*Ian refuses to defend himself verbally… he doesn't see a point in it, he's already said everything he could say, told the reasons, gave the /truth/, anything now would be redundant, and he prefers to believe his only son is smart enough not to have things repeated to him three or four times before it sinks fully in… and he never said, or thought, or even dared /hope/ James would respond well to this. Why would he? Why would either of them? Ian /is/ wiser than that, better than that, smarter than that. An insane bitter old man… perhaps. But one who is extremely good at what he does, knows who he is, and more to the point, knows others. Willing to abandon him once... /like HELL/, he would answer, maybe, silently, if he knew what James was thinking. Oh, he can tell anyway... from the racing of the pulse, to the rush and distinct odor of adrenaline as it pumps through the system (few realize it can be scented through the sweat glands, among other things), to the timbre of voice, the tremble of stretching and contracting muscle, the grind of cartilage on cartilage, sinew lengthening, breath catching… all this tells him, long before James even moves, with or without Unnatural speed, what's going on in the boy's mind, his intentions. Ian knows his son's powers, his gifts, his strengths and weakness in character as well as in battle, and physically. And he uses them, of course, as an opponent should do… he's watched Blackdagger, Blackdagger has not watched /him/, however* How amusing… *is all he murmurs as he moves himself, in a flat, dull, unimpressed tone, dodging the strike, and aiming in low for a counterstrike, at the flat, taut gut of the youth*

** Indeed he had not fully expected to feel Scratch's throat pressed against his palms. Nor did he fully expect to feel his life draining slowly, near uthropically from Scratch. Nor did he even expect victory. . . He then blinked as he felt the same blinding speed if not faster as a solid hit was placed at his gut. His body tensed as he winced, the power the man possessed lifted him slightly, as he threw his eyes wide, and then he simply when feeling his feet land to the ground, suppressed the pain, and the urge to double over. One arm already instinctually over his stomach, as he then backed quickly, hunched ever so slightly, just out of immediate reach from the GUARDian. He breathed hard for a long moment allowing his hand to fall to his side, and stood fully. His shoulders heaving with every breath, and anger pouring out of every pore. Looking to the man as to find even one weakness, but nothing. Instead through grinding teeth, and narrowed eyes, the folds of skin over the bridge of his nose scrunched as he glared. The bruise that would have formed on his stomach never even surfaced, as the one upon his throat even did. He then did something that went against every inclination he had to simply beat the living hell out of Scratch. He walked slow, his eyes darting from Scratch's hands to his face, approaching the man. He knew defeat too well, and as hard as it was to accept it, even after a single blow admitting to it. . . he did. Not as to stupid to continue the farce, and make a mockery of himself. Nearing until he was as close as Scratch approached him before, though not touching him except with the rapt breaths. Then through grit teeth and strained lips, he muttered ** You. . win.

*Scratch doesn't back away, pulled fully to his foremost height, broad shoulders squared, back erect, chin firm and jaw set. His lined eyes don't hold victory, though, they capture something else instead, bright, yes, but not with triumph as he locks gazes with Black. The scents were thick, and varied, telling him much. He can feel the burn of anger exuding from the youth, the pain, the humiliation, perhaps. He can /see/ the fury, the disgust… and somehow, without actually doing it, he manages to portray the shake of his head, though he doesn't quite move* I don't think so. *is his response, always calm, quiet, and his face softens a bit, though his guard is never -ever- dropped, his gaze set, fixed, holding* I understand this is a lot for you, but try, once, to put yourself in my place. Just once. Maybe you'll appreciate /my/ position… and how much hell /I've/ gone through. I already know your life story, James. I know your pain. But I have my own.

