Private Tales Tous les Mêmes

[Marcia]

How?

Just... how?

Marcia stood in the courtyard, arms folded across her chest and neck craned to the sky as she stared upwards at one of the Academy's tallest turrets. She hadn't taken to suddenly admiring the robust masonry that had stood both the test of time and the Revolution, but instead at one of the flagpoles. She hadn't taken an interest in vexillology either, her glare not reserved for the flag of Vel Anir that fluttered in the late afternoon wind off the angled pole that jutted from stone.

No, she was looking at the large, shining, circular object hanging from that very same pole that hadn't been there yesterday.

A shield. Her shield.

Like a turret centrepiece, it hung there, gleaming in its well-polished, spiky glory.

As far as bullying went, it was relatively mild. It was more infuriating than anything, which was a small mercy, all things considered. The last jape that had befallen Marcia had led her into being locked inside of a heavy, nearly airtight chest, considerably more dangerous albeit paradoxically less annoying. Why was it preferable to almost perish in an equipment room than be inconvenienced?

The passing snort of Initiate Terrano answered the question quite succinctly.

It was fucking humiliating.

A swift breath punctuated her rage, the diminutive Initiate's lower jaw jutting and setting as she pulled on the reigns of a sudden, violent reaction. Not now, not in the courtyard where a Proctor's watch could catch and subsequently punish such an outburst. Later, yes. Very much yes. Although, given that almost every one of her peers that passed by had taken a moment to enjoy the spectacle with varying degrees of amusement, who exactly she would force to taste the furious sole of her boot later was an entirely different question.

That was the trouble with being so deeply and unapologetically unpopular. What could she say to them? I'm sorry that I beat you all up when we were younger; I didn't realise that I was going to grow up to be so short? No. Fuck that. The past was the past, and the Initiate was by no means the biggest tyrant that ever walked this place. She wasn't even the worst in the Academy at that very moment. They could build a bridge and get over it.

Or steal her shield and hang it.

"Fucking how, though?" Marcia finally hissed under her breath, face scrunching under the weight of irritation and the thought of trying to climb the turret to retrieve her shield.

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

As it so happened, Kilien was on his way through the courtyard in a leisurely stroll, fully intent on skipping the battle history and strategy class coming up next that afternoon. Most often he paid little mind to those moving about any given area and had grown to expert level in ignoring the jeers of his academic peers - but he found himself giving pause, boots coming to a flat-footed stop as he spied Marcia standing off to one side of the yard.

Staring. Up.

Blinking into the afternoon sun as he gave her a curious, cursory look and adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag, Kil's gaze followed the line of her own up.

And up.

And up some more until he was wincing toward the sky, shielding his gaze with a lifted hand as he tried to focus in one what had her rapt attention.

"Fucking how though?"

He took a few steps closer to try and focus better, squinting at the gleam of - was that her shield? He didn't know Marcia all that well aside from what he'd gleaned from witnessing from afar. They'd never really had beef or any direct run-ins and though she did have quite a temper on her she'd never joined in on the chorus of howls or mockery thrown at him.

"Awwoooooooo-" speaking of which. A glance told him one of his most invested bullies, Mort Pelham, was walking by with his cadre of goons, "Got a new moon to howl at, Basmarc?" he cackled as he paused to look up at the shield swaying in the crosswind, "never thought they'd get it up there. Guess you'll need a new mirror to do your makeup in, Marci."

Mort and his goons laughed.

Kilien winced, sucking air through his teeth at what he assumed would happen next.

 

[Marcia]

The mockery of a howl broke Marci's concentration, causing her face to twitch like the first crack in a dam, teeth exposed in anticipation of violence.

Howling was a sure sign that Initiate Basmarc was on the scene, and right enough, as the girl finally looked down from her shield, he was standing there. She was largely indifferent about the lanky scruff; he'd never given her a hard time but, in the same breath, found him to be only half-committed to their studies. He seemed harmless enough, but then again, anybody who befriended Larrainth was likely a bad seed. Or a lunatic.

