Title: Lance's Past
Summary: A character study on why Lance acts the way he does.
Rating: T
Warnings: Spoilers for EBF2, Child abuse, Mild blood
Genre: General/Character Study
World: Pre EBF2 to end of EBF2
Prompt From: mysteriousguy898 - Thank you for all of your amazing reviews on my writing! :3
"Assemble!" a loud voice bellowed from downstairs.
A boy of thirteen years jolted and sprang up, abandoning the magazine he had been reading, to go shooting out of his bedroom. His shaggy red hair flew wildly as he sprinted down the stairs, leaping the last three, and skidded into the living room. The teen snapped to stand at perfect attention—back straight, feet together, eyes staring straight ahead, hand raised in a sharp salute—as he awaited whatever the man wanted. He held his breath, hoping he had managed to get here in time and followed the 'protocol' to his father's satisfaction. For a few seconds, there was silence. The boy could see his where his father sat in a large wingback armchair, wearing an old military uniform. The man's cold, red eyes were intently fixed on his son, inspecting the salute.
"Excellent work, Lance," the man finally said in a cold, but pleased tone, "You got here in just shy of ten seconds and your form is perfect." He rose to stand in front of the statuesque Lance, towering over the teen.
Lance breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, arm dropping to his side. His father tended to get… unpleasant, when Lance failed to achieve perfection. A split second later, a fist smacked the side of his head and the teen stumbled sideways, one hand rising to cover the forming bruise. Lance's wide red eyes sought out his father's matching ones in confusion as he wondered, "What did I do wrong?" Thinking rapidly, he went over his actions just prior to the hit. Stiffening, Lance snapped back to attention.
"Permission to speak, sir?" the teen asked, his voice slightly trembling.
The man surveyed the renewed salute with satisfaction, "Permission granted."
Lance maintained the salute, staring forwards, "I apologize for coming to rest without express permission, sir."
"At ease," his father said before turning to settle back in his chair.
With an inward sigh of relief, Lance relaxed his stiff posture to a more comfortable, but still attentive stance; his arms were held at his sides and his feet shifted to a slightly wider placement. The fact that his father had returned to sitting meant the oversight had been forgiven—for now. "Now, I just hope he doesn't punish me, anyway," Lance thought, watching his father. His hopes were dashed with the next statement.
"Your punishment for not following protocol is half rations for the rest of the week," the man said, turning his impassive gaze on the teen standing before him, "Is that understood?"
Lance fought to keep from complaining or allowing his hands to clench into fists at the unfairness. "It was a slight error!" he wailed in his mind, thinking of his already small portions getting even smaller for a week. He knew the argument would result in an even greater punishment and being lectured on the same things as always: 'Slight errors are all it takes to be killed on the battlefield,' and 'If you aren't punished, what's to stop the behavior from continuing?' At least he'd already had dinner. Despite his internal war, the teen's face remained blank as he nodded, "Yes, sir."
The man nodded in satisfaction, "Good. Now, then, I called you here to inform you of a surprise."
Lance's back stiffened slightly. His father's 'surprises' tended to involve strange exercises that resulted in sore muscles and painful injuries. Once, there had been a lesson on how to create explosives. Lance had successfully mixed the chemicals and wired the device. But unfortunately, a passing monster had attacked and in the resulting struggle, the bomb had detonated; badly burning the boy. His father had blamed his son for being inattentive, and the resulting beating had been nearly as painful as the blast. That had happened when he was seven.
A later incident had been on his eleventh birthday. His father had left him in the wilderness with only a pocket knife, a sword, a compass, and the clothes on his back. His mission: find the way home in one piece. Lance had been instructed in survival training, but it had only been in theory. The result had been a disaster. He couldn't remember what plants were poisonous, so he avoided eating any; his sustenance came from whatever he could kill or trap. The sword had been far too heavy for him to effectively wield. And it had rained during one of the nights. It had taken him almost a week to get back and he returned with many injuries from monsters, had lost several pounds, and he had caught a cold. Lance had been praised for his swift return and his reward was training in field medicine; the injuries he had sustained being the practice.
"You'll be turning fourteen next week. I have prepared a one-of-a-kind weapon for your present," his father informed him. A cold smile spread across his face at the look of amazement that broke through Lance's impassive mask. "In preparation, we will be spending the next few days teaching you how to properly wield various weapons. The training starts at dawn tomorrow. You are dismissed." With that, the man turned and gazed out the window.