** He glared at his superior, his whole body now freely shaking in rage. He shut his eyes and parted his lips as if to speak, but no words came out. Humiliated, yes, he had /never/ dealt with failure well. And it seemed no matter how he strove and worked he never was able to overcome that simple element. He had never been able to present himself as worthy in his own eyes. Finally finding the words that he was searching for. ** You /don't/ know /my/ pain. . .sir.. ** his lips still quivering ** You've simply observed from afar and seen files on a monitor. ** Still his nerves then making him feel a wave of nausea. Then still his cold blue eyes glaring at the commander he said ** And what eludes you, I never wanted /you/ to understand what I have went through. ** Thinking then, just for a spit second on what Scratch had said. ' put yourself in my place. ' The fleeting thought was lost in a swarming, swimming heat that over rode very though he allowed in his mind, and every word that passed his teeth. Still breathing hard, a wicked contrast to the cool, calm, quiet man standing in front of him. **

Can you be so sure? That I don't know? I can sense your rage now, your humiliation, your feeling of failure. I can hear your heartbeat, hear your blood in your veins, I know what you're thinking and feeling. *The answer some unusually soft, whereas the rest of him is still rigid, face expressionless, utter contrast to what he's saying and how he's saying it. And still, he doesn't move, rarely blinks, holds his position, his eye contact* Your father... *hard to say now, it feels odd, strained, to again give his son to another as he was forced to do so long ago* Was a very good friend of mine, but we always competed. He, too, felt… less… when compared to me. I don't know why, exactly, it was drive he had, a drive, perhaps, all men have. To better, to overcome, to… dominate their fellow men. Its natural. He never felt worthy enough, in his eyes, when he compared himself to me, something I never wanted him to do. It wasn't fair to /him/. He was not /me/… and he was natural. /Is/ natural. It must have been hard on him, rearing you, knowing who you were, who's you were. And it transferred all of it, solidly onto your shoulders. No, I'm not the one you want to understand, /he/ is, and /I/ understand that. But now, -you- understand, boy… the last thing I ever wanted to do was give you up. I got to keep one child, though it'd have been better for her, too, not to have stayed with me. That choice was taken from me, however, and from her. There was no help for it. /Want/ you to be here, mixed up in this? You say I'm bitter... that I'm insane. And while I may be mental, as you accuse, I'm not stupid. Nor sadistic. That you ended up here, in the GUARD, is not my doing, nor was my wish, as it was not with your sister. But I dealt with it, best I could, taught what I could, loved as I was able. I --- *he trails off. What was left to say? Nothing, perhaps. Anger was anger, pain was pain, and even Scratch never fully healed from his wife's death, never fully handled what became of his family. Life was rarely fair, or kind, and he learned that long ago. /Finally/, after a moment of silence, where all words stopped, he sighs heavily, raises his brows over his fiery eyes, and shrugs ever-so-subtly* Maybe I /should/ go… as you prefer.

** He listened in contempt, his breathing finally slowed to a more calmed pace as he listened to Scratch. His expression slowly calming trying, if not anything, to deny Scratch the pleasure. Finding himself wanting to scream, and lash out as the old man spoke. Finding himself raising his hands to his lowering head, finding himself pressing his palms to his ears. Gripping there, fingers digging into his baby fine hair. Snapping his head upwards as he mentioned The General. His hands falling from his ears just so slightly, catching every word, and every syllable. He eventually calmed his breathing entirely and listened, no matter how he desired to rend the ears from his own head in a futile attempt to prevent the statements.. Though he didn't, he also knew he /needed/ to hear what was being said. So instead he watched the man before him try to explain himself, The General, and most of all James. What made him shut his eyes, close the commander from his mind and view. . The General knew of this the entire time. . . In addition the tone of Scratch's voice made his skin crawl even more. Adding that element of honesty he couldn't fathom. In the confusion of the entire scene he found himself in a conflict. One was supposed to love their parents, he wanted to rip out his parent's throat. He wanted to scream and demand that he shut his mouth. He wanted to call The General, his father and /prove/ it was an utter farce. But pieces of his mind that managed to keep a logical clear view claimed above it all just once. -It all makes perfect sense. . .- His anger as a wave washed away. First making his limbs feel empty, as the adrenaline rushed from them. Leaving with every pulse of his heart. Hearing him speak, and nearly denying it all. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. A vicious cycle that stung his eyes and tore at everything he believed and trusted. Finally after Scratch finished, suggesting he should leave, offered, as a retort. Something, anything, childish and immature as an effort to want the GUARDian to feel as torn, as empty as he at that very moment. Where it seemed even his anger had simply fled, leaving a husk. ** You may have loved all that you were able, but now?. . . . She is just a /thing/ to you . . and ,sir, I doubt that I hold higher regard in your eye. You may have never have wanted this, but because of you. . .all this has happened. ** His words not spiteful instead seeming as they were, a child's last effort to lash back. **

