For a moment Lance could only stare back into those dark, taunting eyes ... but it was the tiny, triumphantly knowing smirk which did him in.
With a snarl Lance threw himself forward against the wall, as if it would actually bow under his weight, his veins and heart pounding with adrenaline and rage. Bastard traitor! I'll fucking kill you--!
And then what? Turn out just like him?
Vaguely he knew that something like this had already happened, that he had confronted Giovanni and ohgod thatfuckingsmirk, and it had been so, so tempting to just kill him then and there because he could have--
But he hadn't, he'd just arrested him (because he didn't want to be like him) and then he'd escaped anyway and if he could just kill him now maybe he could stop people from suffering more like he hadn't managed last time because he'd been a fucking coward--
For a moment Lance felt disorientated, the world around him swirling from darkness into the faded colours and timbre of the living room. His attention was captured by the sight of his father's body only two feet away, and he was torn between rushing to the man's side (even though it was far too late and always had been).
Then Giovanni's voice registered and with a snarl he threw himself at the black-haired man, only the sizes were suddenly all wrong and his fists were too small, and then he wasn't an adult anymore--he was a ten-year-old again.
Lance stumbled, grunting as he collided with a chair, and tried--and failed--to pull himself out of Giovanni's grasp. He swung a fist, but didn't even get close to connecting.
"B- bastard!" he seethed, straining and scrabbling to hit, to leave a mark, to do anything to stop that awful feeling of powerlessness. Giovanni just held him off, looking amusedly down at him.
The words seemed to stab into Lance, because Giovanni was right--what could a ten-year-old do, to save his father, to save anyone, to stop Giovanni ... but he wasn't a ten-year-old, he was older than that, or he was supposed to be, and he had--
He'd helped stop the Rockets' rise in their tracks--
You're a strong trainer, that doesn't mean you can lead; people got killed for you, performing your orders!Desperately Lance yanked himself away. Giovanni let him go and he stumbled backward, his heel catching on something and making him stumble
( ... )
Lance took a few surprised, stumbling steps forward, gazing at the vaguely surreal tableau of the Rockets starting their pursuit and Arlie, leaning on a wall, half-turned around to count them, his face grim.
Lane looked at the Rockets and his hand automatically went to his back. He didn't have his dragons with him--of course not--and there were too many to really take care of himself when he didn't know whether they'd start moving again (because of course they would). Instead he went for Arlie, fully intending to drag the man away as far as he could before the scene restarted. He reached for the gym leader's arm--
His hands went through it.
"Nononono," Lance hissed, trying again to find a grip on Arlie's shoulders, but his hands always just faded through the man's body. The redhead's stomach lurched and he looked down at his slightly-shaking hands, his breathing slightly ragged.
It's because I wasn't here, isn't it? He turned to look at the Rockets behind them, black-clad and furious, frozen still in positions of attack and
( ... )
Lance found himself in his study in the League's headquarters at the Plateau. The abrupt shift from noise and battle to silence and solitude left him disorientated, and for a moment he just sat there, pressed against the wall with his eyes closed, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself. The sound of indistinct voices made him look up and out his window, and he saw black figures winding up the path toward the building: reporters. Press conference?Had to be. Automatically he pushed himself up and found he was already in his uniform--not his battle outfit, his dress blues--and equally automatically made for the lobby. He tried to think of what it could be about, but his mind was blank. It didn't matter; when they started asking him questions he'd know when he was
( ... )
Lance pressed a shaking hand to his face, the voice's words swirling around in his head. How could he answer that?
Both.
Neither.
"You failed."
His eyes snapped open and he found himself looking into his doppelganger's intense, accusing, somehow pitying gaze.
"You were supposed to protect them. You were supposed to protect them and you gave him free reign."
Something tightened in his chest. "I didn't know."
The response was simple: "You should have."
He shook his head automatically--he'd thought Giovanni was a friend, everyone had thought Giovanni was a friend, how could he have known--
"You're supposed to be me. You're supposed to see these things."
But I'm not you, he wanted to say. I'm not you because you're just a story. They think you're real and you aren't, and I've tried ...
He'd tried to be the hero, but he wasn't. It wasn't a matter of what he wanted to be. It was never a matter of what he wanted, except that he didn't want to be like him--like Giovanni. It was a matter of what he was ... and what they thought he
( ... )
"You didn't fail. Why do you have to live up to a legend? There are a lot of heroes who aren't perfect." This time, it was a new voice, as another figure stepped out of the crowd. "You did everything you could. That's all anyone can really ask."
