Terrence Ephemera / Sharkface (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
requiemshark) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hadriel_logs2018-02-28 09:20 pm
requiemshark) wrote in hadriel_logs2018-02-28 09:20 pm
Entry tags:
Do you see it clearer Or are you deceived
Who: Tucker and Ephemera.
What: Ephemera wants his helmet back.
Where: Blue Team house.
When: Feb 28th.
Warnings: Swearing, violence, bad history. Possible mentions of war crimes.
Once, not so long ago, Ephemera would have solved this with his fists. Grabbed the fucker by the hair or the back of the neck if he didn't have hair, and then just throw him against the wall. Bash his skull into something solid until the problem stopped breathing. He'd done it a few times on the Tartarus, back when people saw his face and thought it meant opportunity. The guards stopped giving him cellmates, after a while. But that had been part of the plan, too. He'd gotten a reputation early and maintained it as needed. And he'd waited.
For however long it took, he'd sworn to wait. And track down every last one of those fuckers who murdered his family. He'd promised the captain, and even if he hadn't, Ephemera knows he owes CT. It's the sort of debt that can't be measured and can't be forgotten even after dying. For CT, for Chica and the twins, Barrows and Crow, even that bastard Rodriguez. All of them. His brothers and sisters. Freelancer might have buried all their ugly secrets, but he remembered. Sharkface remembered.
And for a long time, that had kept him going. The knowledge that he'd avenge them. No matter how long it took. He'd wait.
Because when he was finally standing next to them, in hell or the afterlife or whatever came next, he would have kept his word.
It's different now. He's trying to be a whole person.
It doesn't always work.
But he promised to try. To be better. Promised Drake and the doc and Lup. All of them are here and none of them are going to die, he'll make sure of it. They matter too much.
That means he has to settle it.
It's not hard to figure out which Sim trooper has his helmet, or where he's staying. It's a small place. He and Washington have an understanding, most days.
So Ephemera shows up a day later in civilian clothes, jeans and a sweatshirt, both of them paint stained, and leaves the acrylic from his latest project drying on his hands. It's something to remember, something to focus on. If he's in armor it'll be too easy to fight. The paint means he has to go back home, to Drake and the goddamn mural, he has to finish what he started and do it right.
He knocks on the door. Stands there scowling at the ground. This is going to end so well.
Once, not so long ago, Ephemera would have solved this with his fists. Grabbed the fucker by the hair or the back of the neck if he didn't have hair, and then just throw him against the wall. Bash his skull into something solid until the problem stopped breathing. He'd done it a few times on the Tartarus, back when people saw his face and thought it meant opportunity. The guards stopped giving him cellmates, after a while. But that had been part of the plan, too. He'd gotten a reputation early and maintained it as needed. And he'd waited.
For however long it took, he'd sworn to wait. And track down every last one of those fuckers who murdered his family. He'd promised the captain, and even if he hadn't, Ephemera knows he owes CT. It's the sort of debt that can't be measured and can't be forgotten even after dying. For CT, for Chica and the twins, Barrows and Crow, even that bastard Rodriguez. All of them. His brothers and sisters. Freelancer might have buried all their ugly secrets, but he remembered. Sharkface remembered.
And for a long time, that had kept him going. The knowledge that he'd avenge them. No matter how long it took. He'd wait.
Because when he was finally standing next to them, in hell or the afterlife or whatever came next, he would have kept his word.
It's different now. He's trying to be a whole person.
It doesn't always work.
But he promised to try. To be better. Promised Drake and the doc and Lup. All of them are here and none of them are going to die, he'll make sure of it. They matter too much.
That means he has to settle it.
It's not hard to figure out which Sim trooper has his helmet, or where he's staying. It's a small place. He and Washington have an understanding, most days.
So Ephemera shows up a day later in civilian clothes, jeans and a sweatshirt, both of them paint stained, and leaves the acrylic from his latest project drying on his hands. It's something to remember, something to focus on. If he's in armor it'll be too easy to fight. The paint means he has to go back home, to Drake and the goddamn mural, he has to finish what he started and do it right.
He knocks on the door. Stands there scowling at the ground. This is going to end so well.