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fandomweekly2016-02-08 10:19 pm
ashitaka) wrote in fandomweekly2016-02-08 10:19 pm
Entry tags:
[#002] exercising control (blood blockade battlefront)
Theme Prompt: practice makes perfect
Title: exercising control
Fandom: blood blockade battlefront
Rating/Warnings: ... no nothing in particular
Bonus: no
Word Count: 944
Summary: black's life, from the time he spent as william macbeth to the present day of a split identity with a being not his own sharing his body, has always been an exercise in perfect control
'Practice makes perfect,' as the saying went. William breathes in, hands shaking, and focuses on the ball in front of him. There's no one else around right now -- Mom and Dad were off on world travels, Mary was reading in the tree -- and it's more or less the best time to try out his psi powers without any fear.
Or so it should be, but something holds him back. He clenches his hand into a fist and relaxes it a second later with a sigh.
"What's the point?" William mumbles, rolling the ball with his hands instead. "I don't really want to use them anyway."
It was just so their parents wouldn't worry so much. So Mary would get off his back about not having it down pat. So that next time... if he ever got angry or so frustrated he wanted to lash out, if anything bad happened at all-- then he wouldn't hurt anyone. William lays his head down on his arm, staring at the ball still, and breathes in.
Breathes out.
The ball rolls, guided by that familiar flicker of power that seeps through his veins, and William keeps a tight hold on it. Never let it get the best of you. Always be in control. Anything less and it'd surely end in disaster. Even with something as simple as this... It could go badly.
"Practice makes perfect," he murmurs softly, pinning the ball to a sudden stop with a sigh of relief. "I just need to make sure it's perfect."
Practice makes perfect haunts him into his present years too. Where there's a snide feeling to his left, Black imagines a person with his own face sneering at the thought of practice makes perfect.
There's been a lot to practice lately. Lying, for one. Hiding out. Deflecting questions and making excuses, keeping busy with work and staying up far too late. Coffee replaces whatever he had before and there's times where he blacks out and doesn't remember a single thing from the missing day, though he feels fuller and well rested despite the fact. He'd hate to thank that thing inside him, the one who calls himself the King of Despair, but...
... if it weren't those interventions, as sparing and scary as they were (what if he got near White?), then Black thinks he might have worn himself out far faster than any misuse of his psi power could.
Practice makes perfect, a constant in his day, and he smiles widely at the mirror.
"Just a little longer," he tells himself. "Just a little more, and then maybe you can find some way out of this city with her."
It's a hopeless wish. There's no way to take White out of the city without messing with its core foundation and her possibly dying. Black closes his eyes, nausea swaying his head and the sink cold against his hands.
Hesitant, he calls out to the other one and asks if it's really impossible.
Beats me, the King of Despair replies, airily and without care. Maybe there is. Maybe there isn't. There's a pause, then a fond sigh. That sister of ours is pretty one of a kind, isn't she?
'She's not ours,' Black replies sourly. 'She's mine.'
Yeah, yeah. Good luck, William, and then silence.
Black breathes in, lets it out, and repeats this a second time when he realizes he's shaking. Swallowing hard, he leaves the mirror and puts on a practiced smile for the world, polite at best and distant at worst.
Really, that guy came in so useful in the end.
The King of Despair rolls a coin across his fingers one way and then repeats it the other, blowing some of his hair out of his face and squinting at the station map. It doesn't help that Femt's put it up so high as if to mock his lack of sight, and just to piss the other King off he gives the right answer to the surprise trivia question he'd been asked the moment he kicked his feet onto the table.
"You can't even see," Femt complains, cane striking the ground in frustration. "How is it that you knew?!"
The King of Despair grins, leaning back in his seat with closed eyes. "What can I say? I'm street smart."
And Black had used that particular train to get to a job across town, but hey. He won't give away all his secrets.
The other grumbles something under his breath and waves him off, turning pointedly to another King and talking loudly about something the King of Despair tunes out entirely.
Instead, he decides to pick up one of the apples Femt's reaching for and move it slightly out of reach. The small flickers of power are there, springing forth every time he inches the fruit away, and he doesn't bother to hide his smug look when it's clear that the King of Depravity has had enough of his tiresome game and drags the fruit bowl away sternly, glaring at him. The King of Despair simply shrugs, folding his hands into his lap, and watching the cosmic spanning the ceiling.
All of these years fine tuning supreme control over the tiniest fraction of his power and Black never thought to use it so responsibly. A waste of talent, in his opinion, but oh does it feel so good to have this sort of ease over others' reactions. From sitting on the sidelines to being the ringmaster of his own circus...
