaked up the cold and radiated the chill into the rest of his body.
Sol was trembling somewhat, but it was not entirely from the cold.
His visage was stony, and his eye somewhat dewy and bloodshot, but not entirely from being awake at this strange hour.
The one-eyed man's scroll felt like a block of ice in his left hand, and his fingertips were starting the sting from the grasping of it. He could have transferred it to his other hand, and tolerated the cold indefinitely, but strangely he wanted that pain right then. It felt good, it felt real. It reminded him that he was there, in that moment, and it kept at bay the thousands of screaming images that crowded around him in the shadows, waiting for his mind to slip just a bit so that they could ambush him all at once. It let him know that this wasn't a dream, that it wasn't a nightmare, that he'd just royally fucked up, and the release of wakefulness was not going to swoop in at the last moment and rescue him.
The screen had gone blank by now, set to a timer, or perhaps the cold had sapped the last of the charge from the battery, but before it had winked out, the sheet of transparent polymer had displayed what might have seemed a harmless thing. It had been a chat window, though in hindsight it seemed more like a noose he'd hoisted himself by. In hindsight, it seemed like something he'd imagined, but the reality was reinforced by the burning cold steadily sapping his palm.
It was hard to know how it had all gone so wrong so fast. It had started with a discussion of the treatise left on a public message board by some anarchist preaching revolution, and had deteriorated into a full blown argument, in which Sol had possibly alienated every single one of the people who were supposed to be on his team. Sol couldn't believe the things he'd said. Shocking, terrible things. They shamed him to know that he would lash out so savagely at his own allies for what seemed so little as a few pixels on a web browser. He thoroughly regretted every single word he'd said. From admitting just what he thought of the Academies and their training of Huntsmen, his cynicism towards the supposedly noble aspirations of the Vytal Agreement, to his overall beliefs on human nature itself, and finally his venomous personal attacks on his classmates, some of which, like Aegle, had never shown him anything but kindness and tolerance.
For the first few they had called him insane. It shouldn't have been surprising. He had one eye but he wasn't blind. Sol knew what the others thought of him. A broken tin-soldier. A shell-shocked mass-murderer. An insane, unstable mad animal. By the dead, Sol knew they were right too, better than anyone, but to hear it said out loud, to be called that and have all his suspicions of their utterly abysmal opinion of him confirmed right when he was being most honest. That had hurt. It surprised Sol just how much. He'd exposed himself, had peeled back his protection and allowed his classmates, possibly for the first time to get a really good look at him, and they had lunged at him, and struck him. He'd no recourse, no armor to turn aside the blow and it had landed deeply. That was where it had all gone wrong. Reeling and in pain, Sol had struck out in every direction like a wild animal backed into a corner, trying to hurt them all the way they'd hurt him, trying to protect himself, but it had been the wrong thing to do. He shouldn't have shown his true colors in the first place.
Of course they wouldn't understand, of course they would reject him. It was a repulsive thing to believe, a monstrous thing to believe, but he believed it, in the individual cells of his body he believed it, because it was what the world had taught him. That belief had settled in his bones, and his flesh, and it had made him repulsive and monstrous as well. How else would someone react when seeing a monster? How else would a huntsman respond when seeing a monster than to strike it where it was most vulnerable?
Worse was what he'd said to Aegle though. He regretted that above all others. Nasrin had never been kind to him. She would never forgive him for their first encounter, she would never understand the forces that determined it's outcome. Kishka, Sol barely even knew, but having read some of her discussions in the group-chat Sol knew for certain that he did not like her. He regretted what he'd said to them, but that was upon a foundation of pragmatism. They would never accept him, they would never understand him, but that didn't make it wise to make enemies of them. Aegle however...
Aegle had been fair to Sol, had picked him for the team, had trusted him. She'd bene kind to him, and how had Sol repaid that? "you twisted little gremlin."
Sol had said truly terrible things, truly awful things, had done worse, but that was a new personal low. Aegle was kind, she was capable, but most importantly, she was innocent. Just like the others had leap for him and taken aim at what was most vulnerable, so too had Sol done that to Aegle. He didn't know what afflicted the girl, but it was common knowledge that she was here in spite of some great injustice of fate, which had rendered what would otherwise have been a hopeful and capable leader, a crooked misshapen near invalid. Her very position as head of Class-Red, her very presence at the academy represented nothing short of a heroic display of drive and will. And Sol had turned that struggle, that accomplishment into fodder for a mean spirited off the cuff insult. And for what? By the dead. What had he done that for?
He should apologize. Sol knew that. But he also knew what was likely to happen. They wouldn't understand, and they absolutely wouldn't forgive him. He would peel off his protection, and remove his armor and they would reject him, and baring that fresh barb right beside the first driven deep into his heart, Sol would repeat this entire misadventure in person, with no benefit of long distance communication to keep things from escalating right to blows. That would serve him right.
The cyclops half expected some of those from the chat to be on their way over right now, to give him exactly what he deserved for being such an awful piece of shit. He didn't really care. Anything would be better than showing up to class tomorrow and no one saying anything, and just having to endure being even more of an outcast than he already was.
Sol's trembling redoubled. He was getting cold now. He could barely feel his hand, but he barely cared. He should just sit out there in the cold, in nothing but a cotton shirt and pants, and come morning, all his worries would be someone else's problem.
