11-10-2014, 12:26 PM
The last few weeks without using the Force had been an interesting experience. Almost like before he ever manifested his power. But nothing had compared to that first time he'd drawn on it after Ascendancy had finally lifted the ban. He'd forgotten the sheer pleasure it elicited. He'd gotten used to ignoring it and had gone on to experience other aspects of life that were not without their own interests and pleasures. But now, power restored, he couldn't help but revel in it.
In his room, Marcus smiled at the feel of the Force now coursing through his body, the sense of majesty and power. Multiple weaves emanated from him like tendrils, floating about at his every thought. Once he'd seen Vellas do it that fateful night- knew it was possible- it was as if the barrier had dropped. He'd been correct. His Force metaphor had hindered him in this case. And it turned out to be nothing difficult. Merely dividing his attention, as he would do with his hands and fingers.
Now threads of the Force emanated from him, two, then three, then four weaves, all held simultaneously. They were meant to do nothing of course but let him glory in his restored power. No human experience compared to this feeling, the sense of utter control and domination, of being connected to the heart of multiverse itself, to its power. He was a god among men, a man of note even at his young age, working with the most powerful man on earth. He felt that virility burn from his chest to his groin, that sense of sheer potentiality, a dynamo ready to walk among the people.
He released the Force easily. His ban had given him a greater sense of control. The time without it had, perhaps, weaned him of a dependency he'd not realized he'd been developing. A dependency to deal with stressful emotions, to hide from people, to deal with difficult or dangerous situations. Even to observe people. His non-power fueled activities- his date with Elouera or his socializing with the others in the consulate, that night with Spectra, his work, even workouts and fighting in the gym- had helped him to cease relying on the Force as a crutch. No longer was he cut off completely from humanity. He would go much farther this way.
He decided to walk through the Square, to observe the people. He had no wish to give away his abilities now that he had them back. He stopped at this stand or that vendor, feigning interest. He sat in one of the outdoor cafes of the GUM- heedless of the cold- watching the patrons walk in and out. The richest in Moscow milled about, people of privilege and power. But amid them were tourists and others, the everyday people.
Marcus was of both and none. He knew power and riches. He knew poverty and helplessness. After a time, he stood and up and continued to walk.
His eyes lit on one man, large, very strong, muscles that he knew were tight below his winter coat, and he smiled a cold smile. Of course, I would see Klaus at this moment. At the gym, the man walked about as if he owned it. The son of one of the Consuls the man seemed to think himself invincible. And of course felt it was his right to treat others however he liked- which was usually badly. He was a bully through and through.
Marcus well remembered the day Klaus' girlfriend "accidentally" fell against the leg-press machine, bruising her eye and forehead. She had been emotional with Klaus about something- it was hard to understand what she was saying through her thick Cuban accent- and after a moment of irritation at the interruption, Marcus had turned his back to his sparring. The scream and the crash whipped his head around and there was Klaus was helping her up, bruises already beginning to show.
But the furtive looks he gave, the compressed lips, the vein in his forehead, and the fear in her eyes told him what really happened. The man was a Consular's son and Marcus was still very new at the Kremlin. Still, Marcus almost decided to pay him a visit...almost. But he didn't have the Force then. And, to be honest, there would be more repercussions than he was ready for. At least for now. Down the road though....Still the reminder of his his impotence enraged him.
Malik surged to life, eager, hungry. Marcus had kept him at bay for months, controlling his desires. But it was finally time. He hungered to impose order on the universe, even if it was just a small thing.
Darth Malik took a metro to a poorer area and then went into a run down department store to purchase a dark hoody and t-shirt, a pair of nondescript jeans, gloves and a pair of boots. When returning to the station, he went into one of the bathroom stalls and changed from his stylish but casual clothing into that outfit. It wasn't meant to stand out. After depositing his clothes into one of the pay-as-you-need storage lockers, he caught the first subway train.
He wasn't looking for anything in particular. Or rather, he was aware that there was a multitude of possibilities he'd find if he waited long enough, just like back home, if he observed and listened- and followed. He had no work tomorrow. Indeed, he'd even made arrangements for an excursion out of town for the weekend- something he might now forgo if his hunt was successful. No one would know he was still in Moscow. His stomach fluttered a bit, excited at the opportunity, rage simmering.
Over the next few hours, he rode one train after another, in a multitude of directions. Oftentimes, he almost found a reason to begin, someone to to watch more closely. But each time he thought of getting off the train to follow, he held back. The man who surreptitiously whispered threats of spankings to his little son might have done. As did the woman who's nails no doubt left half-moon impressions in her daughter's arm. Then again, it wasn't exactly the crime he wanted to right, not those little things that might have been impulse.
