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The Red Army. A force that came out of nowhere, or it looked like it. An undergoing army that was being built from years and years of propaganda, effort and recruitment, working on having the best of the best. People who followed its leader like a loyal dog, helping its most important member, their commander make his goal achievable; rule the world.
He didn't know exactly what caused him to have such a strong desire to lead a big group like this. To prove others what he’s capable of. His people. The followers of the Red Leader. An association so massive, built on promises and blood. Tord really has assembled something incredible out of scratch and pure smooth talk, nobody can say otherwise. People follow him trustfully, despite not really having a clear goal besides winning over the Resistance that had raised against him. He wanted more power. More control over everything.
So much so, he wasn't sure where his limit was. Nor if he was going to be able to reach it at any point.
He had lost so many things to achieve where he was, and was willing to keep sacrificing to find more and more, trying to fix the emptiness of his chest with more power. Try to make his ego be content with what he has, without feeling like everyone who's working under him is going to betray him at any moment because of the cruel actions he has done in the past to get where he is.
It was a paradox that didn't let him rest. One that didn't let him enjoy the pride that has brought what he's done, doing and will do. The same feeling that always pressed him to work over time, despite his body begging for rest. He couldn't let his guard down, and he couldn’t stop working.
Nobody dared to tell him to stop. To make him rest. That is a thing of the past. Nobody questions a ruler like him. Tord is the Red Leader, he has to stand up by the name he has built, and always have the last word where it mattered the most. Because of it, he often forgets that he actually has people that care for him despite living in such a dark world, filled with machinery clacking in the distance and screams of training soldiers.
Or, well, at least, in his perception, there were people that used to care.
"Sir." A voice makes it through the thick air of this office, the click of boots on the floor lets him know who it is without needing to look up. "The mission was achieved successfully." The man with a visor said, green pixels glitching slightly in the small screen, acting like his eyes, mirroring exactly the expression that laid under them. The black void-like eyes he knew so well since he was a mere teenager, now shining with that constant blank expression, devoid of any joy.
"Report." He muttered, finally looking up, just to see how the officer tensed up partially, Tord looked at him closely.
Tord knew Tom more than anyone, in more aspects than one. Their friendship started when they were very young, compared to now, things have changed significantly. Nothing was like it was before, and it didn’t need to be said out loud. They used to be way closer, gentler to each other, care for the other, and at the same time, fight over ridiculous stuff, beat the shit out of the other to prove their point across. It was a weird sway that worked for them, or at least, they thought so.
At the beginning it was pure love, there’s no way of denying that. Tord fell for Tom, and Tom fell for Tord. Despite them not talking about it, it was painfully obvious. Anxious, young guys spending way more time together, going to the house of the other, laughing together, crying together… They were definitely a thing. Until one of them decided to prove the devotion of the other. With adulthood, Tord grew more… impulsive. It was always fun to tease and make Tom angry, and still, the other man would go back to him, it didn’t matter how annoying he would get.
They were like magnets, they would always end up together despite everything. At first, it would be mere ragebait, then small pranks, growing into bigger “pranks”, punches, fights. It looked like they hated each other, and one wanted to kill the other one, because Tom didn’t back off when Tord started a fight, which was best for him, Tom followed exactly his plan. The memory made him smile, a twisted, strange feeling of something that he couldn’t quite describe without being so corny.
“Are you even listening, sir?” Tom asked, green pixels displaying a small frown of annoyment, the leader reacted shaking his head, Tom clicked his tongue. “Something on your mind?” He asked out of sheer politeness, Tord only stared back for a bit longer, to then let out a short sigh.
“...Keep your work up.” He replied, turning back to the papers on his table, while going to reach for his pen to continue his work, something went wrong. A small grunt left his lips, trying to be repressed with his teeth, but it was too late, too loud.
That was right. His left arm. One of his masterpieces, yet, his biggest reminder on who he was now. His mechanical arm, the scary and perfect example that he was still a mere human. The memory stayed fresh on his mind. The afternoon he came back just to search for his creation, the one he was the proudest at the moment, just to be harshly taken away from him. For the first time, his plan failed, ruined by none other than…
“Are you okay, sir?” Tom's voice cut through the memories, not erasing them, but increasing them. Tord kept a blank expression, yet, the stiffness of his robotic arm let pain slip through, which made him grimace a little, despite trying hard in hiding it. He saw Tom’s figure approach slightly towards him, just for him to similarly back off.
