* DEFENDER.

for the future.

[hamartioarchive]

❛ viktor. ❜ somehow, it feels foreign speaking his name, addressing him—looking at him. that metallic visage, how daunting it seemed; he feels as if it were taunting him, no words needed to show the consequences of his own actions. there is no going back anymore. ❛ i need to speak with you. please. ❜ [ hi nox take this random ask ]

@pilted is gonna get kicked in the ass.

THE GLOW OF THE EYES BENEATH THE MASK DOES NOT BETRAY the nature of what it conceals: there is less flesh beneath it than there was the last time they spoke on terms beyond aggression. it's still more than he wishes there to be, less man and more vessel; he who heralds a new era must not falter in its convictions and when has he ever allowed himself such luxury? ever since the very start, his way was paved with adversity and one by one, he's taken them down, no matter the measures it took him, no matter the sacrifices.

to leave himself behind to craft himself out of his own purpose—what could be purer, more honest than that? ideal made into reality, dream made concrete. if he was to guide them, he should be the light in itself. this was something he had made up in his mind ages ago but even so, he still feels a pang of bitterness, a pang of sentiment unfitting of a herald.

no matter. he could fix it, as he often did.

"—what do you plan to gain addressing a dead man, defender?" the tone that comes out of his mouth is cold but not quite unkind. patient in the way one may address a stubborn child, veering towards condescension. he is not yet free of emotion, no matter how close he gets to that end-goal. "this viktor you speak of is long gone. you made sure to bury him with your heroic whims."

[ THE MEMORIES ARE HAZY, BUT PRESENT STILL: the blinding light of the cracking crystal, the burning of its pure energy searing away at his flesh. weak, as always, it had proven easier to discard afterwards. haphazardly, of course, given the nature of the emergency, but still according to plan all the same. on the other end, as the direct causative, a man he once called a friend. a man he once shared a dream with. fools, them both, to think their path would not veer away from one another—but that is past now, and all is well with this heart of his, made of metal, made of the very ideals that set them apart. ]

he gazes away, however, the dim lights of the undercity, caused by the grey, still not enough to conceal the way he seems to resign himself to this foolishness. as at odds as they may have been and likely still are, the man before him is brilliant and as his sight has been cleared of resentment, he figures there may be benefits to conversation as long as there is clarity in their terms.

he has never been anything if not objective. they both shared the trait, though now he sees jayce in a far different light. when he speaks again, the metallic rasp of his voice is slightly louder, making the vocal augmentations all too obvious; they had not been designed, no, but necessary if he did not want to lose speech permanently after that incident. "the dead have no say. if you still wish to talk, i shall listen."

[pilted]

do a flip

you first goody two-shoes

[pilted]

unprompted.     /     always accepting   !!

@hamartio​ said :   "your flesh is fallible. you, as usual, have chosen the moral high ground—a pity it does not net you any true victory, jayce." metallic digits dig into jayce's jawline, droplets of blood smearing the dark steel. his grip is unyielding, unkind, but there is something possessive underneath, something still feeling underneath the monstrosity the herald has become. he hums, the sound taunting. "a pity that only stops you from reaching true progress."

              THIS IS THE PRICE OF WAR.     to wage war against creator is to defy metallic,     unloving hand whose purpose serves for naught but its master     (   forsaken friend,     embers of camaraderie dying    &    yielding to ferocious winds of war    ;    here,     this battlefield,     fate has forced their hands in direct opposition of each other.   ),     seeking to subdue those that dare not bear the calamity of such lofty,     atrocious ideals.     perchance therein lies his first flaw,     a weakness he may concede to silently,     but not here,     not fucking here.     not when he is at the hands of the enemy,     forced to endure humiliation for failing,     failing title bestowed unto him.     no sentimental value sought from it,     but t'was all a duty that he abided by,     to prevent viktor from ever becoming this,     from ever harming anyone else again.

but he is the fool.

              reveling in virtuous truthisms is a practical concept that may present favorable results with each step,     each breath,     each conversation.     it's,     as logic dictates,     simple,     humane,     to mend the wrongdoings of the past,     to acknowledge them    &    understand    &    grow.     for years,     years was he the fool to think there'd been some progress.     the fault falls on him,     for believing change could be found at the heart of one so void of any true emotion,     the viktor of now is but a husk of the past.     his goals achieved,     but all at the cost of an intelligible man whose intellect rivaled his own,     partners through a sense of mutual understanding,     blind to time's flow    &    endless nuisance of chatter around,     there existed none but them through each heated discussion,     through each exchange of ideals,     through each    &    every subtle action,     it was not sin to fall.     man must rise,     man must fall,     such natural cycle has been adopted for eons,     for it is natural,     it is natural     ————————————     the monster before him is not.     but a monster is not natural    ;    no,     a monster is far more fearsome than any being nature could conjure,     it is an imposing force that cannot be bound by natural law,     a monster is artificial,     a monster is a product of man,     not unlike the one before jayce.