Lance saluted once more and left the room, slowly trudging up the stairs to his bedroom. Along the way, he paused to stare at the sole photo of his mother that hung on the wall in the stairwell. The woman had shoulder length red hair, a mischievous smirk on her face, and a black sword hanging at her waist. One hand steadied a rifle that was propped on the ground, her other hand rested on a five year old Lance's head. The photo had been taken just before she had been killed in a monster attack. Lance could hardly remember her, other than the fact that she'd had a soft voice at odds with the loud weapons she had favored and that she had never agreed with his father. After her death, the man had almost immediately begun treating Lance as a military trainee. On some level, Lance realized that maybe it was his father's way of protecting his son from meeting the same fate as his mother, but he resented the treatment.
The young teen bitterly turned away from the photo and finished climbing the stairs. He headed into his room and shut the door behind him, taking care to lock it. He opted not to turn the lights on and threw himself to lie down on his bed. "Someday, I'm going to get away from here," Lance murmured to himself, "I'll become the strongest person ever and then I'll stop any kind of fighting." He had been telling himself that for almost as long as he could remember.
The teen rolled onto his back, held one hand out in front of him, and concentrated. A small flicker of fire appeared in his palm to dance upwards before vanishing. Idly, Lance wondered if his mother had been able to use magic. He had never asked his father about it, fearing that the man would wonder where the sudden curiosity had come from. His father didn't have magic; Lance knew that for a fact. The teen figured that telling his father about the skill would lead to more crazy drills that Lance wanted no part of. The feeling of using magic was amazing, but he instinctively felt how easily it could run rampant; especially if improperly forced.
Letting his hand drop to the bed, Lance rehashed his plan/dream to become a ruler. With all the military training he had endured, the tactical mind he had inherited from his father, and the magic that he assumed came from his mother, the teen could easily picture himself as a mighty leader. He was still thinking when he drifted off to sleep.
OOOOOO
Lance stifled the yawn that threatened to break out as he listened to his father drone on and on about the pros and cons of various weapons. It was really just review; he had learned all of the specifics of almost all existing weaponry when he had been nine. Finally, the man pulled out a basic sword and handed it over to Lance. The next several hours until lunch were spent on various techniques and stances. After lunch, his father watched as Lance ran through a few forms with the man calling out corrections and commands. They continued in this fashion for three days. Each evening, Lance fell into bed nursing sore muscle and blistered hands.
The next two days were spent on using various kinds of guns. It was quickly discovered that Lance was an excellent shot; able to hit the center of a target with high levels of precision. His father praised the teen and rewarded the excellent marksmanship by repealing the half rations punishment for the last couple of days. From sunrise to sunset for the remainder of the week, gunshots rang out; broken only for a few hours before lunch when Lance continued practicing with a sword. Those evenings, his muscles didn't hurt quite as much, but there was a persistent smell of gunpowder at all times in the house.
OOOOOO
On the day of Lance's fourteenth birthday, his father allowed the teen to sleep in, and to eat as much as he wanted for breakfast. There was no need for any military protocols and the man didn't mention any kind of combat related concepts. After the dishes had been cleared, cleaned and packed away again, the man beckoned his son to follow him.
Lance silently followed behind his father into the man's study. There on the desk was a long and narrow metal case. His father ran a reverent hand over the steel container before standing back and waving for his son to open it. The teen stepped forwards and undid the clasps holding the weapon case shut, holding his breath as he eased the lid open. The hinges swung smoothly and silently and Lance inhaled sharply at the weapon that lay nestled in the velvet interior.
The handle was of smooth black leather. It curved gently, leading to a trigger set just beneath the chamber of a six-shot revolver. The muzzle of the gun was positioned on top of a long black-steel blade. The teen carefully lifted the weapon out of the container and held it in his left hand. Lance suddenly frowned as he looked the gunblade over again. The weapon looked familiar.
"It belonged to you mother," his father said quietly from behind him, "She wanted you to have it when you were old enough."
Lance glanced back over his shoulder at his father, but didn't say anything. That was why it looked familiar: he had seen the weapon many times in the photo hanging over the stairs. He gave a smirk and swung the weapon experimentally. His father murmured something about trying it out in the shooting range. Lance nodded and headed outside.
The gunblade worked like a dream. It was accurate, powerful, ridiculously easy to load, and doubled as a close combat weapon. Lance spent the rest of the day becoming fluid with wielding his new weapon. He found that loading the maximum number of bullets and firing in them in rapid succession was effective, but caused the gunblade to heat up in his hands. The resulting heatwaves that rose from the gun part made it difficult to aim until it had cooled down again.
This weapon was, hands down, the best thing that Lance had ever been given.
