Chapter Text
Ever since he became the Red Leader, Tord lives in his own shadow. He is used to it by now. The Red Leader is a strong, iron fisted ruler who aims to take over the world. Brooding, serious, and everything Tord has ever wanted to be. Tord is not that.
Tord looks in the mirror at his scarred face, running his hand over the burnt texture. Sure, it made him look badass, but when Tord looked at it, that wasn’t what he saw. When Tord looked in the mirror, and especially at his burnt side, he simply knew he was ugly. It was hard not to think about, especially with his new prosthetic arm as a constant reminder.
He directed his gaze to his once deep green, now milky white eye. He was blind in that eye. It ruined his depth perception, and he was now quite clumsy. Staring in the mirror too long hurt for more reasons than that, though. Holding his gaze on his face hurt the most, but even looking at the mirror, not even at his own face, brought a feeling inside him.
He stepped away from the mirror, hands held behind his back with stiff posture. Every morning, he forced himself to look in the mirror for at least ten minutes. He forced himself to analyze his own features, and to think about what brought him here. To think about everything he has done to get where he is today.
He rested his cold metal hand against the golden doorknob. Tord knew it was really just ostentatious to have pure gold doorknobs, but if he had money, he was going to live luxuriously. It felt weird to not be able to feel it. Tord would never get used to the lack of feeling in his prosthetic.
A deep breath in, and he stepped back into his office. His back wall was lined with weapons. Most of them were decommissioned guns, only for show. Some of them, though, were not just for show. But it was not time for that yet. Tord sat in his chair. It was a swivel chair.
He shifted uncomfortably, doing a spin around and resting his legs on the desk with a small chuckle. It made him feel powerful. It did not make him feel happy, despite what he tried to tell himself. He had control of most of the world, now. The Red War was bloody. It had been going on for a while now. Tord was bored. Unbelievably, awfully, bored. He didn’t have as much paperwork to do now that the war was ongoing. Paul handled commanding the armies for the most part. Tord felt like a headpiece.
He pondered himself for a few moments as he tore his legs off of his desk and pushed himself into a more leader-like position. He was the Red Leader. To some, a Tyrant. To some, a Hero. To some, they could care less. But to a special few, he was an old friend. Tord cringed, staring at the bill he’d been writing up. The ban of cola. If Edd were still alive, this would draw him out. The name of his old friend felt stale in his mouth. Like he was not meant to even think of Edd.
The Red Leader doesn’t need friends. He needs soldiers. Comrades. Weapons. But not friends. Certainly not friends.
The Red Leader was strict. The Red Leader was confident, resilient. Tord was not. Well. Tord was confident. And resilient, perhaps. But Tord was not strict. Or very strong. He relied on guns to fix his problems.
Who needs friends? He had a giant robot!
His eyes drifted to a picture on his desk. His portrait of himself, ‘RED LEADER” engraved proudly in gold below the menacing face of himself. Next to it, was a picture of four people. One in a Green hoodie. One in a Blue hoodie. One in a purple hoodie, with a green overcoat. And one in a red hoodie. The one in the red hoodie’s face was scratched out, but they were all in linked arms for the picture. They were all laughing. They were all friends.
Tord pushed the picture face down, so he didn’t have to see it.
He sighed, knowing he could put off doing his morning broadcast no longer. He cleared his throat, did a quick microphone check, and started his broadcast.
“Good morning, Red Nation! It is I, your glorious leader, bringing you the morning broadcast. The takeover of the few remaining nations is going splendidly, and it should not take long before the entire world has become my nation. We will live in prosperity, and it shall be peacetime soon. All hail the Red Leader! Live red, die red. That is all for today. Goodbye Red Nation.” With a click, he ended the broadcast.
He stared for a few moments. Doing nothing. Feeling nothing. Then he snapped into work. He had sent Patryck out on the wild goose chase he’d been at since the start of this war. There were wanted posters of them everywhere. Three people he’d been looking for. To capture. To detain. The Red Leader wanted to punish them for how they had treated him. For how they had tried to stop him. For destroying half of his face.
Tord did not. Tord wanted to find them.
He messed with his pen idly. A frantic knock on the door. To his office. No one was permitted to enter his office unannounced. And only a select few were allowed to knock on his door without scheduling a meeting first.
“Who is it?” He demanded, voice loud and assertive in case it was someone who was not Paul or Patryck.
There was a muffled shout, “Only, me, sir! May I come in?” came Patryck’s light voice.
Tord scrunched his nose. There were very few reasons Patryck would come back this early. He did a quick scan through of his options.
1: He found one of them, but they were dead.
2: He didn’t find one of them, and something devastating had happened that he needed to be warned of
3: He got bored and came back. (Tord would scold him if it was this.)
Or…
4: He found one of them.
“Come in, Patryck.” He said, trying to keep his voice steady. He sucked in a breath. He needed to reign in his excitement. Lower his expectations.
Patryck practically burst through the door with his leader's permission, tripping over himself as he slammed his hands down on the Leader’s desk.
“Tord,” He took a moment to catch his breath. He was one of the few people he permitted to call Tord by his name, and not the garish title of Red Leader.
“Breath, Patryck. This had better be important.” He stuck to his Red Leader persona. This was an easy way for Patryck to tell he was nervous- when alone, Tord would typically be relaxed. He was scared. Patryck could tell. Tord didn’t have any physical tells to outsiders, but to those close to him-... it was obvious.
“Sir. We’ve found one of them.”
Tord let himself let out a sigh of relief, looking down at the ground. The Red Leader would ponder every best way to torture them.
“Patryck… Great work.” An easy smile fell on his face- a true one. “Now, if you could tell me, which one did you find?”
Patryck seemed a bit hesitant to answer. “The one who shot you with a harpoon gun.”
A deep groan emitted from Tord’s throat. He pushed himself up out of his chair and walked around to the front of his desk, next to Paul. “Where have you left him, then?’
“He is in detainment- I put him in a private cell closer to your office, rather than the main cells.” Not that they get much use, either, Patryck thought thankfully.
It gets lonely at the top. Tord certainly knew that much. He was glad one of his... enemies had been found, though he wished it were one who wasn’t as difficult as Tom was. For Tom, he knew from the start, would be the hardest to deal with if he were ever found.
The Red Leader would kill Tom without a second thought. Or perhaps maim him enough to leave him on the precipice of death, but leave him alive just to suffer. The Red Leader would not care one bit for the Jehovah’s Witness. The Red Leader would get revenge. Tord would be terrified. Concerned. Ask if Tom was okay, especially in the spite of this war. Sure, they’d had their quarrels in the past, but they were friends at the end of the day. Tord would tease him, but would show genuine concern. The Red Leader would not.
Tord lives within his own shadow.
No.
The Red Leader lives within his own shadow. For it was never Tord- the fun, difficult at times, teasing Tord- who lived in the shadow of The Red Leader. It was The Red leader- The cruel, ambitious, confident Red Leader- who lived in the shadow of Tord.
It was a tyrant living within the shadow of someone who was once a good friend.
The Red Leader followed Patryck to Tom’s cell.