They used to be so close. Oh, so often on top of each other, touching, grabbing hands, caressing. And now, it was a very, very rare occasion. Tord always felt like Tom was ready to sink a dagger right onto his back at any moment he had the opportunity, and he wasn’t going to let him, not when Tom pleased.
The soldier froze in place, backing off with a small sigh, lowering his head as he waited in silence for any answer, with the lack of one, he timidly spoke again.
“Do you need assistance with your arm?” He asked, sounding genuinely worried through all the politeness, drowned over that extreme disgusting attitude he has developed after working under his command.
That fucking demeanor it’s what made Tord’s blood to boil. Now, this new version of him was suddenly so… Devoted, so falsely open to him, ready to serve in whatever he needed or pleased. And it made him deeply sick, sick to his stomach, wanting to throw up his guts and erase all the past they had together, since, in Tord’s mind, Tom was the first one to ruin everything, and now, it looked like he was trying to fix everything.
Why? Why would he do that?
Why would he bother shooting a harpoon at his masterpiece to destroy it? To try to kill him? What was he thinking? Did he at least feel sorry? Did he feel bad after almost killing him? Did he feel guilty after destroying half of his face and almost making him lose his arm?
Again. Why? He couldn’t find an answer. And he has searched for years.
At the same time, he couldn’t answer his own question either.
“...Are you good at cleaning guns, soldier?” He asked, sighing shortly, looking up at Tom, who certainly looked surprised by the lack of an objection.
“Yes I am, sir. One of the best.” Tom replied firmly, nodding as he stared at the Red Leader’s standing form, walking towards a big, dark wooden cupboard in the office, to then retrieve a small box, holding it with his real hand, his other arm stiffen in every movement, somehow, managing to not grunt at the irregularity of his machinery. Soon, he sat down again on his big chair, silently inviting Tom to sit beside him on the desk.
“Then let’s see how good you actually are.” Tord said, having to frown slightly when he placed his arm on the table, and examining by his own. Tom just stared for a bit, apparently caught off guard by the sudden trust placed upon him. Quickly, pulling his feelings aside, he sat close to his boss, interested in the artifact.
Tord’s arm was really a piece of work. It wasn’t fully mechanical, it had living tissue, what was left of his arm was inside it, covered now and protected with a butch of wires, screws, and metal, which let him experience pain from it still, yet, a better mobility because he didn’t lose the full limb. It was quite complicated, a full on lottery when it came to functionality sometimes. It let him be stronger with it, but the pain resulting from the effort was hell. There were nights where he didn’t even need to be making any effort with it, the pain was awful, debilitating, deep inside right to the bone that made him want to scream his lungs out to see if it would help to seize it. But he just laid in his bed, trying to not pathetically cry over it, tears falling miserably on his cheeks.
The Norwegian popped up a lid with a considerate size from his arm, exposing some of the internal cavity of the arm. You couldn’t see the vivid tissue there, but it was really… Impressive, how it was on the inside. Not even Tord had grown fully accustomed to it, it was intimidating, even for him, which made cleaning it quite the task sometimes, as a result, it led to negligence, causing malfunctions like the stiffening he was suffering now. Tord let out a long sigh as he moved his arm around, trying to find where the exact problem was, Tom only stared at him, waiting for his orders.
At some specific movement, it got stuck, making him grunt with a specific painful jab on his forearm, Tom got surprised, arms raising as if to assist in whatever he needed, and still, didn’t fully reach for him just yet. Both just stared at each other for a moment, the air was clearly tense. Neither of them have had experience being this close in a quite long time. It was normal to be so awkward, yet, there was no space for error here. Despite being a trial to prove Tom’s loyalty to Tord after all that has happened, the stakes were real. Tord was actually letting Tom touch one of his biggest vulnerabilities right now.
“Are you nervous?” Tord asked. In the past, there would be an annoying smirk on his face, one familiar to Tom. Right now, there was just a cold stare down on his eyes at the blue soldier, looking at those “eyes”, green pixels hitching slightly. Regardless of the scenario, Tom didn’t show any weakness. Tord didn’t know how to feel about that.
“No, sir. Ready for duty.” Tom answered unemotionally, reaching for the small box, and pulling some of the tools he normally used to clean guns. Long, narrow and pointy tools to reach into the small crevices of the arm. Without any more chatting, he began to work.