He hungered for something darker. There were the two young men who taunted the man with the withered leg as he tried to reach the door in time. The woman flinching at at glare from the man with her. The teenage girl who shrunk in on herself anytime someone jostled her, fear evident. The old woman whose thick caked on makeup failed to disguise a black eye. So many possibilities offered themselves- people who he could follow and watch, see what injustice they perpetrated or endured.
He watched and his anger began to build, only a slow simmer, but hours went by, fury at the petty cruelties and indignities that people inflicted on others, on those that they should care for or those that depended on them. His rage continued to build, nursed as he watched and watched, the water in the pot building to a slow and steady boil.
But each time he considered leaving, he checked the temperature and it just wasn't hot enough yet. There was always something more that could be added, more fuel to the fire. He sought...something. It had to count. These people that thought themselves invisible, able to do what they wanted, as if no one would notice, as if no one would intervene, as if there was no judge to impose sentence for what went on behind locked doors. Well, most of the time they were right. Most of the time. But for one person tonight- he smiled grimly at the thought- for one very lucky person well....they would find out the truth. Oh yes they would.
It was late at night when he saw another potential target. Of course he wasn't really a target. A handsy drunk really didn't qualify. He'd stop him, of course. The woman though- short, dark hair, wrapped in a leather jacket- seemed on edge, as if wired. He'd seen that before, the jumpiness, the quickness to anger and threat. Something had happened to this woman, experiences in life that had pushed her to very edge. She'd stopped the man in his tracks- but with a dagger rather than simply words. Her threats held the the most savage force of a woman who'd been pushed to the breaking point. When she put her dagger back, Malik noticed a sword peaking out.
Few things in his experience that could do that to a woman were good. Few. And while the rage was still there, roiling beneath the surface, the fact was that it was getting late and the number of opportunities was vanishing. The need for it to matter, to be perfect, had caused him to let a few go that might have proven fruitful. Malik laughed at him, blamed the past months and fraternizing for his not acting right away. Marcus pushed him down, snarling. He was Sith. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. He had not gotten soft.
The doors to the car opened and the woman walked out. By then, he'd not held the Force for hours. It wasn't something he could hold all day long, especially when he was just waiting. He needed to be fresh. But now he seized it. He went to the open door and watched her stalk away, determined. Where was she going? Was there someone she was determined to kill? An abusive husband? A lecherous father? Someone else? Was that the person that hurt her, made her this way? He was curious.
The door dinged its signal to close and Malik stepped off the car onto the platform. He'd see what tonight had brought him.
Edited by Marcus DuBois, Nov 10 2014, 12:27 PM.
In his room, Marcus smiled at the feel of the Force now coursing through his body, the sense of majesty and power. Multiple weaves emanated from him like tendrils, floating about at his every thought. Once he'd seen Vellas do it that fateful night- knew it was possible- it was as if the barrier had dropped. He'd been correct. His Force metaphor had hindered him in this case. And it turned out to be nothing difficult. Merely dividing his attention, as he would do with his hands and fingers.
Now threads of the Force emanated from him, two, then three, then four weaves, all held simultaneously. They were meant to do nothing of course but let him glory in his restored power. No human experience compared to this feeling, the sense of utter control and domination, of being connected to the heart of multiverse itself, to its power. He was a god among men, a man of note even at his young age, working with the most powerful man on earth. He felt that virility burn from his chest to his groin, that sense of sheer potentiality, a dynamo ready to walk among the people.
He released the Force easily. His ban had given him a greater sense of control. The time without it had, perhaps, weaned him of a dependency he'd not realized he'd been developing. A dependency to deal with stressful emotions, to hide from people, to deal with difficult or dangerous situations. Even to observe people. His non-power fueled activities- his date with Elouera or his socializing with the others in the consulate, that night with Spectra, his work, even workouts and fighting in the gym- had helped him to cease relying on the Force as a crutch. No longer was he cut off completely from humanity. He would go much farther this way.
He decided to walk through the Square, to observe the people. He had no wish to give away his abilities now that he had them back. He stopped at this stand or that vendor, feigning interest. He sat in one of the outdoor cafes of the GUM- heedless of the cold- watching the patrons walk in and out. The richest in Moscow milled about, people of privilege and power. But amid them were tourists and others, the everyday people.
Marcus was of both and none. He knew power and riches. He knew poverty and helplessness. After a time, he stood and up and continued to walk.
His eyes lit on one man, large, very strong, muscles that he knew were tight below his winter coat, and he smiled a cold smile. Of course, I would see Klaus at this moment. At the gym, the man walked about as if he owned it. The son of one of the Consuls the man seemed to think himself invincible. And of course felt it was his right to treat others however he liked- which was usually badly. He was a bully through and through.
