why should i resolve things peacefully when i can fucking punch you in the face
Not today Justin
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@rogueborde
why should i resolve things peacefully when i can fucking punch you in the face
B O O K M A R K !
FIRST SERGEANT GUILLAUME “ROGUE” BORDE · 23 · SABOTEUR · SHADOWED COMMANDO · TAKEN
"I want to dig out what is ancient in me. The mistaken-for-monster, its ophidian prowl, its raven-cursed rudiment."
ORIGIN:
Avignon, France
TRAITS:
+ Efficient, Reserved, Self-Reliant
- Apathetic, Reckless, Vengeful
BIOGRAPHY:
THERE IS A WAR OUTSIDE, COME SEE THE BULLETS FLY.
Guillaume Borde was born into a family struggling to stay afloat. He was an older brother of three young sisters whom were triplets, and son of a father who turned to alcohol when the days became particularly tough. His mother, although a charismatic woman, often disappeared for weeks at a time for more unsavory ways to bring in an income. Guillaume may have been a young boy, but he was no fool, and the bruises his mother wore home caused much strife between his parents.
The farm they resided on failed to produce crops. The soil was just as rotten as the land. Guillaume worked hard to till, plant, water, plow, and simply do; all to no avail. The land took so much of his life that for most of it he was a self-educated boy hardly enrolled in school. Showing up two days in a row was a miracle.
The depression, like many within its wake, did nothing to aid the struggling family. Guillaume traded hard labor for things as simple as clothes, making sure his sisters always came before him. His work ethic and efforts spread throughout the area, and soon he was hired by quite the wealthy family, the Belleroses. He became the stablehand of their estate, and it took no time at all to be considered family. Guillaume was a young man they found much potential in, and knowing of his struggles back home, they paid him generously.
With his new paycheck, Guillaume’s mother was able to abandon her less desirable occupation and further depend on her son. His father had even found himself eager to pursue the war effort and abstained from liquor. Not long after the Bordes were relatively back on their feet the Durants entered the picture. They were a family with problems of their own, but more importantly, a family the Bordes took in to protect. Refugees; within a quickly dilapidating world filled with rules that made little sense as Hitler reigned.
During the Durants stay Guillaume came rather close to Tristan. The boy became his first true friend who also shares a passion for books. They got along well, the relationship progressed, and for a while it was easy to look over the fact that the Durants and Bordes were both in danger. The Bordes kept them fed, kept them alive, and hid all identity and knowledge of their existence. The Durants, of course, could not stay forever. The Gestapo arrived only three days after the family had moved out.
The Borde family perished. They risked their lives and paid the price. Guillaume was working at the estate the day they were captured, and on his way home he came upon his mother, father, and three young sisters hanging in the town square. The farm and home had been torched; everything he had known was extinguished.
DO YOU HEAR THE BATTLE CRY?
After the death of his family, the Bellerose family Guillaume worked for offered him a place within their own. It was a kind gesture, and one that he may have accepted if his sisters were still alive. The fatal outcome, however, had left him closed-off and with an unquenching need for revenge. Therefore, Guillaume left with the clothes on his back, took up arms, and left France.
During training, he proved to be quite skilled at the mechanical art of sabotage. He was extremely efficient and often taught those above him how to better execute numerous missions revolving around the saboteur’s skillset. The young man’s determination propelled him forward at a swift pace. He caught the eye of his superiors and was soon shuttled other places.
Guillaume met the famed Deadshot within a POW camp. With the Commandos and numerous other men within the camp, he helped lead the raid in which liberated them. Like many of the rescuers outside and within the mission, Guillaume was recruited by Costin and inducted into the Commandos shortly after recovery. The Bellerose family continued to write and support him, often using their own fortune to send numerous items that the unit could use. Because of this, Guillaume considers himself forever in their debt, when truthfully they only wish for him to be a part of their family.