Silence was heavy, too thick. With pride so heavy on his shoulders, the Red Leader wasn't going to be the one who lightened up the ambience. He was too busy acting strong, to not show vulnerability, exposing his damaged arm to the one who fucked it up in the first place was enough of a low place to be in. However, Tord could feel Tom wasn’t exactly as relaxed as he showed himself to be, which was exactly what he wanted to see, he wanted Tom to be below him. He needed to be on top. The one on command. He was the leader, after all. He must have all the control.
Minutes pass by, the blue soldier keeps working diligently, cleaning though the narrow cracks in Tord’s arm, scratching and softly cleaning any tiny piece of dirt and grime there was. It was mostly old oil that was waiting to be scraped out and replaced. He took his sweet time making sure it was fully clean before continuing to any other part of his arm. Tord sat in place, looking at Tom work, slowly, things relaxed slightly. The air was still complicated, but there was some kind of… Familiarity with it. Probably the uncountable times Tom actually helped Tord to clean his wounds, or just when they became too touchy in the younger years.
Pain brought him to the present. He flinched a little by a certain poke in some part of his arm, the soldier backed off, just to stare at his commander, waiting for an answer.
“Are you okay, sir?” He asked. “I’ll be more careful.” Tord jerked his face up. Expressions clear of surprise quickly erased into his apathetic one, and with a nod, he let Tom proceed.
“Continue.” Tord murmured. The blue soldier obediently did. “Don’t delay. It’s going to take forever if you keep working at that pace, soldier.” He added, no reaction from the mentioned one.
He struggled not to let his breathing hitch at every small poke in some parts of his arm. If he hated doing it by himself, not caring about making it hurt (instead, searching for that sensation), he hated even more that Tom was the one doing it now. It felt like he was actually trying to be gentle and still be efficient. He was simply more sensitive here, internally being more scared of getting hurt on purpose than anything else. His elbow stung all the way to what was left of his hand, all of his fingers tensing up in a fist as pain rushed through his whole body.
The warmth of the fire surrounding him. The sickening crack of the metal of the machinery crumbling down. And that damn cold harpoon by his side. He wasn’t capable of seeing his expression after that. All he heard was that damn phrase, “I’m not your friend!” Cold in rage, angry as he shook to probably kill him, voice cracking in the distance and it was deeply burned on his brain.
God, he hated coming back. It only frustrated him. He wanted to see him for the last time. He wanted to see how pissed he was. How hateful those eyes looked at him once he did what he did. His reaction. That was everything that he wanted.
He was a fucking liar.
Pain was becoming too much, he didn’t want to be touched. Especially not by him, not right now, not with him acting like that. He has changed so much, it hurts. It hurt deeply inside. Tord knew it was a weakness. A pure, raw sentiment of something too blurry to describe, too abstract it was impossible to show by actions, or said in words. Something he didn’t even understand, and probably never will if Tom insists on staying by his side like this.
He wanted to ruin him again. He wanted to return what he did to him, make him remember who really was in charge. Who was the one who gave his vision back. Who was the one with power in here. Something. Anything.
“Stop.” Tord managed to say in between his teeth. “That’s enough.” He repeated, before his thoughts became too dark, a scene wasn’t exactly what neither of them needed at that moment. Tom did as told, and raised his arms in surrender, the Leader took a moment to breathe properly, not even noticing when his breathing was so ragged and uneven. Even Tom let out a long sigh he didn’t notice he was holding.
“...My apologies, sir.” Tom muttered as Tord finished up his arm with some oil from the small box, just looking at him with his head slightly hanging in a short bow. “Next time I’ll make sure to fully fulfill your expectations.” He said, silently standing up to stand momentarily in front of the desk, just to admire Tord’s messed up factions. Silence was heavy again, back to square one, if they even made any progress in that painfully long session. Tord felt a pang of something when he interrupted what looked like Tom about to say something.
“I want to ask you something, Thomas.” He looked up, standing up as he tried to move his arm, visibly more functional than before, but not showing any relief by it. “How does it feel to fix something you destroyed before?” He questioned, hands slowly retreating to his back, chest up as he saw the expression on Tom’s face. Trying to read it. Trying to find a meaning to those glitches in his eyes displayed.
Still. Before giving him any chance to answer, he broke eye contact, lowering his face, expression cold as he gave one last order. Before he felt too guilty to treat him like this. Before it was too late to keep his image up.
“Dismiss.”