The King of Despair smiles, closes his eyes, and dreams of the grand finale.
Title: exercising control
Fandom: blood blockade battlefront
Rating/Warnings: ... no nothing in particular
Bonus: no
Word Count: 944
Summary: black's life, from the time he spent as william macbeth to the present day of a split identity with a being not his own sharing his body, has always been an exercise in perfect control
'Practice makes perfect,' as the saying went. William breathes in, hands shaking, and focuses on the ball in front of him. There's no one else around right now -- Mom and Dad were off on world travels, Mary was reading in the tree -- and it's more or less the best time to try out his psi powers without any fear.
Or so it should be, but something holds him back. He clenches his hand into a fist and relaxes it a second later with a sigh.
"What's the point?" William mumbles, rolling the ball with his hands instead. "I don't really want to use them anyway."
It was just so their parents wouldn't worry so much. So Mary would get off his back about not having it down pat. So that next time... if he ever got angry or so frustrated he wanted to lash out, if anything bad happened at all-- then he wouldn't hurt anyone. William lays his head down on his arm, staring at the ball still, and breathes in.
Breathes out.
The ball rolls, guided by that familiar flicker of power that seeps through his veins, and William keeps a tight hold on it. Never let it get the best of you. Always be in control. Anything less and it'd surely end in disaster. Even with something as simple as this... It could go badly.
"Practice makes perfect," he murmurs softly, pinning the ball to a sudden stop with a sigh of relief. "I just need to make sure it's perfect."
Practice makes perfect haunts him into his present years too. Where there's a snide feeling to his left, Black imagines a person with his own face sneering at the thought of practice makes perfect.
There's been a lot to practice lately. Lying, for one. Hiding out. Deflecting questions and making excuses, keeping busy with work and staying up far too late. Coffee replaces whatever he had before and there's times where he blacks out and doesn't remember a single thing from the missing day, though he feels fuller and well rested despite the fact. He'd hate to thank that thing inside him, the one who calls himself the King of Despair, but...
... if it weren't those interventions, as sparing and scary as they were (what if he got near White?), then Black thinks he might have worn himself out far faster than any misuse of his psi power could.
Practice makes perfect, a constant in his day, and he smiles widely at the mirror.
"Just a little longer," he tells himself. "Just a little more, and then maybe you can find some way out of this city with her."
It's a hopeless wish. There's no way to take White out of the city without messing with its core foundation and her possibly dying. Black closes his eyes, nausea swaying his head and the sink cold against his hands.
Hesitant, he calls out to the other one and asks if it's really impossible.
Beats me, the King of Despair replies, airily and without care. Maybe there is. Maybe there isn't. There's a pause, then a fond sigh. That sister of ours is pretty one of a kind, isn't she?
'She's not ours,' Black replies sourly. 'She's mine.'
Yeah, yeah. Good luck, William, and then silence.
Black breathes in, lets it out, and repeats this a second time when he realizes he's shaking. Swallowing hard, he leaves the mirror and puts on a practiced smile for the world, polite at best and distant at worst.
Really, that guy came in so useful in the end.
The King of Despair rolls a coin across his fingers one way and then repeats it the other, blowing some of his hair out of his face and squinting at the station map. It doesn't help that Femt's put it up so high as if to mock his lack of sight, and just to piss the other King off he gives the right answer to the surprise trivia question he'd been asked the moment he kicked his feet onto the table.
"You can't even see," Femt complains, cane striking the ground in frustration. "How is it that you knew?!"
The King of Despair grins, leaning back in his seat with closed eyes. "What can I say? I'm street smart."
And Black had used that particular train to get to a job across town, but hey. He won't give away all his secrets.
The other grumbles something under his breath and waves him off, turning pointedly to another King and talking loudly about something the King of Despair tunes out entirely.
Instead, he decides to pick up one of the apples Femt's reaching for and move it slightly out of reach. The small flickers of power are there, springing forth every time he inches the fruit away, and he doesn't bother to hide his smug look when it's clear that the King of Depravity has had enough of his tiresome game and drags the fruit bowl away sternly, glaring at him. The King of Despair simply shrugs, folding his hands into his lap, and watching the cosmic spanning the ceiling.
All of these years fine tuning supreme control over the tiniest fraction of his power and Black never thought to use it so responsibly. A waste of talent, in his opinion, but oh does it feel so good to have this sort of ease over others' reactions. From sitting on the sidelines to being the ringmaster of his own circus...
The King of Despair smiles, closes his eyes, and dreams of the grand finale.