His place within the Commandos is a good fit. Most of the men residing within the group are much like him, and he gets along with quite a good portion considering his taste for silence. He believes the Commandos will mark the end of his days and is content with that fact, but before that point is reached, Guillaume Borde will obliterate as much as possible.
FACECLAIM: Douglas Booth
“Wait, lemme try that again, I promise I’m good at this.”
“Maybe if you could major in this you’d pass your classes.”
“I am not always sleeping.” Levi said, matter of factly. “Sometimes I eat.” He joked, his face a perfect mask of seriousness. He immediately switched into medic mode when he saw Gui’s injury and stood to inspect it. “Well, I supposed if there is good news to be had, that is it.” He said, touching it gingerly. “Yes, you’re right about that. Go and have a seat while I gather my tools.”
“Napping, then.” Guillaume challenged teasingly. Doing as requested, the saboteur found himself seated next to a table of medical supplies. “Best not tell Agent Durant about this.” he decided. The younger was already acutely aware of his disastrous affairs, and there was no need to elevate that panic. Stitches, long sleeves, another mission-- he figured it would be healed before it could be noticed. “At least we’re keeping you busy. How have you been?”
eyes on fire || tristan & guillaume
It was day three of no sleep – or was it day four? The hours mixed into one continuous blur, and he was struggling to really differentiate one moment from the next. He felt like he was just an empty body moving from place to place, with few moments of consciousness in between. Even the places were starting to blend into one big mass. Lewis’ tent, his tent, the mess hall; was there any real difference? Tristan knew he should be concerned, that this exhaustion would catch up with him eventually, but he didn’t have the energy to care. Why fixate on something he couldn’t change?
The back of his lids felt like they were lined with sandpaper, a sensation he was slowly growing accustomed to. He was trying to sleep, of course. Arms wrapped around his middle as he stared into the opaque fabric of his tent; but sleep never came, previously heavy lids never closed. He tried finding something steady to fill the silence, to hopefully lull him to sleep — the constant tick ticking of his watch, the steady thrumming of his pulse, but the sounds ricocheted inside his skull, making themselves into something bigger, something explosive.
With a near silent sigh, he swung his legs over the edge of his cot, a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he was alone. (He was nearly always alone nowadays.) “Je sors,” he mumbled to no one in particular, tired limbs making their way toward the half-rolled tent flaps.
Where was he going? To Gui’s tent? “Sta lavorando,” he muttered, ignoring the lapse in language. The older male was most likely still out, or on his way back, but certainly not in his tent. No, not without checking in first. The mess hall was an option, but if given the option, he preferred avoiding the company of the others altogether. He needed something quiet, something cathartic, something pleasant.
A row of Commandos caught his attention, voices quiet and clothes tattered as they made way towards food. Saboteurs. Though, without looking he knew Guillaume wasn’t among them. Logically, why go where the people are, when you can go where they are not? The showers, however, were most likely empty, and if Tristan knew the older male, that would be the place to find him.
He rubbed at his eyes before turning left, making his way towards the showers. The familiar voice caught his attention over the steady trickle of water, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Je sais, I saw the others,” he confessed. “I was awake, couldn’t sleep.” Though, not for lack of trying. “Did everyone get back okay?”
The distributed, minuscule bars of soap were stamped with the Army’s logo. Though every soldier used it, the foam seemed scentless and useless when it came to masking the scent of blood. Then again, perhaps it was the soldier’s sense of smell that had been long left to rot and ruin. Guillaume circled the rectangular bar across his skin and allowed the water to lap at its foamy discharge. When his body seemed sufficiently clean-- or as good as a time of war could manage-- he ground what remained into his hair.
“You look worse than I do,” he noted at a glance toward Tristan’s eyes, “you’ll get some sleep. I could use it, too.” The saboteur wasn’t one to lie to his confidante. Even if he did, the two were at the point where even the most meaningless fib could be detected, and challenged. “Found a bit of trouble.” But who didn’t on a mission when sporting pounds of weaponized explosives? A man had lost his leg. Guillaume, just beside them, had created the tourniquet and swiped crimson splatter from his eyes. He shut his eyes from the soap when rinsing, but shuddered as the memory streamlined.
