1/18 Who We Are in the Dark

Task would tiredly pace into his office in the few hours before dawn, his late night patrol ended with a final, dogged pace through the quiet depths of Sudsbury. It felt surreal to think of how different the district had become in a few years. That this quiet part of town was the same borough where he'd first confronted Crowley, the once bustling, ornery slums, was hard to believe.

Times had changed since the days of the syndicate, the threats to the city were largely external, patrols were generally dry affairs dealing at best with petty arguments and bruised egos. A part of the commander missed the sense of thrill and action that came with those days, a dark part of his psyche that enjoyed the near death experiences, the chance to crumple a criminal beneath his fists.

But how far did it go? Did he truly favor stopping when they were defeated, or did he in truth take some....primal satisfaction from seizing the throes of life from another with his bare hands and raw mana. He had just turned thirty, the man had been in command of the watch for a decade now, his youth stolen by countless duties and responsibilities that had worn at his nerves day by day.

Was there a sense of release, then, in unleashing that pent up aggression in displays of barbaric, unrestrained violence?

Task would blanch, pacing slowly towards his desk with an idle clank of his black sabatons against the tiles of his office, moving towards the crate of bottles that he'd left largely untouched, bar for visitors. Commander Drake Dunstan's pirate stash of rum, the alcoholic's best friend. They'd mocked Dunstan then for his antics, but he at least seemed happy.

The commander could not say the same about himself. Seizing a bottle, Task would pop the cork before taking a deep, almost desperate gulp from the bottles confines, downing a good third of the handle of liquor before setting it down shakily upon his desk. Taking a seatin his chair, Task would lean his head back against the red, velvety plush, remaining eye slowly gazing up towards the sealing to stari with a sigh.

It wasn't going to get much better, and was probably going to get a lot worse.
(Task)
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Dun would shake his head at the dreadful display of cheerlessness, the jester offended by such a grumpy, boring manner of living. To dwell in despair of such pitiful notions, to care in the slightest about the impacts of such actions beyond their entertainment value, well, it was ridiculous! The commander truly had to put on a better performance if he wanted to win the crowds.

Hopping upon the desk with a delicate, acrobatic clank of his black sabatons, the fool would hop from foot to foot with merry cheer as he made a joyful ruckus, knocking the scattered papers that spread across the desk upon the ground before spilling a vial of ink as well for good measure, shattering it against the wall with a loud, resounding clink as the jester cackled with cheer.

"Sad Task, how he wears a mask! And here I thought I was the fool! Pitiful truly, a commander with no command of his own senses. By word, what a mess, what a mess! A boring man, in truth, who fears that which makes him fun!"

Dun would do an artful backflip into the empty chair of the desk, shaking his head as the jester tossed a pen up and down within his fingers, flipping it much the same as he had the knife Jingle had granted him to kill the hostage at the Moonfall gala. A delicate thing, such a sharp point...

"You liked it, you did! The show I put on. The sanguine flow, ohohohoho! How they laughed, how they cheered! But the true song was the blood that pattered, drip drop, drip drop, upon the ground. Of that music, I am but a journeyman in the shadow of a master, mister master Tisky Task!"
(Dun)
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Task would grimace as he gazed down at his desk with his remaining eye, grumbling at the inflammatory offense and bitter truth of the words. These were the very demons he faced each night when he was alone with his thoughts, the haunting prospect that that which separate man from monster was becoming a blurred line in Task's zealous pursuit of justice.

"The burdens that come with command are my duty to fulfill, fun has nothing to do with the matter. That's the last time I'm ever going to lose control like that, what I did that day in that cell with Crowley was wrong. I gave into my anger, took leave of my senses, but that is not the man I am. I am better than that. It is not what makes me boring, it's what makes me a man with honor, and you're the only mask here fool."

The commander would take a long, thoughtful drag from his corncob pipe, glancing up at the ceiling of his office with a shake of his head as he dismissed the effortsof the jester to tatter his resolve. In his friends, he'd found his way once more after killing Crowley had made him lost, and his renewed resolve to their protection had become ironclad since the falling of the comet.

"I did what I felt I had to do in that moment, but my sense of justice was tainted by vengeance. I hated Crowley beyond my position as a constable for what he did to me, for his endless mockeries, and in killing him, he won. I will not become what he desired me to be, I am no master of killing. I refuse to be. My strength exists to protect the people, these fists are not for needless bloodshed."
(Task)
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Dun would shake his head fervently as he planted his palms upon the desk, doing a handstand for dramatic effect before somersaulting off of the desk with an acrobatic flourish. Truly the commander was an old fashioned stick in the mud, stubborn to the point that it would suffocate him in tedium. This simply would not do, oh no!