OOOOOO
The next two years of Lance's life were more relaxed than all of the peaceful moments of the past ten years of combined. His father, while still usually treating him like a soldier, did not expect the teen to be at perfect attention when greeting him anymore. He was no longer punished for small mishaps in etiquette. But the best part was that their daily training sessions were left entirely up to Lance. His father told him whatever he wanted to focus on, to specialize in, he was free to do.
Lance immediately settled into discovering the finer points of gunmanship, machinery, and—when his father wasn't looking—magic. The teen had begun poking around through his mother's old things in the attic anytime his father was away, and had found old books on mana manipulation and casting. He learned that to effectively and efficiently use magic, it needed to be focused through some kind of enchanted object. The tools ranged from staves, to swords. Even instruments, guns, and books could be used to channel mana, if they had the right enchantments. Lance devoured the books and journals left behind by his late mother. In the bottom of a large trunk he found a massive rifle; the same one his mother's photo depicted. The label stuck to the gun named the weapon as Shadow Blaster. The large rifle was made of almost solid black metal, broken only by thin red lines running from the butt of the gun to the muzzle. Lance added testing the weapon to his secret training list.
By the time his sixteenth birthday rolled around, Lance was an adept fighter. He would often head out into the wasteland surrounding his home and fought the wild beasts from dawn to dusk. The thrill of fighting was an amazing sensation to the young man. His life now was almost… nice, Lance realized. It certainly wasn't 'normal' but the young man wasn't quite sure what normal was for most people. He had a vague idea that most people weren't raised from the age of five to be perfect soldiers, though. Some books he had read indicated that people tended to form bonds of friendship, but those bonds generally got them hurt or killed. It seemed like a waste to Lance. "Why make friends if they're just going to get you killed?" he wondered as he fought a group of slimes one day, "Well, I don't need friends; especially not weak friends."
OOOOOO
By seventeen, Lance's father had died. The older man had been killed by a particularly vicious pair of bears on a hunting trip. Lance mourned the loss of an adept soldier, but not a father. The next several months were spent wandering. Everywhere the young man went, people seemed weak and stupid. He heard the occasional rumor of a pair running around tearing monsters down like they were dolls, but he didn't put any stock in them. Anyone who was that strong wouldn't just run around aimlessly; there was no point. Well, if this Matt and Natalie came across him, he would show them what true power was.
It was during one of the long days in the wilderness that Lance came across an abandoned weapons plant. The gunner shrugged and headed inside. As he explored the building, Lance realized that the facility was still operational, but abandoned. Why it had been abandoned, he didn't know, but this was a golden opportunity. Lance smirked; he would begin his empire with this plant. With minimal effort, the gunner booted up and hacked into the mainframe of the factory. Soon he had the machinery running, and began planning the designs of his soon-to-be robot army. Suddenly, the walls and floor shook. Lance tumbled to the ground where he laid stunned for a few moments before springing to his feet. Rushing to the security room, the gunner scanned the camera feeds.
"Nothing inside," Lance murmured. Turning his gaze to the outdoor feed, the gunner was stunned to find that the sky was flashing constantly with various beams of light. He watched the display for a few moments before shaking his head. Lance frowned, deciding that he had no way of knowing what was going on, and turned away. There were more important things to work on; robots to build, a satellite laser to commandeer; besides, his new Valkyrie Tank should be just about done by now.
OOOOOO
Lance had only been sending robots out to conquer for a few weeks when the factory was assaulted. Checking the video feeds proved useless. Whether on purpose or not, the relevant security cameras had been destroyed, so he couldn't see who had decided to attack. Lance wasn't really surprised by the assault. He had expected someone to come and try to stop him.
"Well, they can bring their armies," Lance thought as he ordered his best robots to deal with the nuisance, "My army will crush them all."
The first real shock the gunner had was when the report came in that his robots had been defeated. Lance frowned and climbed into his Valkyrie Tank. "They must have over whelming numbers or a really good commander," he mused as he piloted the large vehicle out to meet his foes.
The second shock, and far greater than the first, was when Lance finally saw the attackers. He had expected an army or at least a small battalion of highly trained troops. Who the gunner was greeted by was a swordsman and a female mage, neither one being any older than he was. The swordsman had long blond hair, some of which was tied in braids, and his weapon had a gleaming gold and red hilt. The mage had long orange hair, an impressively large bust, and a staff made of some sort of polished wood topped with a blue crystal. Neither one was wearing any heavy armor or had sustained any lasting wounds from Lance's robots.
