He hates the neighbors that keep him up at ungodly hours of the night, parading around like they have a pack of wolf-bats living with them. It's frustrating and no matter how often he reminds them that he resides directly below their apartment, they continue on with their ruckus. Most often than not he's forced to pull out the thin futon at the base and sleep in his office.
He hates the way the blistering summers make him feel sluggish and irritable, a proud leader of a revolution turned into a sweating grouch. The make-up he would apply for his scar would melt away almost within minutes, which left him to wear the mask the entire day. His offhanded comment about it to Lieutenant had the other man laughing, only to say that the recruits have to do the same thing and they weren't whining as much as their leader.
He hates how over the years his body has turned against him, refusing to handle certain foods without serious repercussions. Dishes once rich in flavor and spices were now replaced with bland, tasteless meals that had the masked equalist yearning for fire flakes or kimchi. Once or twice he had went against the doctors advice and indulged in a variety of spicy treats, a choice he would regret in the late hours of the night.
He hates how he now makes it a point to avoid mirrors. It's been a daily routine to apply the scar that he no longer requires one which is a small blessing. It's only when he absolutely needs to does he push down the small bit of bile in his stomach and look at his reflection. The features would be barely noticeable to anyone else, but to him they're enough to strike fear and disgust in him. He refuses to accept that every day he looks a little more like his late father, but the proof would stare back at him with the same dark expression in the glass.
He hates having to lie to those who are close to him. The many followers he's accumulated over the months, the loyal second in command, and many more… all deceived into putting their faith in the same thing they stood against. No, he was worse than any bender. It was his father's parting 'gift' to him that set him apart from the other benders, the very same talent that allowed him to repress the mass of benders' abilities. They blindly follow his lead, wholeheartedly believing their cause is a noble one. Perhaps in some fucked up way it was.
He hates what he's become. The press depicts him as a criminal. The children make him out to be a boogeyman in the dark. The city sees him as a monster. His own men look at him as a hero standing up for equality for non-benders. At the end of the day though, when he forces himself to look in the mirror, all he sees is a tired man with a heart filled with hate.
He hates the neighbors that keep him up at ungodly hours of the night, parading around like they have a pack of wolf-bats living with them. It's frustrating and no matter how often he reminds them that he resides directly below their apartment, they continue on with their ruckus. Most often than not he's forced to pull out the thin futon at the base and sleep in his office.
He hates the way the blistering summers make him feel sluggish and irritable, a proud leader of a revolution turned into a sweating grouch. The make-up he would apply for his scar would melt away almost within minutes, which left him to wear the mask the entire day. His offhanded comment about it to Lieutenant had the other man laughing, only to say that the recruits have to do the same thing and they weren't whining as much as their leader.
He hates how over the years his body has turned against him, refusing to handle certain foods without serious repercussions. Dishes once rich in flavor and spices were now replaced with bland, tasteless meals that had the masked equalist yearning for fire flakes or kimchi. Once or twice he had went against the doctors advice and indulged in a variety of spicy treats, a choice he would regret in the late hours of the night.
He hates how he now makes it a point to avoid mirrors. It's been a daily routine to apply the scar that he no longer requires one which is a small blessing. It's only when he absolutely needs to does he push down the small bit of bile in his stomach and look at his reflection. The features would be barely noticeable to anyone else, but to him they're enough to strike fear and disgust in him. He refuses to accept that every day he looks a little more like his late father, but the proof would stare back at him with the same dark expression in the glass.
He hates having to lie to those who are close to him. The many followers he's accumulated over the months, the loyal second in command, and many more… all deceived into putting their faith in the same thing they stood against. No, he was worse than any bender. It was his father's parting 'gift' to him that set him apart from the other benders, the very same talent that allowed him to repress the mass of benders' abilities. They blindly follow his lead, wholeheartedly believing their cause is a noble one. Perhaps in some fucked up way it was.
He hates what he's become. The press depicts him as a criminal. The children make him out to be a boogeyman in the dark. The city sees him as a monster. His own men look at him as a hero standing up for equality for non-benders. At the end of the day though, when he forces himself to look in the mirror, all he sees is a tired man with a heart filled with hate.
The world hated him and his cause already. Why not fight fire with fire?