02-07-2019, 11:30 PM
[align=center][div style="borderwidth; width: 400px; padding: 1px; text-align: justify; color: #4B3E2D; line-height: 14px; font-size: 11pt; font-family:timesnewroman"]"speech" 'thought' text
tw: mentions alcohol, blood, profanity, themes of violence
Michael knelt motionlessly, the only sign of his being live was the faint rise and fall of his chest, and the eyes of a wounded soul staring up at Hayley, waiting for the worst. His heart was rapidly beating in his chest, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, part of him wanted to get up, fight to the last drop of blood he had. And the other part knew that it was stupid, idiotic, and something that Cat would probably kill him for (at least if he lived through it, which wasn't likely).
He was not the machine he once was, was not the hardened man, seasoned fighter, robotic obedience to orders given. Much had changed, he'd seen horrible things, done even worse things, been a person he was ashamed to be. Perhaps there had been glimpses of hope for him in the past. But those were dashed to smithereens by his own actions. When he killed William, his best friend, a man who was still like a brother to him.
When he slaughtered anyone in his way without care or feeling. When he hunted down two young teenage boys and brutally attacked them without a real cause. And now, when he punched this kid for a little poke. Mike was teeter-tottering between two sentiments. One was his instincts, his training, everything that he had done in his life. And the other, the shred of humanity he was now clinging to for dear life.
He heard another figure approaching, though he wasn't about to turn around quickly in order to see, said figure. He knew that a sudden movement was all any of them were waiting for, the leader seemed pretty shaken up about his assault on Brendan after all. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his hands still twined at the back of his head. Now he was being told to get on the ground (he was already on the ground,) and to put his hands behind his back. It seemed an ill advised course of action though, and while he was concerned that Hayley would decide to shoot him right there for not complying, he also didn't want her to shoot him for complying.
It was a bit of a impediment to say the least. "Kid," His voice was gruff, possibly because he had no real reason to be soft spoken right now, after all he was being treated like the enemy (well he was sort of the enemy) why modulate his voice for them? "I-this is not a threat," He added, realizing that it might be construed as one. "I've got a gun in my waistband and another strapped to my back," He swallowed as he spoke his words slowly, clearly, carefully.
"Might be best for me to keep my hands on my head." He strained his eyes as he tried to utilize his peripheral vision in order to see Tomorrow, he didn't see much of him, though a figure striding quickly towards the scene did register. However, there was a situation much more pressing much closer. His brows furrowed and he dared a glance towards the infuriated Brendan. Was there something he was supposed to say to the rage filled boy?
Before he could think of it however, Elinor arrived, erupting in a glory of defense. He didn't need it, didn't want it, didn't deserve it. Her command to "stop" was still ringing in his head (which was admittedly a bit achy already from Brendan's kick.) As she continued, Mike's frown deepened. Why was she defending him? She didn't even know him, didn't see how terrible of a person he was? Perhaps the Lodge hated him, but there was no greater critic of himself than Michael T. Ford. It was easy to see every last fault and none of the virtues.
Mike felt a pained twang in his heart at her unneeded defense, and finally, she finished, and he could talk, though what he was supposed to say was... hazy at best. "M-Miss." His voice caught as he said the word, "I... I appreciate your willingness to give me the benefit of the doubt, but your altruism is misplaced." It wasn't the best way to say it, but hell, how was he supposed to tell this naive girl that she was an idiot for trying to see the best in him.
He took a deep shuddering breath, realizing that he might be buying his one way ticket to hell right this second. "I know what I did, they saw what I did." He shrugged, "They think they know why I did it," He inhaled shakily, his body shivering from the prolonged cold and his knees numb from their time in the ice. "Let the Lodge's justice run it's course," He swallowed again, not wanting to spit in the presence of the one person who had just showed him compassion.
It was something he'd never really had in his life, and it left a weird sensation in the back of his head, he couldn't stop thinking about it in a corner of his mind. Why? Why would she want to save his life? It was worthless, even he thought so. A slightly arrogant smirk slipped over his face, perhaps he was sealing his own fate, maybe he wanted to die, make the pain of living go away. After all, could hell be much worse than this? "Besides. The arrogant shit got what was coming to him." Well that wasn't entirely true, he'd gotten more than he deserved, but Mike wouldn't nitpick.
"But, if it makes you feel better, little lady. I'm sorry." He couldn't figure out why he'd said this last part, he wasn't, he was well aware that he was in deep shit, but he really didn't feel that much remorse for punching Brendan... twice, any feelings of that had slipped away. "I'm already surrendered, if you want to kill an unarmed (well, helpless) man, be my guest. Have at it. Be the monster you see me as." He was a monster, and he believed that almost everyone else out there in the world was a monster as well.