It was cold out, the weather still that of late winter to early spring. A chill touched his flesh through the light cotton shirt of his pajamas, and his bare toes on the cobbles were starting to hurt as his blood fled from his extremities and back into his core. The seat of his sweat pants were damp where they touched the surface of the bench. It had been somewhat frosty when he sat down. A gentle breeze rolled through, and it felt like it passing right through his skin and hitting his very bones. His right shoulder was a throbbing aching chaos, as his implants soaked up the cold and radiated the chill into the rest of his body.
Sol was trembling somewhat, but it was not entirely from the cold.
His visage was stony, and his eye somewhat dewy and bloodshot, but not entirely from being awake at this strange hour.
The one-eyed man's scroll felt like a block of ice in his left hand, and his fingertips were starting the sting from the grasping of it. He could have transferred it to his other hand, and tolerated the cold indefinitely, but strangely he wanted that pain right then. It felt good, it felt real. It reminded him that he was there, in that moment, and it kept at bay the thousands of screaming images that crowded around him in the shadows, waiting for his mind to slip just a bit so that they could ambush him all at once. It let him know that this wasn't a dream, that it wasn't a nightmare, that he'd just royally fucked up, and the release of wakefulness was not going to swoop in at the last moment and rescue him.
The screen had gone blank by now, set to a timer, or perhaps the cold had sapped the last of the charge from the battery, but before it had winked out, the sheet of transparent polymer had displayed what might have seemed a harmless thing. It had been a chat window, though in hindsight it seemed more like a noose he'd hoisted himself by. In hindsight, it seemed like something he'd imagined, but the reality was reinforced by the burning cold steadily sapping his palm.
It was hard to know how it had all gone so wrong so fast. It had started with a discussion of the treatise left on a public message board by some anarchist preaching revolution, and had deteriorated into a full blown argument, in which Sol had possibly alienated every single one of the people who were supposed to be on his team. Sol couldn't believe the things he'd said. Shocking, terrible things. They shamed him to know that he would lash out so savagely at his own allies for what seemed so little as a few pixels on a web browser. He thoroughly regretted every single word he'd said. From admitting just what he thought of the Academies and their training of Huntsmen, his cynicism towards the supposedly noble aspirations of the Vytal Agreement, to his overall beliefs on human nature itself, and finally his venomous personal attacks on his classmates, some of which, like Aegle, had never shown him anything but kindness and tolerance.
For the first few they had called him insane. It shouldn't have been surprising. He had one eye but he wasn't blind. Sol knew what the others thought of him. A broken tin-soldier. A shell-shocked mass-murderer. An insane, unstable mad animal. By the dead, Sol knew they were right too, better than anyone, but to hear it said out loud, to be called that and have all his suspicions of their utterly abysmal opinion of him confirmed right when he was being most honest. That had hurt. It surprised Sol just how much. He'd exposed himself, had peeled back his protection and allowed his classmates, possibly for the first time to get a really good look at him, and they had lunged at him, and struck him. He'd no recourse, no armor to turn aside the blow and it had landed deeply. That was where it had all gone wrong. Reeling and in pain, Sol had struck out in every direction like a wild animal backed into a corner, trying to hurt them all the way they'd hurt him, trying to protect himself, but it had been the wrong thing to do. He shouldn't have shown his true colors in the first place.
Of course they wouldn't understand, of course they would reject him. It was a repulsive thing to believe, a monstrous thing to believe, but he believed it, in the individual cells of his body he believed it, because it was what the world had taught him. That belief had settled in his bones, and his flesh, and it had made him repulsive and monstrous as well. How else would someone react when seeing a monster? How else would a huntsman respond when seeing a monster than to strike it where it was most vulnerable?
Worse was what he'd said to Aegle though. He regretted that above all others. Nasrin had never been kind to him. She would never forgive him for their first encounter, she would never understand the forces that determined it's outcome. Kishka, Sol barely even knew, but having read some of her discussions in the group-chat Sol knew for certain that he did not like her. He regretted what he'd said to them, but that was upon a foundation of pragmatism. They would never accept him, they would never understand him, but that didn't make it wise to make enemies of them. Aegle however...
Aegle had been fair to Sol, had picked him for the team, had trusted him. She'd bene kind to him, and how had Sol repaid that? "you twisted little gremlin."
Sol had said truly terrible things, truly awful things, had done worse, but that was a new personal low. Aegle was kind, she was capable, but most importantly, she was innocent. Just like the others had leap for him and taken aim at what was most vulnerable, so too had Sol done that to Aegle. He didn't know what afflicted the girl, but it was common knowledge that she was here in spite of some great injustice of fate, which had rendered what would otherwise have been a hopeful and capable leader, a crooked misshapen near invalid. Her very position as head of Class-Red, her very presence at the academy represented nothing short of a heroic display of drive and will. And Sol had turned that struggle, that accomplishment into fodder for a mean spirited off the cuff insult. And for what? By the dead. What had he done that for?
He should apologize. Sol knew that. But he also knew what was likely to happen. They wouldn't understand, and they absolutely wouldn't forgive him. He would peel off his protection, and remove his armor and they would reject him, and baring that fresh barb right beside the first driven deep into his heart, Sol would repeat this entire misadventure in person, with no benefit of long distance communication to keep things from escalating right to blows. That would serve him right.
The cyclops half expected some of those from the chat to be on their way over right now, to give him exactly what he deserved for being such an awful piece of shit. He didn't really care. Anything would be better than showing up to class tomorrow and no one saying anything, and just having to endure being even more of an outcast than he already was.
Sol's trembling redoubled. He was getting cold now. He could barely feel his hand, but he barely cared. He should just sit out there in the cold, in nothing but a cotton shirt and pants, and come morning, all his worries would be someone else's problem.
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Velvet of WW