"Am I the mask, or do I wear you? I smile, you frown, I dance as you sigh. I act freely, you are held back by booooring committments, the squabbles of nobility and their cheese. What a joke, what a farce, and here I am supposed to be the clown! Admit it, killing that arrogant bastard was the most fun you'd had in ages!"

The jester would cackle with maniacal cheer, hopping from foot to foot as he clapped his calloused palms together with a steady reverberation. It was the truth of things after all, the finest theater the cells had ever seen was performed that day.

"You did it because you knew you could. You saw you had a chance to hurt someone who hurt you back, and you took it. Like you wanted to do with your father when he hit you, your mother when she mocked you, bound by duty and weakness. You finally had control of something in your life, and you acted on all that built up fury and tension. Wasn't it glorious! Blew his jaw off too, he couldn't ever laugh again after that. Now that's comedy."
(Dun)
Task would grit his teeth in anger as he rose from his desk, igniting in a shroud of pulsating, ethereal mana as he began to raise his fists instinctively. Yet, the commander paused for a moment as he looked down at his own hands, visualizing the blood of the innocent sacrifice of the Moonfall gala, Crowley’s lifeblood, all those that his actions or inactions had at one point or another caused the loss of life. Yet he’d made an oath, he would never let his emotions sway his sense of justice again. He had found his resolve, and he wouldn’t let it go to petty doubts.

“I killed him because I believed him to be a danger to society, that he would harm innocents like he’d hurt me. Those boring commitments are what make me the constable I am, my duty is to protect and serve the people of this city. I will have to make hard decisions in the name of the law, but I will never relish in taking a life, and will not pursue it as a course of action unless its necessary. I will not become the monsters I fight, I refuse to let go of the mantle that makes me a man!”

The cloak of energy would start to pulsate more steadily and calmly as the commander regained control of his emotional state, neither angry nor despaired any longer by the prodding words of harsh truth. He would be better than the man he was, As Master Id had instructed, he’d found his resolve in the protection of his companions, the people who were under his ward. His willpower would not be broken by any foe, especially not himself.

“I will not lie, in that rage I did savor ending his life. It sickened me to my core, but it did. It showed me how easily one could fall to the depravities of bloodlust from the depths of hatred. But I never lied to anyone about what I did, an organization that must cover things up to protect their credibility had none to begin with. The watch must be better than that, better than the man I was.”

(Task)

Dun would shake his head furiously as the shroud ignited once more with uncontrollable fervor, shaking away the careful control over the flow of mana. The clown would point a finger at his head with a bark of laughter at the futility of the commander’s words, the lengths he’d go to justify his actions. It was pitiful, and so utterly boring.

“You’re a killer too, aren’t you? What’s stopping you from snapping one day and becoming the same kind of monster Crowley was, but worse? You wear his mask, you’re willing to go any lengths to keep your cover. One day you’re gonna realize this mask can’t be taken off, and you won’t be able to hide from the man you really are.”

The clown would make a cocking motion with the finger gun placed against his head, cackling with malevolent joy as his jingling bells clattered about in a symphonic cacophony of ambient, mindless noise. The senselessness of what lay at the bottom of the depths of madness, hopping from foot to foot as the shroud of energy swirled about his cloaked form.

“You like hurting people. Violence, it makes you feel alive. It’s always going to be inside you, lingering and waiting to savor the next step into the cloak of night you are willing to take. The next tier of brutality. Perhaps I should end it right now, the commander of the city watch should go out with a bang!“

(Dun)

Task would remain calm as the room was filled with silence for a time, the commander taking a deep breath as he centered himself. He knew the lengths he was willing to go for justice, the sacrifices he would need to make for his own conscience. But he would never lose his way again, it would always be for the right reasons, for the people of this city.

“My companions are what stop me. They were the guiding light in my throes of darkness, and with them I can persevere through the most difficult days. I have faith that if I ever truly lost my way, they would stop me as well. I will never be a threat to the city I serve, not while I draw breathe!”

The commander would slowly lower the finger gun from his head, taking a deep breath as he stared into the nearby mirror that sat beside his desk. The jester stood there mockingly, pistol still pointed at his head, but as the commander briefly shut his eye and centered himself, he opened it once more to stare back at his own reflection.

“These fists are not for the innocent. They are tools of justice, as am I. As long as I hold tight to my resolve, to the ideals that I choose to live by, I will never lose my way. I will protect this city to my dying breathe from all forms of tyranny, this is my way!”

Raising his fist into the air, Task would at last realize that no one was there, sobering up from his drink as he smiled lightly in spite of it all. Dissipating the shroud of mana as he looked once more at his own hands, he felt a sense of relief from the guilt that had been plaguing him. He’d won a metaphysical battle against his darker nature.

He’d found a resolve that wouldn’t be broken ever again.

(Task)