Perhaps Tristan could appreciated honesty amidst a hidden lie. Dead irises pried themselves apart. “Let’s not talk about it.” His mind shut down the mere idea. It was much easier being Rogue than Guillaume Borde. Reaching forward, he switched off the nozzle with a flick of his wrist. The shower head dripped a steady cadence that seemed louder by the drop. It bore down on him, grating ears and arising irritation. What he needed was to decompress himself from the trials that wrecked his conscience; a feat easier said than done.
For a brief moment Guillaume rested his forearm against the shower’s wooden panel, and then his forehead against bone. He sighed, collected himself, and pulled his towel from over the wall side. “I’m still in one piece,” physically, “somewhat.” His brutal honesty had always lacked reassurances. Leaning against the makeshift door, his arms rested atop its ledge. “Pass me my clothes, will you? There's a clean set in the duffel.” Well, cleaner.
blue foundation // eyes on fire
Levi was starting to think that his life was an endless cycle of paperwork and inappropriate sleeping as he hunched over the first of a stack of medical reports. Really, he should have assigned one of the nurses to this job, but as much as he complained about his work, he dreaded not having anything to do. Besides, it was the weekend, and they deserved a bit of a break; as much of a break as you could get in the middle of a war, anyway. Sudden footsteps cut through the stark quiet and his head snapped up, alarmed.
“Always sleeping, Durant,” Guillaume teased upon his approach. His eyes scanned a ceaseless mound of paperwork. It seemed that camp’s newest setup had included a ghastly amount of followup writing. He cradled his left arm, a deep gash spilling red from his forearm. “Saboteur mishap. The good news is it missed my neck.” In fact, he was lucky he’d seen it in time at all. “It could use a fair amount of stitches.”
#ExpressLife by Douglas Booth
eyes on fire || tristan & guillaume
@agentdurant
It was a dreary, bleak dawn. Guillaume waded through morning fog, accompanied by several saboteurs returning from camp outskirts. Throughout the night they had rigged numerous contraptions; all of which were laced with fatal promises. Warning marks known only to Commandos would be lost to an approaching enemy. Saboteurs were the silent guardians of all warring companies. They were invisible border patrol, a phantom aid to lingering scouts.
A cigarette was held tightly between pressed lips. Cupping his spare hand around the lighter he rolled its switch with a flick of his thumb. A flame responded. Guillaume exhaled a fog of his own in answer before pocketing the lighter.
“Rogue.”
Guillaume leant his head toward the voice.
“Headed to mess. Coming?”
He declined his comrade’s invitation with a gesture toward vacant showers. “I’m taking advantage of the time.” And the fact that no one would disturb him, that there’d be no other group to hog the hot water. What he did not mention was that he’d rather eat with Tristan, alone in the comfort of either of their tents.
Guillaume’s clothing was tattered, dirtied, and utterly in need of the nearest disposal. His hair had finally escaped a crude military cut, and sported muddied tendrils that had dried its pieces in hazardous angles. He removed a knife from his boot and began to hack away at its matted pieces. His uniform followed; found itself in a pile of rubbish before he took to the shower beside him. His head fell beneath the spray and extinguished what remained of glowing embers. He removed the demolished lucky strike from his mouth and allowed his head to then tilt backward. Eyes shut, Guillaume hummed in response to rare warmth the water provided.
It wasn’t till approaching footsteps had him resurface. Guillaume pushed back shortened hair, and through a veil of water that washed traces of gritty color from his figure, saw a familiar face that allowed a release of tension. Beneath the grime that began to be scrubbed away was clear skin, tan and forgotten. “Je viens de revenir.” Guillaume relayed wearily. He peered over the wooden door, “What woke you? Or were you even sleeping?”