Not that it mattered; he wasn't the source of her ire.

"I beg your fucking pardon?" Marcia inquired sharply, her attention diverting towards the smug face of two-pronged mockery, otherwise known as Initiate Pelham—a prick's prick. The girl had already unfolded her arms, a sure sign of violence on the horizon.

Undeterred by the numbers game, she was already on the move, looking to square up immediately as a response to the targeted mockery and as the perfect outlet to release every inch of rage that had been building since laying eyes upon her misplaced shield. It didn't take much to forget restraint for fear of a Proctor's wrath, but then again, it wasn't called a long temper.

"Do you want to say that again? Or do you and your bum chums want to fuck right off?" Marcia seethed as she squared up to the bully-in-chief, the height difference making it quite the comical sight. Well, right until the girl launched a solid headbutt into his sternum.

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

That wince turned into a cringe as right on cue he heard the snarling retort of Marcia. Well, this wasn't going to be the afternoon he'd hope it would. Suddenly there were clouds in the sky and he felt the shadow of one on his back as it passed before the sun, dropping a dark onus on the entire courtyard and its occupants like a funeral buggy outside of a flophouse.

His gaze lingered a little longer on the shield, its gleam dulling in the cloud's umbrage, before slooooowly dropping it to watch as Marcia made her move.

Kilien raised a hand and opened his mouth to stop her but-

KLONG!​

She'd fallen for what he presumed to be the oldest trick in Mort's book. Right before the tiny titan collided face-first with her own shield. Kilien flinched at the sight and sound of it - so abrupt and sharp he felt it in his teeth. He could hardly stand to watch it entire, unsure of if she'd face-smashed the pointy side or not.

This wasn't exactly out of the ordinary for the Academy but it didn't make him feel any less bad about it. He didn't care what the Initiates said or did to him - he'd heal just fine. But others like Marci? What was the fucking point? Who did this impress? Certainly not the Proctors.

 

[Marcia]

There was a quick flash of silver and a fleeting single word only thought for a half second:

Shit.

Marcia woke up on the ground a few seconds later, eyes to the sky, which was far too bright despite its cloud cover, causing the girl to squint. Her forearms were suspended mid-air as if she had been in the middle of something before deciding to take a sudden outdoor nap. What had she been doing again?

"....oh," the pint-sized Initiate half-verbalised, the lackadaisical manner in which her jaw moved making her feel incredibly drunk.

In her half-baked cognition, Marcia was, at the very least, aware that her face was wet and stung a little more with every passing second. One of her hands lazily drifted over to touch the source of the wet, missed on the first pass, before then successfully touching down on her nose. Yes. Very wet. Very fleshy. Unbeknownst to the girl, not only had she split her forehead open on impact but had also caught her nose on one of the shield spikes, tearing a large gash through flesh and cartilage, which left a flap of skin hanging perilously where a nostril should have been.

"...oooh," she repeated after lifting her hand and staring at the fresh blood that now coated her fingers.

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

The flinch. It got worse.

It was the difference between his father or mother threatening a sound beating. Mother's beatings were always so much worse.

This. This was much worse than he'd anticipated. Once the sound of impact stopped ringing in his teeth, Kilien chanced a slivered look toward the scene and almost wished he hadn't. Evidently Marci had been met with the business end of her shield and the shield won. Handily.

Laughter, unrepentant and mean, echoed through the courtyard loud enough to turn heads just inside the surrounding buildings. Mort mentioned something about no amount of magic or makeup fixing Marcia's face before sending her shield back up to where it had been lightly swaying in the breeze on-high.

No one stopped them from leaving. No one said a word. Kilien watched them go with sober dejection. It could have been worse. They could have ganged up on the poor girl and beaten her pulpy - but even Mort was smart enough not to pushed those particular limits. The last few Initiates that had dared spent a week in detention with Proctor Harkenov and come back with a few more fears they hadn't yet been aware of.