Her words penetrated, and for a moment he didn't know how to answer them. He couldn't live up to the peoples' expectations; what else could that be but a failure?
But as for why he had to live up to those expectations ...
He couldn't remember the last time he'd asked himself why. When had he started? When he'd first entered the League it had been because he had realised he had the power, he wanted to direct it in a worthy direction, and he wanted to atone. He wanted to be everything that Giovanni was not, everything that wasn't what he had come so close to being. And somehow that had turned from being the best he could be into being everything the public had begun to think he was
( ... )
And then he looked over at Lancer's hiding place, almost challengingly.
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With a snarl Lance threw himself forward against the wall, as if it would actually bow under his weight, his veins and heart pounding with adrenaline and rage. Bastard traitor! I'll fucking kill you--!
And then what? Turn out just like him?
Vaguely he knew that something like this had already happened, that he had confronted Giovanni and ohgod thatfuckingsmirk, and it had been so, so tempting to just kill him then and there because he could have--
But he hadn't, he'd just arrested him (because he didn't want to be like him) and then he'd escaped anyway and if he could just kill him now maybe he could stop people from suffering more like he hadn't managed last time because he'd been a fucking coward--
The wall vanished, and Lance stumbled forward.
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Then Giovanni's voice registered and with a snarl he threw himself at the black-haired man, only the sizes were suddenly all wrong and his fists were too small, and then he wasn't an adult anymore--he was a ten-year-old again.
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"B- bastard!" he seethed, straining and scrabbling to hit, to leave a mark, to do anything to stop that awful feeling of powerlessness. Giovanni just held him off, looking amusedly down at him.
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He'd helped stop the Rockets' rise in their tracks--
You're a strong trainer, that doesn't mean you can lead; people got killed for you, performing your orders!Desperately Lance yanked himself away. Giovanni let him go and he stumbled backward, his heel catching on something and making him stumble ( ... )
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And Lancer felt an invisible force push at his back to make him move.
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Lane looked at the Rockets and his hand automatically went to his back. He didn't have his dragons with him--of course not--and there were too many to really take care of himself when he didn't know whether they'd start moving again (because of course they would). Instead he went for Arlie, fully intending to drag the man away as far as he could before the scene restarted. He reached for the gym leader's arm--
His hands went through it.
"Nononono," Lance hissed, trying again to find a grip on Arlie's shoulders, but his hands always just faded through the man's body. The redhead's stomach lurched and he looked down at his slightly-shaking hands, his breathing slightly ragged.
It's because I wasn't here, isn't it? He turned to look at the Rockets behind them, black-clad and furious, frozen still in positions of attack and ( ... )
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Just Lance?
Dragon Master?
Which is better?
All of these were ideas floating around, questions that needed to be asked, to be thought of.
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Both.
Neither.
"You failed."
His eyes snapped open and he found himself looking into his doppelganger's intense, accusing, somehow pitying gaze.
"You were supposed to protect them. You were supposed to protect them and you gave him free reign."
Something tightened in his chest. "I didn't know."
The response was simple: "You should have."
He shook his head automatically--he'd thought Giovanni was a friend, everyone had thought Giovanni was a friend, how could he have known--
"You're supposed to be me. You're supposed to see these things."
But I'm not you, he wanted to say. I'm not you because you're just a story. They think you're real and you aren't, and I've tried ...
He'd tried to be the hero, but he wasn't. It wasn't a matter of what he wanted to be. It was never a matter of what he wanted, except that he didn't want to be like him--like Giovanni. It was a matter of what he was ... and what they thought he ( ... )
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This time, it was Yellow who spoke.
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Her words penetrated, and for a moment he didn't know how to answer them. He couldn't live up to the peoples' expectations; what else could that be but a failure?
But as for why he had to live up to those expectations ...
He couldn't remember the last time he'd asked himself why. When had he started? When he'd first entered the League it had been because he had realised he had the power, he wanted to direct it in a worthy direction, and he wanted to atone. He wanted to be everything that Giovanni was not, everything that wasn't what he had come so close to being. And somehow that had turned from being the best he could be into being everything the public had begun to think he was ( ... )
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