At Your Mercy

7

When you think about it, there's a reason for everything that happens in the whole of your lifetime, from the very first step that you take to the last breath that you fight. Usually, it's a cold, hard solid reason that smacks you right in the face when you have no absolute idea of its existence, but in the very rare happenings, where you have a shred of that coldness and hardness etched in your brain, you realise that maybe getting smacked is better than being in the situation where you have to live with it as a part of your own self. Because that coldness and hardness never stays in the very firm ball that you make of it and try to tuck it in the deepest darkest corner. No, it spreads like wildfire in a dry forest, hard, blazing ashes that take you along.

I wish to God I could say I lived with the coldness. I even wish I could burn in the wildfire. But I am the wildfire. I take down bits and pieces first with ice and then with fire. I take them down. I always take them down.

In heated fights, mostly with Patrick, you know, when no one is under control and all is running amok with the wind of things, people say things to me. And I remember them. It's not like you get over a cut just because you did it when you were depressed. You live to deal with the pain that the cut brings along, every nerve message is a reminder. They say they don't mean it, but you don't mean that cut when all gets better and you look back at your broken self at the past, shooing it away with how stupid you were. That's the point. You did. You meant it. You always mean it.

Jason Carter is that person. The person that makes the cuts, puts ointment on them, and then slashes a knife on the wound again.

And I'm really trying not to let it get to me.

It was the Fallon. The Fallon that slipped out of his dagger like stare and the poisonous mouth that took something out of me. No one knows about the Fallon.

Because I don't talk about it.

Carter's been here three days, there is no way he just found out. He can't find out.

During wars, armies try to find out the hit point. It's not about causing the more destruction, or more civilian deaths or even hitting up a capital city just because it's the dead middle of everything. It's always about hitting a point closer to the opponent's psyche (it doesn't matter if the opponent is a country with a multimillion population), which could be a place as simple as a monument, or even just one single person. You take down something that holds enormous sentiment, something that is a hold point for a strong string of emotions, people automatically tend to lose hope. In the end, just doing so much as burning a building can be the vantage between your victory and your defeat; it makes one hell of a difference.

Carter just hit a cannon shot. Directly on my fucking monument.

And that's why I am here drilling my tech team to get me all the Intel on Carter from when he was born up to this point in the day.

I don't keep my promises, but I'm going to get Carter a temper if he wants one. He's aching for one.

It's completely another debate whether the centre of my backlash is even active. Because I can act like I'm blazing guns and charge fight or die slogans in the battleground, but there has to be a battle first. My four hour search and the tech team's desperation is saying more than otherwise. It's saying nothing.

Because there's nothing to say.

It's safe to say we come up completely empty. And by completely empty, I don't mean the lack of anything big and juicy from my information that would get me a good starting point. This time completely empty means a single ton bag filled with air, except this time the bag is also invisible. There's absolutely nothing to show. A complete lack of entry in the whole of the databases of Soracia, for anyone who even remotely matches the description of Jason Carter, is simply not him. He's missing.