*That does it… without warning, none at all, his hand flashes out and up, to strike the brazen youth across his cheek with just about everything the man can muster… which is to say, the force is quite considerable. And while he scowls for the fraction of time he lashes out, his face smoothes again the moment the action is over, his voice just as calm, low, but heated just slightly with a certain amount of passion* You don't know Yvette, not like I do. Don't you /dare/ presume to think you know /me/ and my motives, /boy/. *A /thing/. Inwardly, Scratch rages for the tiniest moment, and even that conflict is laid velveteen again. A /thing/ indeed. That young woman down there, in that cell, was his /daughter/, his flesh and blood. So much like her mother is many ways… and so much like her father in others. His daughter. Damn all this anyway…* I'm very proud of my little girl. /Very/ proud. She's done well. So, since you think I hold you in no higher regard, what does that tell you, James?

** Stricken and with that motion unprepared, and totally caught off guard. The hand clashing with muscle and bone that simply crashed. His head whipped to the side in an exaggerated motion, straining the muscle in his neck, and the tendons. Instantly his skin stung, feeling like a milling pin pricks digging to his flesh. He paused his head there for a moment before slowly turning his eyes back towards Scratch. . . Stunned, a bit surprised, though no trace of cowardice. He lowered his gaze and then chin, as he kept a very steady pulse and pace of breath. Straining everything on those actions not to lash out. A steady ringing in his ear soon subsided to the commander speaking again . His words of retort again surfaced, near saying that the old man had an odd way of showing his pride. . . locking it in a cage, and abandoning it. But indeed it told him enough. Enough for him to hold his tongue, and enough then to feel a twinge of guilt. **

No one knows, James. *he mutters it quietly, as he's been doing, keeping any prying ear from hearing electronically, hands back at his sides, stony and stoic of expression once more. But in his eyes there are sparks within the sparks… perhaps Black /had/ hurt the old man after all. However, pain was hardly new to this one…. He's lived a life seeped in it, and he shrugs it aside, as he's always done. Or almost always done* I suggest we keep it to ourselves, for your sake. And Yvette's. And mine. And think as little on it as you can, so the ESPers don't pick up on it. Hide it away, under other things, don't let it to the surface. *That his daughter was in a cage bothered him greatly… he didn't like seeing her there, one reason he chastised her for being so easy to take in, and by a Rookie. Why he'd insulted her by saying she'd been sloppy, if it was an insult anyway. Admonishment, yes… /Why are you here? Why were you caught? Didn't I teach you better than that?/ Wounded pride, perhaps… mostly, he simply hated seeing her unhappy, which was her normal state when around him… when around the GUARD. Did she really think he couldn't have stopped her? That he couldn't have tracked her down? That all those near-misses by the Hunter Squads, years ago when she first went AWOL, did she think those were all accidental? Most likely. Most likely she'd never know the truth. It didn't matter. She had been… free. As she wanted to be. His holds, his ties here, with the GUARD, were somewhat tighter. He owed them his very existence. Reason enough, perhaps, to destroy them all… but Ian didn't work that way. He didn't truck with vengeance*