He could have walked away and enjoyed his afternoon as intended, but it wasn't in him to leave it be. With a heavy sigh, Kilien stepped over to her and stooped down near her side, "What a fuckin' dick, eh?" The expression on his face was trying strongly to be empathetic and not pitying.

Kilien offered her a hand to help her up, "Can you stand? I'll take you to the Infirmary."

 

[Marcia]

Even then, laid out in the middle of the courtyard with eyes squinting at the sky, the sound of laughter instinctively crawled beneath her skin. Marcia loathed laughter. She no longer knew how to associate it with mirth, instead hearing it as the siren song of mockery—usually at her own expense.

The half-acknowledged comment about her unfixable face prompted her to grimace and redouble her concussed efforts to feel the damage.

Still wet. Still fleshy. Kind of...

...flappy?

"Yea', fucking dick," Marcia agreed with the scruffy figure looming overhead, words slurred as her brain was still in the process of putting the jigsaw of cognisance back together, "...wait, who's a dick?" And evidently failing miserably, the recollection of the last five minutes missing pieces lost under the furniture in the wake of head trauma.

She grasped his hand, smearing blood all over the kind gesture, and pulled herself into a sitting position. Almost immediately, the Initiate was struck by an unpleasant sense of nausea, the world beneath her unsteady and uncertain, everything moving in double vision despite being still. Gravity directed the flow of blood down her mouth and chin, dripping freely as she cringed.

"Noooope..." the girl conceded, flopping onto her back once more, "...just gimme a sec."

Did he say infirmary?

"Is... it bad? My face?"

 

[Kilien Basmarc]

Eugh. Now that he was closer it was a lot worse than he initially thought. He was pretty sure he'd caught a flash of bone-white as she moved about.

"...wait, who's a dick?"

"Mortimer," Kilien let the name slide off his tongue like a bad insult, more amused by himself than anything, "who else?"

The blood didn't much phase him and he didn't know too many Initiates that it would, it was more the... flappiness of her face. Human faces weren't supposed to do that.

Knees locked and heels bobbing just over the ground in his boots while he stooped, there was a strange sense of calm about the otherwise fairly urgent situation dribbling down Marcia's chin. At the question of severity his brows nearly met as they knit upward and formed lines of concern over his brow. Kilien lifted a hand to itch at his hairline, "Well it's not good. You remember that other girl from the year above us ... Fennec I think her name was? Always painted a skull on her face to cover the her scars."

His hand lowered just enough to gesticulate the approximation of a skull shape in front of his own face, lips peeling back to bare teeth for emphasis.

"You might nearly pass for her sister if that flap of yours falls off."

 

[Marcia]

Who else?

Marcia mercifully lacked the grasp of her brain to start listing all of their peers who could possibly be responsible for her injuries. She might as well have named their entire year, present company, and outcast, quiet kids excluded. Mortimer was a contemptible shit, however, ranking highly on the index of cruelty alongside the likes of Larrainth and D'Amour.

For as much as she could remember of the last five minutes, it made sense.

At least she could remember the skull-faced girl; who could rightly forget? She must have graduated at the top of the class in terms of signature looks. Although, her relevancy in the conversation was...

...oh.

"...flap?"

FLAP?!

A renewed sense of urgency found her at the mention of 'that flap', and she rolled over in a fresh attempt to return to her feet. On hand and knee, Marcia grimaced at the rate of blood dripping on the ground beneath her, quickly pooling in the horror show of facial trauma.

"Lemme just..." the girl mumbled, redoubling her efforts to take his hand and pull herself up with more success than last time. "Okay. I think I'm good." She didn't sound confident in that fact, perhaps due to the earth tilting and warping beneath her feet. "Yeah." Didn't look confident either, brown eyes staring off into the abyss. "Infirmary."

Marcia let go of him and took a step. Then, a second, her body leaning perilously to the right. The third step, she attempted to recover, her feet crossing over. By the fourth, she was falling over again like a drunk tree.