              ❛     better to be on the moral high ground.     ❜     steady breath,     despite battered exterior    ;    direct opposition,     even in the hands of the enemy,     hope shall not die.     (   this is not viktor   ),     rivulets of pure crimson ran down bonny features,     fresh wounds all but forgotten,     a new problem to mend by own calloused hands.     (   this is not viktor   )     blame must fall on him,     defender of tomorrow,     for allowing this to happen,     for granting the beast before him a rise to order.      one fight has been lost,     but he must not die here    ;    not yet,     not until insatiable hands seek    &    find metallic digits,     not until own firm grip destroys each    &    every one for even touching him,     not until the herald is no longer an amalgam of parts to form a shadow of the true man,     but to resemble the debris of mass destruction around him.     there may be no end in sight,     but he refuses to remain subservient to one who'd dare strip humanity of its agency.     ❛    true progress can only be achieved by living,     breathing beings.     last i checked     ...     don't think you have neither of the needed qualities.     something like you could never     ——————     will never know what true progress is.     ❜

[pilted]

hamartio​:

@pilted​

I WANT TO MAKE IT UP TO YOU.

the words that slip past jayce’s lips are far too absurd, far too sacrilegious even for a man devoid of religious faith—the people-made messiah of zaun does not believe in miracles nor does he believe in redemption, atonement. these are soft-boned principles meant for those who cling to emotion; there’s no point in redeeming what has long gone by, nor any point in dwelling in a past that has shaped him and propelled him further into his own brand of progress, into his own  evolution. every night spent awake over betrayal & loss, every night spent wasting away within the plight of flesh, it only served him to STRENGTHEN his resolve, STEEL his mind in his ideology.

in a way, as much as he finds jayce despicable in his very nature, in all the human weakness he embodies and seems to thrive upon revering, he has much to thank the fool for.

where would he be, had he not made his life hell?

would he have been strong enough without the hardships he faced to strip himself of his own body, of his own sense of self, had he not been given such clear display of how pernicious all of it truly is?

lips thin into a line, but the other does not see it, not with the herald’s face hidden behind a mask. he still has a face, despite the many augments beneath. “ah. i see, you want… to make it up to me,” his voice is more static than anything else, torches of neon in place of what once had been stern light browns. kuznetsov is a man anymore, no, but a concept: a better version of himself, closer to being flawless than whatever jayce ever knew had been. “make up for what, defender?” the title is used as a reminder of the distance established between them as he towers above the inverse mirror the piltovan before him is.

the cyborg comes nearer and something about him is still irrevocably human in spite of all he may claim. something sinister, hardly as innocuous and unfeeling as steel. he feels, he festers, he has yet to reach perfection, but he’s set on this path, he’s set on his way—

“after all, all you have done me was a favor. all you have done my cause was to bolster it, though most certainly without intent.” the sneer is subtle in his tone, absent in his face, but perfectly conveyed in his wording. viktor passes past the other, mask turning briefly towards the other man, and though there is nothing organic about his gaze anymore, the disdain in his gaze is clear as day, even in the eternal gray of zaun, “—now, leave zaun before someone recognizes you and makes you.”

it is the last advice he offers jayce before walking onward into the well-known alleyways of his dying city. he hopes it is the last of all words he may offer the other, but he knows the stubbornness of this one far too well to find any substance to the wistful thought.

[pilted]

die ugly

come kill me urself sheriff

[pilted]

unprompted.     /     always accepting   !!

@hamartio​ said :   "color me surprised," the herald's tone just isn't half as poisonous as it should be because of his augments, because of the metallic tone underlying his words. "but i did not expect to see the defender of tomorrow in zaun. not even in the entresol." there's no threat in his tone, just a bitterness typical to whatever interactions they have had the past many years.

              PRIDE'S EVERY SHADE DEEPLY WOVEN INTO HEART,     swelling    &    aching,     incessant beat promoting growth from scarred past     //     such does intact intellect state,     deriving answer from mundane concepts that heart could never begin to understand     ————    constant opposition,     clashing at every opportune moment,     ideological differences at center of conflict,     forced to antagonize one another for sake of progress.     forsaking prior notions of cooperation to pave way for those beneath them     (   oh,     how they must pursue guiding lights of tomorrow   !     how collective gaze of masses fixates on battered mind    &    heart,     whose goals remain in eternal conflict   !!   ),     this was now how it was meant to be.     //     growth comes not from every beat.     in lieu of desired progress,     shard of eternal reminiscence at each heart's bump against chest,     replaying fatal moments of their downfall,     where heart    &    soul,     conjoined under teachings of free will,     advocate for law of nature,     clamor that to be bounded by law of nature    &    not law of man is only possible means to move forward   !

