Torn is strong.
Everyone knows that.
Torn is the commander of the Freedom League. He was second in command of the Underground movement, and even before that, he was a Captain of the Krimson Guard. He is brilliant, cunning, brave, and loyal to the cause.
What a joke…
He looked out the window of his office in the Freedom League HQ at the city below him; the city that he had worked so hard for, and sacrificed so much. The flashing lights from neon signs illuminated crystal blue water and chrome streets hovering over it. Blue eyes scanned the streets, scanned the faces, and wondered if he still saw them the same way.
Illusion…
Torn felt something bubbling up inside him as he gazed down at the dreamscape turned nightmare. It wasn't just his imagination that the city became visibly more relaxed when Jak left to do Mar knows what. With the "demon of Haven" absent, the council could relax their shoulders, and the people could walk the streets safely without worry of seeing purple lightning or hearing a blood curdling roar.
Fuckin' puppets. Can't even think for themselves.
Jak doesn't deserve this kind of treatment. Hasn't he proved time and time again that he is not a danger to them anymore? Hasn't he sacrificed enough for them; the city that isn't even his home, or at least isn't anymore. He defeated the Metalheads, overthrew the baron, proved his royal lineage, and got tossed into the wastes like garbage. Then he fucked the Dark Makers, annihilated Errol, and sent the remaining Metalheads running, and for what? The city still fears him.
It's not fair!
Ashelin is weak.
She stood with Jak against Vegar, but allows the rest of the council to spread lies and slander about him. She knows how delicate her title is, knows how much the city despises her family name, and is so ready to lie down and show her belly to keep her position.
It makes me sick…
Ashelin is weak…
But Torn is strong.
But he was no better than her. He had attended those meetings too. Had heard the lies, seen the disrespect, and did nothing. He is safer than Ashelin. He could say something and not have much backlash, but he doesn't. He doesn't because he knows the truth.
Torn is weak.
Torn is afraid.
He was a traitor. He betrayed the guard, betrayed the Underground, betrayed Praxis, betrayed Jak…
Twice.
Torn swore under his breath and turned from the window. He crossed his arms over his chest and paced back and forth in his small office. Jak didn't know. Jak could never know, because if he did…
He would hate me.
He would destroy me.
I deserve it.
No one knew who created the file exposing King Damas's "wrongdoings". They were released anonymously to the press, and the citizens ate it up.
Like flies to dung.
Every single piece of "evidence" was a lie. Torn and Errol stayed up all night making up most of them. Everything from embezzling from the city funds, to selling secrets to Kras, to illicit affairs in the red light district; Torn helped create it all. He had been there personally when Damas was exiled, watched as the King was tossed into the desert, and felt proud of what he achieved.
It was for the best, he told himself. The city needed new leadership, and Praxis was the answer.
I'm such a fucking idiot.
After the banishment, Torn saw what the Baron's true goal was. How he had let Metal heads destroys Dead Town, or as it was previously known, the Icelander/Krassian refugee housing. Torn stopped dead in the center of the room as the memories resurfaced, and the guilt made his stomach clench and chest tighten. He palmed his face with both hands and felt like crying, but he laughed instead.
Ironic isn't it?
His parents had been so proud of him; the first Icelander Captain in the Guard. The whole settlement held a party. Tearian, his little sister, made him a necklace with their house crest etched in a stone. He lost it that day…
He could still remember the orders. The baron assigned all of the Icelander and Krassian guards to the Refugee district that day. Torn, of course, was exempt.
Couldn't let all the 'Icies' die, could he. He had to keep a poster boy so the remaining immigrants wouldn't whine about 'civil rights'.
Damas had allowed the Icelanders to immigrate when marauders destroyed their capitol. He had fought for their citizenship and rights. But he was going too slowly. Too focused on schmoozing the council. Praxis promised action, but he delivered destruction. And Torn paid the price for his betrayal.
He could still remember the sounds, the smells, of screaming children and burning flesh. He could feel the spray of blood against his face as he watched monsters rip apart his people…his neighbors. They had attended his party. Tearian babysat the neighborhood children, and would be so excited when Torn returned.
She was huddled in a ditch when he found her…a metal head chewing on her stumped leg. Dismembered children lay scattered around her.
She had tried to save them.
A tear began to roll down Torn's cheek, fat and wet, leaving a trail on his tattooed cheek. He ground his teeth and bit his bottom lip to keep from screaming. He refused to cry; refused to show his weakness. He needed to break something, needed to hurt something, but Ashelin was next door…and she would hear…and she would come in…
…and see that he is weak.
You know what you need to do.
Torn moved swiftly to his private bathroom. He locked the door behind him and pulled his pants down and off. He knocked down the toilet cover sat gingerly on the closed lid, spreading his thighs.
So many cuts…
Little white lines in little neat rows, no bigger than an inch, 27 on the left thigh, and 34 on the right, all on the inner parts of his thighs. Each one was a life that he destroyed. He pressed the knife against newly closed scars from the session last month, still pink and raw due to Torn ripping off the scabs through his clothes during a debriefing. It always marveled his how much easier the razor cut across his flesh with every practice session.