Marcus well remembered the day Klaus' girlfriend "accidentally" fell against the leg-press machine, bruising her eye and forehead. She had been emotional with Klaus about something- it was hard to understand what she was saying through her thick Cuban accent- and after a moment of irritation at the interruption, Marcus had turned his back to his sparring. The scream and the crash whipped his head around and there was Klaus was helping her up, bruises already beginning to show.
But the furtive looks he gave, the compressed lips, the vein in his forehead, and the fear in her eyes told him what really happened. The man was a Consular's son and Marcus was still very new at the Kremlin. Still, Marcus almost decided to pay him a visit...almost. But he didn't have the Force then. And, to be honest, there would be more repercussions than he was ready for. At least for now. Down the road though....Still the reminder of his his impotence enraged him.
Malik surged to life, eager, hungry. Marcus had kept him at bay for months, controlling his desires. But it was finally time. He hungered to impose order on the universe, even if it was just a small thing.
Darth Malik took a metro to a poorer area and then went into a run down department store to purchase a dark hoody and t-shirt, a pair of nondescript jeans, gloves and a pair of boots. When returning to the station, he went into one of the bathroom stalls and changed from his stylish but casual clothing into that outfit. It wasn't meant to stand out. After depositing his clothes into one of the pay-as-you-need storage lockers, he caught the first subway train.
He wasn't looking for anything in particular. Or rather, he was aware that there was a multitude of possibilities he'd find if he waited long enough, just like back home, if he observed and listened- and followed. He had no work tomorrow. Indeed, he'd even made arrangements for an excursion out of town for the weekend- something he might now forgo if his hunt was successful. No one would know he was still in Moscow. His stomach fluttered a bit, excited at the opportunity, rage simmering.
Over the next few hours, he rode one train after another, in a multitude of directions. Oftentimes, he almost found a reason to begin, someone to to watch more closely. But each time he thought of getting off the train to follow, he held back. The man who surreptitiously whispered threats of spankings to his little son might have done. As did the woman who's nails no doubt left half-moon impressions in her daughter's arm. Then again, it wasn't exactly the crime he wanted to right, not those little things that might have been impulse.
He hungered for something darker. There were the two young men who taunted the man with the withered leg as he tried to reach the door in time. The woman flinching at at glare from the man with her. The teenage girl who shrunk in on herself anytime someone jostled her, fear evident. The old woman whose thick caked on makeup failed to disguise a black eye. So many possibilities offered themselves- people who he could follow and watch, see what injustice they perpetrated or endured.
He watched and his anger began to build, only a slow simmer, but hours went by, fury at the petty cruelties and indignities that people inflicted on others, on those that they should care for or those that depended on them. His rage continued to build, nursed as he watched and watched, the water in the pot building to a slow and steady boil.
But each time he considered leaving, he checked the temperature and it just wasn't hot enough yet. There was always something more that could be added, more fuel to the fire. He sought...something. It had to count. These people that thought themselves invisible, able to do what they wanted, as if no one would notice, as if no one would intervene, as if there was no judge to impose sentence for what went on behind locked doors. Well, most of the time they were right. Most of the time. But for one person tonight- he smiled grimly at the thought- for one very lucky person well....they would find out the truth. Oh yes they would.
It was late at night when he saw another potential target. Of course he wasn't really a target. A handsy drunk really didn't qualify. He'd stop him, of course. The woman though- short, dark hair, wrapped in a leather jacket- seemed on edge, as if wired. He'd seen that before, the jumpiness, the quickness to anger and threat. Something had happened to this woman, experiences in life that had pushed her to very edge. She'd stopped the man in his tracks- but with a dagger rather than simply words. Her threats held the the most savage force of a woman who'd been pushed to the breaking point. When she put her dagger back, Malik noticed a sword peaking out.
Few things in his experience that could do that to a woman were good. Few. And while the rage was still there, roiling beneath the surface, the fact was that it was getting late and the number of opportunities was vanishing. The need for it to matter, to be perfect, had caused him to let a few go that might have proven fruitful. Malik laughed at him, blamed the past months and fraternizing for his not acting right away. Marcus pushed him down, snarling. He was Sith. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. He had not gotten soft.
The doors to the car opened and the woman walked out. By then, he'd not held the Force for hours. It wasn't something he could hold all day long, especially when he was just waiting. He needed to be fresh. But now he seized it. He went to the open door and watched her stalk away, determined. Where was she going? Was there someone she was determined to kill? An abusive husband? A lecherous father? Someone else? Was that the person that hurt her, made her this way? He was curious.
The door dinged its signal to close and Malik stepped off the car onto the platform. He'd see what tonight had brought him.
Edited by Marcus DuBois, Nov 10 2014, 12:27 PM.