Tristan hadn’t been to anything remotely resembling a party in years. It was nice, he supposed, for there to be some semblance of levity, to see some weight lifted off everyone’s shoulders. But he did feel terribly out of place, as if he’d forgotten how to have fun – or at least how to be social. His fingers momentarily toyed with the rim of his glass, shoulder pressed against the wall as he looked out onto the dance floor. “C’est agréable,” he said, gesturing towards the moving people, “I never imagined this war would take me out of Europe. Especially for something so pleasant.”
Guillaume swiveled his head toward the fellow frenchman. A brow raised inquisitively as he spoke, and then lowered as the statement was not returned. “I don’t find this pleasant,” he grumbled, “the noise alone is irritating. If it weren’t for you taking a break from the war I’d be surprised you find it enjoyable.” But Guillaume would rather be wallowing in crimson mud. “I’ll like it when it’s over.”
Tristan made a small noncommittal noise, before looking down at what had remained of his cigarette. He was down to the filter, and realization dawned on him that he’d inhaled a good portion of the thing in one go. Nimble fingers casually flicked the stub, watching it burn out and die. The war wasn’t ending any time soon, even at his most optimistic he knew that much was true. They still had a ways to go before anyone was willing to wave the white flag.
Out of habit, his hand reached up, resting on the side of Gui’s face as he leaned on his shoulder. I don’t know. He frowned, for some reason expecting a more concrete answer – but then again, concrete was meant for stable ground, and this? It wasn’t stable. But if Gui didn’t know, and Tristan didn’t know, who did? Would that come with time? Because he was so sick of having to sit and wait for a myriad of answers to one day fall into his lap. I think we’d be a disaster now without that fireplace. Tristan’s eyes grew wide at the words, vivid pieces of memory dancing in the back of his mind. The fireplace was a world away, and although he knew the other hadn’t forgotten, he was surprised he’d mentioned it at all. “I don’t know,” he confessed, “Neither of us know, so what do we do?”
A low rumble sounded from Guillaume’s throat. “For you, I’d love to always have an answer. But for this? Tristan, I don’t.” If he dared even try to answer, he was sure he’d answer wrong. There was no simplicity in war, but there was even less between the two of them combined. “Hell, Tristan, we don’t even know how long we’ll be in one another’s company. You are a completely different division.”
And the saboteur wasn’t sure he particularly liked that fact, either. For a fleeting moment in the past they were children toying with the idea of breathless loving, but that was before death swooped by and stole his family. “We were not made to have what we want. Our choice-- the war-- does not make room for what we want. Does that make sense to you?” He leaned his head against Tristan’s hand. “We can’t be together because you’ll never be prepared to watch me die. That’s the truth.”
“Ouais, je sais.” Tristan did what Gui was referring to, but stalling wasn’t the worst thing he could be doing. Was it? His cigarette dangled out of the side of his mouth, his arm momentarily crossing his torso. “Comparatively, I mean. It seems foolish when there are more pressing matters at hand.” He let out a small sigh, pulling his cigarette from his lips. “Though, as usual, you’re right.” Gui had this uncanny ability to say the right thing at any given moment. It wasn’t that he was always right – but he was always right, and if Tristan were a pettier person he would loathe this fact about him; but instead, he found it endearing, a super power of sorts. Another one of those things he could never quite understand.
“Gui,’ Tris didn’t bother to correct himself this time. Despite being told to refer to him as Rogue or Borde, he couldn’t manage to stop the nickname from slipping out. It was how he had referred to him for so long, to call him something else felt wrong somehow. “What is this? What are we doing?”
“And those matters won’t end anytime soon,” Guillaume claimed in his reply, “so you may as well pick something that will.” He didn’t agree with the fact he was right. He often felt he was rather wrong, and that his mere existence meant little; especially as of late. But Tristan liked to think differently about him. Guillaume was almost certain the younger man was the only one that did.