** He rolled his hand over his neck once and then glanced away. Another secret. it is not what he wanted to expected. but honestly did Scratch think he would simply write the message? Or gossip about it in the lunch-rooms? And if he were to gossip, who /now/ could he tell? No he would just hold it inwards, and with that he merely nodded. Looking towards the darkness beyond Scratch, saying with a very crisp, near resentful ** Yes /sir/. ** He then felt the guilt grow and tug again. The stinging and soreness tingled away. Feeling petty and as childish as his previous statement was. He then simply stepped aside, leaving clear room for his superior to pass by. -Don't think about it? Don't let it surface? . . .How? - Everything he could think of that he did majority was focused on pleasing a single man. And now he realised he failed at that as well. Knowing it could never be accomplished, and with his last statement in either aspect. . .The General or The GUARDian. His dreams of a simple understanding, a joyous homecoming, were gone. And he was not sure which was to hate more, the man for shattering them, or the man for building them. What was he supposed to do? let it go. . .-Let it -go?- ,. . he hushed his thoughts. Then perhaps figured in a harsh way that he had been doing things all wrong. Trying to impress the wrong people, trying to be accepted by the wrong people. When all the while he should have been trying to accept himself. This dull realisation made the guilt fall deeper. . . had he placed all that anger on this man. . . who he barely knew? He said then faintly, as he moved completely out of Scratch's way ** Understood. . . ** Again he found himself in the exact same predicament as before, unable to please a father figure. . .then why was this time more painful? Was it only that this time this man acknowledged he even had a name?**

*What was left to say? What /could/ be said? Maybe things shouldn't be said, maybe Scratch shouldn't have said anything at all. It would have been wiser, smarter, saved them both a lot of time, hurt, grief… but he'd done it, and maybe some day Black will reflect on the /why/, on all that was said, and maybe... maybe then he'd understand… understand it was a father's love that pushed Scratch to do this, that he could no longer stand being subsumed as in his role of commander and looked down on as a parent. He had kids, he had responsibilities…. A quick thought-prayer to his dead wife for patience and serenity… she was always able to give him wise council, get him to think and not just act (god, how he still missed her), and he needed that now. Black moves out of the way, obviously, he wants Scratch to leave. This time, Ian doesn't object. The slight shift of weight, a jerk forward, a pause, watching his son, and then he continues again, moves forward smoothly, walking towards the exit* You don't have to impress me, you know… *barely a whisper as he passes* I'm already proud of you. *Then he frowns, and straightens, his voice deepening, roughening, shoulders straightening, tall and proud, this man, wise… maybe he's outlived his usefulness… maybe he can't /be/ a father, not like he should be, under these conditions. His children only end up hating him in the end* Next time, follow the damn orders. /Verbatim/, you got that boy? *gruff, gravely, and he slips out of the shadows into the shadows… too much left unsaid, and perhaps better understood for it. There is one look back, one last shine of those flint eyes in the darkness… and kind of invitation, unspoken… James was welcome to come to Scratch anytime he liked.. talk, fight, whatever. Maybe they could get to know one another… if he wanted to, that was. Then the face, the figure, so impressive and huge, is engulfed by the blackness, and is gone*

** He watches Scratch with a weary eye, backing at the sudden jerk, and then watching instead the old man's face. He paused in mid movement, as he spoke, and continued a slow pace. A single notion that parted the commanders lips as he passed by. Something that would make a grown man cry, well at least one I could think of. . . And not as dramatic as a single tear streaming down his cheek, or as pathetic as a hundred swimming sobs as he toppled to the ground. Instead he pulled his lips inward and bit down. Feeling salt water trickle over them Tilting his head as Scratch spoke again, looking away, feeling ashamed of things as natural as tears. He then called out a half choked, though sharp ** Yes, sir. ** His eyes still looking towards the ground, and his shoulders ever so slightly slumped. He then felt through the darkness until he felt the bed, and sat. Looking upwards and seeing the glimmer of what simply couldn't be said, and then nothing. Simply blackness. The back side of his hand wiped away the water, and he sat in the ringing silence... orders, verbatim. . Recycling those words in his mind over and over again. Finally, accepting what he then felt was the truth, looking back after Scratch, but then seeing nothing but the darkness. Not calling out towards a phantom figure, or even reaching his fingers to the darkness. Instead he simply sat, labored breathing, and wet cheeks. A word was spoken then in the darkness ** Shit. . .