The first fall of the Shield Wall was a difficult time for everyone, but for Torn in particular, it was excruciating. For the first time, all that he trusted was called into question, and came back wanting. The man he'd sworn his life to had betrayed the city, or part of it, leaving the third sector and all its inhabitants to die. Torn's post had become a lie when he'd stood inside the new Shield Wall perimeter, unable to help those beyond.
He quit the Krimson Guard in disgust, and Ashelin, too; he said it was because she refused to see the evil in her father, because she refused to give up the beat . . . but somewhere, he knew it was disgust with himself that made him do it, and how much her face reminded him of what he had failed to do.
For days, he drank, wasting nearly all he'd saved from his time in the Guard at once. He wasn't alone in that; many people had lost their homes and families, and others were simply unable to come to terms with a world where everything they had could be snatched away. Though several were as self-destructive as Torn, few were meaner, and during this time he split his knuckles more than once.
To this day, he wasn't sure what made him notice the scrawny gray-haired guy, babbling incoherently to himself over a tumbler of scotch. As near as he could recall, it just annoyed him. High pitched and quivering, speaking in long jargon Torn didn't understand . . . it set his teeth on edge.
"Would you pipe down?" he said, or some equivalent; even at the time, it hadn't been clear.
"The numbers," the other man continued. "I c-could've stopped it. If I'd seen the leak, maybe--"
Torn was barely aware of himself as he lifted the other man out of his chair by the collar; three days of pickling his brain had done little for rational thought, or for his temper. "I said shut up."
He only received a whimper and a terrified look from behind thick lenses. Behind the bar, the server crossed his arms over his chest. "Take it outside, boys," he said; "we don't want any trouble in here."
Torn dropped the man and sank back into his own chair, as suddenly disinterested as he'd been enraged. "No trouble," he said, and drained his most recent glass.
"N-no trouble," agreed the other man, and to his credit he didn't speak again.
After a few minutes, though, Torn started to get a prickling feeling at the back of his neck; the same guy was staring at him, as painfully obvious as his attempt to be discreet. After a few minutes of this, Torn pushed away his drink, threw a few bills on the table without looking to see what they were, and stormed to the exit, managing to only run into a few tables on the way out.
As he'd predicted, the other man followed.
Torn turned to face him once they were out, face twisted into a snarl. "What the hell is your problem?"
"You--you're in the Krimson Guard, aren't you?"
He seemed remarkably sober, given the time of night--or at least what time Torn thought it was. Despite his babbling, he spoke clearly, and his movements were more controlled--if not exactly coordinated--than would have been expected.
Torn snorted. "What's it to you?" It seemed like it would be a waste of effort to beat this guy up, but he was already contemplating how it would be best accomplished.
"I s-saw you, during the assault. On the vid-screens. Your helmet was off . . ."
Torn glared, but started to walk back to the bar. This conversation was going nowhere. But the other man wouldn't let him walk away.
"You couldn't control it, either. I saw you--you couldn't--"
Again, Torn had the guy by the shirt before he knew what he was doing, shoving him against the outer wall of the bar. The other man winced this time, and quivered, but didn't seem as cowed.
"I'll show you what I can control." But whatever severity he'd been trying to convey broke with his voice mid-sentence.
The other man smiled--a pale, self-effacing expression--and hiccuped. "And if a guy like--a guy like you can't control it, w-what chance did--did I have?"
Revulsion and something like pity washed over Torn; he dropped the wreck, who fell without the support. "Just go home," he said, turning away. His anger was fizzling out, becoming something more subdued, something he didn't like nearly as much.
But the quivering voice followed him. "Why do you think . . . why do you think it is that we give up control to prove we s-still have any?"
Torn shook his head, started to leave; he didn't particularly care about the direction. The eyes behind the thick lenses followed him, though, until he finally (finally? A few seconds were starting to seem like hours) turned and offered the only answer he had.
"Because we can."