It was a name from the past, long forgotten when passed through ancient ears. A month ago he would have snapped at Tristan, and reminded him of what was acceptable to call him. Now, he let the slip up slide. The question, however, has been exactly what Guillaume expected. It just wasn’t what he was prepared to answer. Again, a heavy sigh left his frame unsettled. His spine straightened as he sat up, and Guillaume leant forward to set his chin atop Tristan’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” he answered in earnest, “and I don’t think you know, either. I don’t think I want to. I think we’d be a disaster now without that fireplace.”
Tristan continued to take long pulls on the cigarette, trying to keep his breathing in check. Why was he so anxious? He never used to be this anxious around Gui… but then again, everything had changed, and there past had very little in common with their present. You have a lot on your mind, Tris. Sit down. Tell me something. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, giving a slight nod before walking over to the cot. Did he have a lot on his mind? Really, it didn’t feel like a lot. There was only one thing really, this massive category with little subcategories. The sort of thing Tristan could easily draw out on paper.
But how could he manage? How could he say what he really wanted to without sounding ridiculous? There was a war, a big war – a terrible war. And Tristan had a personal stake in this, but here he was more concerned on what Guillaume thought of him. And why? This hadn’t been the plan when he’d volunteered. He’d pushed the older boy out of his head, assigned him to some fictional life where everything was worry free. Convinced himself that Gui was better off far far away from all of this. And here he was. In front of him, and so miserable to the core that Tristan feared he would never know true happiness again.
He took a seat taking a quick drag before shifting his gaze to the floor. “You say that like I’ve made a habit of lying to you.” There was a slight chuckle in his voice, a hint of a smile ghosting across his features. Tristan wasn’t one for lying off the clock, and really, there was no point. Damien always knew. Gui always knew. And those were the only two people he’d ever lie to of consequence, so what was the point? “I don’t know what to tell you - or rather how. It seems insignificant, t’sais? Compared to…” He trailed off motioning to the chaos beyond the tent flaps, beyond base. “It doesn’t feel insignificant, though.”
Guillaume shifted his legs to allow Tristan a place to sit, and his arms folded behind his head as he listened to the younger speak. At one point, they were never considered out of place within the other’s presence. But now there was undeniable tension and unanswered inquiries. Guillaume figured one of these items that caused a weight on his friend happened to be ‘what were they’; or something of the sort. Perhaps he knew this because it was the same thing Guillaume wanted to know, and couldn’t figure out. He could lace a bomb together with the simplest things, but the two of them together were already a post detonation.
“You know full well what I mean.” It wasn’t lying, per say, but Tristan often tried his best to hide things. To evade the real problem. All to no avail, of course. Guillaume furrowed his brows at the explanation his companion gave. If he had been sitting up he would have shook his head. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh. “It isn’t insignificant. In fact, I’d say it was rather important. To have other things-- better things-- alongside the war. Who wants to talk about death twenty-four hours a day, when we already live it for that often?”
Tristan watched as Gui pulled his cigarettes from his jacket, instinct wanting him to say ‘no thank you’ as he pulled two from his pack. But the words never made it past the back of his throat. He didn’t quite know when, but at some point, Gui had stopped asking what Tristan wanted – which was fair. Tristan never admitted to wanting anything, so instead of asking, he gave. And there was no real option of saying now. It was bizarre, the way Guillaume always knew exactly what it was that Tristan wanted or needed, as if he were some sort of mind reader. But then again, a year in such close quarters with someone (and the years of casual encounter preceding that year) allowed for such a thing, didn’t it?
He took the cigarette, a near-silent ‘merci’ passing his lips before leaning in to light the cigarette. “It may not matter,” though he didn’t agree with those words, because the books did matter. Books mattered very much to Gui, and Tristan knew that – but if he wanted to push it off as unimportant? Tristan wasn’t going to ruin the peace of mind he was trying to build for himself. “But that is still very unfortunate. I’m sorry.” He took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke through his nose.