These were his favorite lines to reopen.
One.
Jak…
Two.
Damas…
Three.
Ashelin…
Four.
Tearian…
He stopped.
Torn dropped the razor near the sink, leaving behind a single red droplet on the counter, and ran a finger over one of the lines…Jak's line. This specific cut had been reopened so many times, that the raised and bubbled flesh barely needed any pressure to burst open. Torn eagerly pressed his finger against the cut, digging it into the wound, as he forced it to open up. Blood began to pool and drip around his fingertip and onto the tiled floor. He tilted his head back and relished in the sharp pain he was rewarded with.
This is what I need.
This is what I deserve.
The other three cuts dribbled lightly, sending small droplets down Torn's thigh onto the floor below, but it was nothing compared to the steady stream flowing from the favored wound. Torn pulled and scratched at the cut, savoring every twinge, every spike, every surge of pain he got from it. The only thing that would make this better is if Jak were the one doing this.
Yes…if Jak were the one hurting him.
'You're pathetic.'
Turn looked down between his legs, and suddenly it wasn't his finger digging into the cut, it was Jak's. He felt his heart skip a few beats as he imagined blonde-green hair and angry blue eyes bordering on black. The blonde spoke, 'Look at you, bleeding yourself while you wallow in self-pity. You selfish, ugly, Krimson bitch.'
Yes! I'm pathetic, Jak! I'm worthless!
Torn's thoughts screamed in joy from the illusion, wanton with desperation for his pain. Torn wanted, needed, Jak's fingers deeper in his flesh, ripping, scratching, hurting…
'You ruined my life, ruined my father's life, and ruined your own family's lives.' Jak's finger became a claw, digging deeper and pulling at tender, red flesh. Torn gasped as a small lake began forming underneath him, where the false Jak kneeled. 'This city would've been better off without you. Your own kind would still be alive, and I-'Crystal blue met black as Jak's form paled and took the shape of the monster. The monster grabbed Torn's other thigh and dug its claws in, 'You don't even deserve death-'
No, I don't…I don't deserve anything as simple and cheap as death.
'-You deserve to suffer-'
Fuck…YES!
'-deserve to feel everything he felt when I was created-"
PLEASE!
'-deserve to let him end your worthless life."
HURT ME JAK! MAKE ME SORRY! TAKE REVENGE ON THE ONE WHO RUINED YOU! I need your punishment; I need your hate, I NEED YOUR PAIN! I'M SO SORRY! I'M SO SORRY! PLEASE, FORGIVE ME! I NEED YOU TO HURT ME, JAK!
INEEDYOUTOHURTMEINEEDYOUTOHURTMEINEEDYOUTOHURTMEINEED-
Torn's eyes shot open, he didn't even realize they were shut. His leg had a large wound where Jak's scar was…open and raw…and likely never going to heal.
Good.
Torn didn't want it to heal. He wanted Jak's wound to stay right where it was. He wanted to feel it every time he took a step. He wanted to press against it whenever he sent Jak on a dangerous mission. He wanted to show it to Jak, reveal everything, and let Jak personally-
Fuck.
Him.
UP!
Many times, he thought about killing himself, but he had no right.
That pleasure is Jak's alone.
Jak had the right to kill him; he had the right to do whatever the fuck he wanted to the man whose mistakes caused him so much unnecessary pain. He wanted Jak to torture him, humiliate him, and let other people have their way with him before he dealt the final blow.
There are so many…so many people who would love a chance to punish him. Survivors of Dead Town, loved ones of Underground soldiers who still grieve, hell, even some FL guards who were ex-KG would probably jump at the chance to maim their hard-ass Commander.
I deserved nothing less.
With the endorphins in his system dwindling and the illusion fading, Torn stared down at his bloody thighs and the pool of blood below him, feeling nothing. He reached in the sink cabinet and pulled out his first aid kit. He never used the green eco packs, because why the hell would he want to make the reminders go away. He cleaned the wounds, noticing that Jak's wound wouldn't close and would most likely need stitches.
There was no way in hell he was going to a fucking hospital. That would seal his fate. He had a needle and threads somewhere and vaguely remembered how to stitch an open wound.
He would take care of it tomorrow. For now, he wanted to feel the lingering throb of the abused wound for a while.
Let it lull him to sleep.
He bandaged his thigh, blood already showing through from the favored cut, and mopped up the blood from the tile, disposing of the evidence in the waste chute. He stood and paused at the bathroom door before he unlocked it. This is how it always went. In here, he could face the truth. In here, he was Torien Riesta, the biggest fucking traitor in Haven's history. But, as soon as he exits his sanctuary, he would be the Commander again. He would go back to wearing his mask. He would smile at Jak and pretend that they were friends. Pretend that Jak is the only one who has a monster living inside him.
He would be brave.
He would be cunning.
He would be brilliant.
He would be loyal.
And no one would ever know the truth he knows or the secrets he keeps.
Because Torn is strong,
Until that mocking voice in his head tells him he can't be anymore.