"Hey, Natz, check out the fancy car!" The swordsman exclaimed to his companion. He pointed straight at the Valkyrie Tank
Whatever 'Natz' had planned to reply with was cut off by Lance popping up to snarl at the insult, "It is a tank not a car."
The pair gaped up at the gunner for a few seconds. The mage muttered something to the swordsman that made him shrug and mutter back. Lance wondered impatiently what it was. Finally, the mage looked back up at the gunner, "Hey, do you mind not, you know, attacking random people with robots? We just saved the world from a megalomaniac zombie and we'd rather not have to fight you."
"Well, I wouldn't mind either way. Natalie is the one with the issue," the swordsman corrected with a grin. He ignored the huff his companion gave.
"Fine, I'd rather not have to fight you, but if Matt does, I do. So please stop?" Natalie said with an irritated glance at Matt.
Lance scowled down at them, recognizing their names. "I am not negotiating any truces with you two," he said in a flat and cold voice. He watched the mage sigh and the swordsman grin as they fell into battle stances. The gunner was confident he could defeat these two. He had made a promise to himself that if he ever met them he would show them what true power was.
OOOOOO
"Why won't they die?" Lance mentally snarled. He had slammed them with several high-level explosives. He had peppered them with volleys of machinegun fire. He had even dropped a gods-damned space laser on their heads. Despite it all, the pair kept fighting, doing immense damage to Lance and his tank. The gunner wouldn't be able to keep it up and he knew it. But if they were going to take him down, he would make it one hell of a struggle.
Matt dove under another wave of bullets and rolled up to stab the Valkyrie Tank. His sword sank through the battered plating, and whatever it hit had an explosive result. Lance found himself briefly airborne before he slammed into the metal floor. Everything hurt, and he could feel blood running from a piece of shrapnel lodged in his shoulder. The gunner watched hazily as Matt approached him, sword in hand. He grudgingly admired their strength and persistence before blacking out.
OOOOOO
Lance came to still lying on the ground, but in far less pain. He could hear a conversation going on nearby. The chatter stopped when the gunner groaned and sat up. Groggily, he realized that someone had removed the chunk of metal from his arm and had healed the wounds that had covered him. Lance opened his eyes to find Matt and Natalie sitting nearby, watching him closely. Matt stood up and approached Lance with his fist held out. The gunner braced himself for an impending blow, but blinked when the fist merely hovered a foot away from him.
"Nice fight," Matt told him with a grin, still holding his fist out.
Lance stared at him in confusion, "Aren't you going to kill me?"
The swordsman scoffed, "Why the hell would I kill such an awesome fighter?"
"I can think of a number of reasons," Lance muttered.
Natalie sighed from where she was sitting, "I don't know where you're from, Mr. Military, but generally, killing people is wrong."
Matt nodded, "What she said." He shook the fist he held out slightly, "C'mon, don't leave me hanging here!"
The gunner wasn't quite sure what Matt wanted, but he hesitantly brought his own fist up and bumped the swordsman's. "Thanks, I guess. You two fought well, too," Lance said. He scoffed suddenly, "Better than I did, certainly."
"Nah, you did fine," Matt assured the gunner, grasping his wrist and hauling him up to his feet. "It's just because Natz and I are an awesome team. Now let's go get some food! I'm starving!" He turned and started walking off with Natalie scrambling up to join him. The pair paused and glanced back in confusion when Lance remained where he was. "Are you coming?" Matt asked; Natalie waited expectantly beside him.
Lance stared at them. They were by far the strangest people the gunner had ever met. He had just tried very hard to kill one or both of them, and they want to know if he'd join them for some food? Lance shook his head in confusion and took a few hesitant steps towards the pair. When Matt simply grinned and Natalie raised an eyebrow as if to ask what was taking so long, Lance gave a small grin of his own. The expression felt weird on his face, but definitely nice. They were warriors like him and their acknowledgement of his own skills took the sting out of his defeat. Lance followed the pair out of the factory and to a nearby town.
OOOOOO
Later, after copious amounts of alcohol and energy drinks, Matt extended an invitation for Lance to join their team. The gunner was taken aback by the offer. Natalie was inanely giggling nearby. She nodded her tipsy agreement when he glanced at her. Lance thought back to his former thoughts of friendship. Maybe if his friends were as strong, or stronger, than he was, then having a few wouldn't be so bad.
Lance smirked at Matt, "Sure, why not?"
A/N: Not sure if this was what you had in mind, but I hope you liked it anyway. :3 Also, I would like to apologize for the horrible faux-military posturing. I have no idea how any of that actually goes. :P