“I’m alright.” I just wanted to know if you still hate me. I just wanted to know what the fuck this is that we’re doing. I just wanted to see you and make sure you’re alright. I just wanted to stop by and tell you I missed you in a way that I can’t properly fathom. He struggled to figure out what he wanted to say – tell him about Damien? That seemed cruel, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I’ve not been up to much.” That much was true. This arm situation and Agent Lewis’ current state left him inside and pensive more often than not.
The flame was extinguished and the metal was tucked away. He took a drag from the cigarette and took a seat on his cot. Guillaume knew what Tristan knew, and that was that the missing books did in fact matter. There happened to be one in particular-- a favorite of the triplets Guillaume used to read them-- that had survived the torching of his home. He would trade the duffel’s contents entirely for that one children’s tale.
His cigarette now tasted like sorrow. The ash in which fell from its end reminded him of a charred home with burned alive memories. Ash and dust. Guillaume put it out; he’d only taken one puff from its contents. Instead of his dwelling the saboteur did his best to focus on the young Agent. “You have a lot on your mind, Tris. Sit down. Tell me something.” His back rested against the makeshift bed, and he turned his head in the direction of his dark-haired lover. “And Tristan, I know if you’re lying. So don’t.”
Tristan walked in to the other’s tent, a hand reflexively carding through his hair while Gui spoke. Did you need something? Is that what this was? An exchange for goods and services? The only time he was meant to show his face was when he was horny or need a favor? He found himself craving a cigarette, some weird form of anxiousness washing over him. Would it have been better if he hadn’t come at all?
“Non – no, I don’t need anything.” Tris tilted his head to the side, looking Gui over. Something was wrong, he could hear it in the man’s voice, see it in his posture; but he couldn’t figure out what it was. “Ça va?”
From the moment Guillaume had met Tristan, he’d started to decipher the younger’s body language. Every physical movement-- no matter how small-- and each minuscule mental notion. He always knew, somehow, what the other felt in some way or another; including needed. He slipped a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and plucked two from its pack.
“Books,” he muttered while lighting the bud between his lips, “missing.” The fire took and the smoke curled, leaving Guillaume to pass the second to his companion. He kept the lighter lit with his thumb, and held it up for Tris to light the cigarette now in his possession. “Doesn’t matter. Et toi?”
Tristan flicked his cigarette butt, watching it skitter across the snow. The ember glowing orange and then dying out, only to be camouflaged in the snow. He couldn’t quite remember when he had last seen Gui – perhaps quick glances across the mess hall or base, but nothing substantial. Nothing that stuck out. Then again, everything paled in comparison to their past… Tristan never really cared what they were, they were at war. There was too much happening for something that trivial – but what were the boundaries? What were they doing? Why had things changed and then changed again so quickly?
But what did that matter? Even at their worst, Tristan still knew that Gui cared. That he’d always cared. Don’t waste your time. Je suis pas qui vous souvenez. Those weren’t words of someone who didn’t care. Idle thoughts left feet wandering off in the direction of Gui’s tent. Tentatively he lifted the flaps, making his way inside. This was okay, right? At least, he assumed it was.
“Salut,” Tris said quietly, “Tu fais quoi?”
Guillaume was disillusioned with Holiday prospects. One tent over, someone was still playing a Christmas tune. He swore if the record sounded once more he’d blow the machine into a billion charred, wooden bits. It was true; he was particularly agitated after the backfired explosive during their last mission. The life of a saboteur spoke for itself, after all. But he wouldn’t change its suicidal description for anything. Except the triplets-- alive and breathing, dancing and singing.
He’d been unpacking for a while now; his wounds making him slow to move. Somewhere along the way, a duffel of his books had been lost. None of the cargo plans showed any sign of what little he treasured. He cursed, threw a fist into the side of his other bag.
Salut. Tu fais quoi?
The saboteur tossed a look over his shoulder before waving Tristan in. “Unpacking,” he grumbled. “Did you need something?”