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It begins as a pressure, hot and tight behind your eyes. Not the usual Wrath - constant, familiar, comforting warmth - but a sudden roaring white hot surge that rises like vomit in the back of your throat, acid and choking, cutting off air as the fire floods your head and your heartbeat thunders in your ears, and you clench your fists and feel the power crackling through your veins and pull the lightning rocketing from the air, the earth, and




hold that rage, that hate, that venom boiling in your blood and say


not here. Not now. Not this.

Not this.

Another breath, and the air tastes of blood, and the rage keeps rising, splinters of image slashing through your thoughts like shattered glass (break them, smash them, kill them, kill them KILL THEM) and you close your eyes and close your fists and feel the lightning arc around them, flicker up your arms, dance around your head, and you say


not this

not this not this not this

because you don't use the sword because you know how to use the sword and you don't call the fire because you know how to call the fire and you let the strike go unanswered because you know how to answer it

So you breathe.

And you swear.

And you turn on your heel, and walk.

Because you should.

Because you have to.

Because you can.
Impact fic, to get some things out of brainspace. 
(CW: Self-harm)

"But you're smart, right?"

Smart enough.

Smart enough to know how smart I'm not. Smart enough for that to smart (hah!), to sting, to burn like tears in an open wound with every leap that falls short, every answer almost-but-not-quite-good-enough. Smart enough to know this sounds like whining, and to accept that fact - to know I should be grateful for what I have even when I grit my teeth and fight back snarling immature rage at younger minds burning brighter than I ever could.

Not smart enough to realise that you never ever get the whole thing right in one. Not smart enough to realise pain's the poorest teacher when it comes to honest mistakes - that carving lines into your hands under the desk for missed verb endings, switched signs, equations not quite well remembered enough to pass the test, that ripped skin and peeled back scabs and fingernail-width gouges through your scalp  ('I ran into a door, a wall, a tree') are never more than momentary relief.

At least they helped research, when everybody said that I should be an author - author, actor, doctor maybe if you sit there and accept that every time they talk about you they will use the wrong name, wrong pronouns, that you'll always be that strange and singular anomaly.

But engineering? Electronics? Tech? Computing? Coding? Well, my parents would've backed me.

Maybe one or two of those teachers who understood what I wanted, but the rest? Even if they didn't mean it, it was always there. That's for other people, not for you.

So maybe that is where this comes from - maybe that's where all this poison, all this bitterness was born. The wonderful, seductive idea that another me, another time, another place - that he could have been a genius. Or at the very least, been more than what I am.  

Or maybe it is purely I can see the gap between my skills and where I want to be.

Or maybe I'm projecting. Maybe tired. Maybe purging something that's been building up inside.

Either way, I know where I am now.

And I know where I need to be.

Everything between?

That's up to me.
"You do have a plan, right?"

The laughter is more bitter than I intend. "Damned if I know."

They don't look happy.

Somehow, that doesn't surprise me.

I walk away. Don't look back.

Behind me, from the direction of the tent, I hear laughter - some joke about Osian wine, some half-remembered story from Before - and the Protector's anger flares up suddenly, white-hot in my chest.

How dare they?

How fucking stupid - how fucking naive do they have to be?

How do they not understand?

My people - our people - are going to die, and they're sitting there joking?

I close my eyes.

Bite my tongue.

Say nothing.

My mouth starts to fill with blood, and I breathe out, letting the flood of pain quench the Protector's blade as the Soldier comes unbidden to the fore.

So they do not understand.

Or they may not remember.

Or they do not care.

Or they do not, at this moment, recall.


We will remind them.

I straighten my spine, pull back my shoulders, let my voice carry across the ground.

Masks 1 (Protector)
A very brief snippet from the Impact event. Not really FOIP. 
Still around - passed the year with flying colours and looking to transfer onto the integrated masters program next term. Not much on the writing front due to a combination of uni work and lack of ability to make anything worth putting up here, but hopefully will sort that out sometime over this summer. 
Nothing that's been good enough to post, though. Fingers crossed for that changing in the next few months, since have left job and am heading back to university (to study electronic engineering)


Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
"I have four other people living in this skull and I can't buy coffee!"

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ShemeiArt Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2016  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thank you very much for faving my OC - Kamitsu <3
GentlemanAnachronism Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome :)
LilyAviarn Featured By Owner Nov 23, 2015  Hobbyist General Artist
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PhoenixShaman Featured By Owner Dec 11, 2013  Professional General Artist
Hello from your friendly neighborhood Troglodyte shaman :)
GentlemanAnachronism Featured By Owner Dec 19, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Ahoy! :)
PhoenixShaman Featured By Owner Dec 19, 2013  Professional General Artist
Yami08 Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2013  Professional Digital Artist
thanks for the fav!! :D
GentlemanAnachronism Featured By Owner Jul 5, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome :)
hypermagical Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2013
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GentlemanAnachronism Featured By Owner Jul 5, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
A very belated thank you for the feature! :D
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