With these last words, he shut his mouth, clenching his teeth so hard that his veins bulged from his neck, his eyes snapped to a spot straight forward, no longer looking at anyone, addressing anyone, he'd said what he'd needed to say, and if Flintlock didn't kill him, Cat probably would.
tw: mentions alcohol, blood, profanity, themes of violence
Michael knelt motionlessly, the only sign of his being live was the faint rise and fall of his chest, and the eyes of a wounded soul staring up at Hayley, waiting for the worst. His heart was rapidly beating in his chest, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, part of him wanted to get up, fight to the last drop of blood he had. And the other part knew that it was stupid, idiotic, and something that Cat would probably kill him for (at least if he lived through it, which wasn't likely).
He was not the machine he once was, was not the hardened man, seasoned fighter, robotic obedience to orders given. Much had changed, he'd seen horrible things, done even worse things, been a person he was ashamed to be. Perhaps there had been glimpses of hope for him in the past. But those were dashed to smithereens by his own actions. When he killed William, his best friend, a man who was still like a brother to him.
When he slaughtered anyone in his way without care or feeling. When he hunted down two young teenage boys and brutally attacked them without a real cause. And now, when he punched this kid for a little poke. Mike was teeter-tottering between two sentiments. One was his instincts, his training, everything that he had done in his life. And the other, the shred of humanity he was now clinging to for dear life.
He heard another figure approaching, though he wasn't about to turn around quickly in order to see, said figure. He knew that a sudden movement was all any of them were waiting for, the leader seemed pretty shaken up about his assault on Brendan after all. He swallowed the lump in his throat, his hands still twined at the back of his head. Now he was being told to get on the ground (he was already on the ground,) and to put his hands behind his back. It seemed an ill advised course of action though, and while he was concerned that Hayley would decide to shoot him right there for not complying, he also didn't want her to shoot him for complying.
It was a bit of a impediment to say the least. "Kid," His voice was gruff, possibly because he had no real reason to be soft spoken right now, after all he was being treated like the enemy (well he was sort of the enemy) why modulate his voice for them? "I-this is not a threat," He added, realizing that it might be construed as one. "I've got a gun in my waistband and another strapped to my back," He swallowed as he spoke his words slowly, clearly, carefully.
"Might be best for me to keep my hands on my head." He strained his eyes as he tried to utilize his peripheral vision in order to see Tomorrow, he didn't see much of him, though a figure striding quickly towards the scene did register. However, there was a situation much more pressing much closer. His brows furrowed and he dared a glance towards the infuriated Brendan. Was there something he was supposed to say to the rage filled boy?
Before he could think of it however, Elinor arrived, erupting in a glory of defense. He didn't need it, didn't want it, didn't deserve it. Her command to "stop" was still ringing in his head (which was admittedly a bit achy already from Brendan's kick.) As she continued, Mike's frown deepened. Why was she defending him? She didn't even know him, didn't see how terrible of a person he was? Perhaps the Lodge hated him, but there was no greater critic of himself than Michael T. Ford. It was easy to see every last fault and none of the virtues.
Mike felt a pained twang in his heart at her unneeded defense, and finally, she finished, and he could talk, though what he was supposed to say was... hazy at best. "M-Miss." His voice caught as he said the word, "I... I appreciate your willingness to give me the benefit of the doubt, but your altruism is misplaced." It wasn't the best way to say it, but hell, how was he supposed to tell this naive girl that she was an idiot for trying to see the best in him.
He took a deep shuddering breath, realizing that he might be buying his one way ticket to hell right this second. "I know what I did, they saw what I did." He shrugged, "They think they know why I did it," He inhaled shakily, his body shivering from the prolonged cold and his knees numb from their time in the ice. "Let the Lodge's justice run it's course," He swallowed again, not wanting to spit in the presence of the one person who had just showed him compassion.
It was something he'd never really had in his life, and it left a weird sensation in the back of his head, he couldn't stop thinking about it in a corner of his mind. Why? Why would she want to save his life? It was worthless, even he thought so. A slightly arrogant smirk slipped over his face, perhaps he was sealing his own fate, maybe he wanted to die, make the pain of living go away. After all, could hell be much worse than this? "Besides. The arrogant shit got what was coming to him." Well that wasn't entirely true, he'd gotten more than he deserved, but Mike wouldn't nitpick.
"But, if it makes you feel better, little lady. I'm sorry." He couldn't figure out why he'd said this last part, he wasn't, he was well aware that he was in deep shit, but he really didn't feel that much remorse for punching Brendan... twice, any feelings of that had slipped away. "I'm already surrendered, if you want to kill an unarmed (well, helpless) man, be my guest. Have at it. Be the monster you see me as." He was a monster, and he believed that almost everyone else out there in the world was a monster as well.
With these last words, he shut his mouth, clenching his teeth so hard that his veins bulged from his neck, his eyes snapped to a spot straight forward, no longer looking at anyone, addressing anyone, he'd said what he'd needed to say, and if Flintlock didn't kill him, Cat probably would.
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MICHAEL FORD
Michael Ford is a 45 year old, man, he's stubbornly loyal to whatever cause he chooses, protective of his family and friends, he's a member of the Badlands. Michael has issues controlling his anger in most situations. He is a difficult opponent and well trained, feel free to power play nonviolent interactions though.