& he still stands by it.

              sought light not a blinding one    ;    rather,     it is virtuous in design,     it is correct,     it is still the best possible solution.     to relinquish control is to forego sense of self.     to be blessed with opportunity to make smallest move,     minute act,     curling of digits for one,     it is to be granted liberty through nature's law.     safety priority,     always has been,     but not at expense of innate control over one's own actions.

& yet, he is here.

              foggy mist over head fails to mask darkness of night,     inky canvas above head,     blessing of light not yet bestowed upon.     supposed twinkling stars did not gleam,     for each star's fate known    :    bright light approaching inevitable dying ember,     marching towards end of time,     extinguished by her merciful hands.     natural light shall not be offered on this descent,     no,     no,     for varied lights of buildings around compensate what illumination drapes over city of zaun    ;    intensity without limits at some corners,     marking each step a natural flow that did not necessitate any prior musing where each foot must land,     no worry,     no worry.     vestiges of guiding light now more apparent with each further step,     treading towards entresol with meticulous steps,     every move slow    &    hesitant as doubt's lingering whispers plague every thought,     every step.     instilled in mind     ...     fear of falling   ?     or shall it be demons of the past,     their endless conquest seizing each untouched corner,     cooing placid sonatas with every intent of bringing to fruition seed of doubt lying at root of heart   ?     no,     NO   !!!

              he can't back down now.     not when he's already here.     (   why are you here   ?   )     to talk to him.     (   nothing will ever be the same   )     at what cost   ?     to remain in silent at stalemate where neither dared entertain thought of confrontation   ?     are they to be land    &    sea,     destined to never meet over theoretical differences   ?     shall stifling air caught in throat never experience flight   ?     gods.     resolute may heart's senses be,     mustered strength cannot be found.

              he stands before his door.     one minute.     two minutes.     five.     ten.     lavenders commit to naught more but gaze at frame,     at unopened entrance,     eyes shifting slightly to own gloved hand,     contemplating success of this     ————    whatever this is.     there is no time for sustained interaction,     for the days where they conversed from dawn's rise to dusk's fall are but honeyed memories that do not reflect current truth,     the objective truth which he so pursues to understand.     fate dictates such    :    strain in relationship continues to exist,     a malign factor that must be ceased to return to far gone glory days.     to speak to him again.     (     oh,     how foolish he for conjuring the thought,     but to dream is to feel,     to feel is to be   )     here to instigate first step,     courage's blessing facilitating his descent to mezzanine of zaun.     to leave behind comfort of city that acclaims him as hero.     to descend into town he'd sworn to never visit at prime of his youth.     to mend what an inventor's hand cannot hope to fix by own means    :    a friendship he yet yearns for   !!

he does not knock.

              deep inhale,     exhale,    &    he resolves to leave,     nearly turning on own heel 'till that door opens before him,     rendering jayce speechless for few moments at that familiar voice.     his voice.     deeply ingrained into each vocable a metallic tone,     a bitterness of the past revived yet again through mere reminder of all that happened.     resentment binded itself to both hearts,     coiling 'round organ,     for the woes    &    sorrow both inflicted on each other,     for the aching pangs at chest that wished for the past,     to return to simpler days,     to again have partner at his side.     he must not falter.     he must not falter.     not before him.     not if very moment was key that conjoined separate paths.     not if future can be crafted to have both at each other's side,     two minds of superior intelligence resolute to seek dulcet middle ground for each theory,     each invention they created.

              ❛     viktor.     ❜     foreign.     movements of the mouth,     drop of his name,     feels so foreign against own tongue,     rising cacophony at heart from slight utterance.     silence ensues,     lights around them dim,     shadows accentuated on jayce's personage    ————————    fortune favoring oncoming bravado,     lilac orbs betraying donned veil.     all for the sake of pride.     ❛    what can i say   ?     i just wanted to take a stroll.     ❜     hearty,     nearly convincing chuckle,     lacking any heart or passion whatsoever.     curve of his lips upward into grin is faux.     it's fatiguing.     this façade shall not be the foundation for brighter future.     it won't.      ❛     found myself here.     ❜     truth is difficult.     it is an obstacle as much as it is a virtue.     brows furrow,     no vestiges of prior grin as lips press into fine line.     for a man acclaimed as light of tomorrow,     there is no light in those eyes who have since then lost their spark upon past's folly.     doubt inhibits progress through perilous journey.     he must eradicate it.     ❛     viktor,     ❜     so comes forthright query,     foot conscious pressed betwixt frame    &    door,     cautious prevention of letting of them escape this.     it's time to stop running.     ❛     can we talk   ?     ❜     he blinks.     once,     twice.     laced in his tone a melancholic bitterness.

              ❛     i'm not taking no for an answer.     ❜

[pilted]

omg tag dump?