Koehler walked through the halls, eventually finding Yeshua, that nerdy fuck, bleeding and sitting in the Mess Hall. Koehler spoke up, shouting. "Hey you short fuck." He was obviously quite angry.
Yeshua was staring at his omni-use device for some time now. He had his eyes glued to the holographic projection, not daring to use the map. He could figure his own way there. There was a disturbance in his contemplation of the use of electronic devices when Koehler had managed to sneak up on him. His ears weren't visible underneath his shaggy and unkept hair, but he eventually figured out he was there. His brief but very interesting greeting had him almost shocked, if he hadn't realised who this young man was. Like a Crane in the swamp, he remained frigid, looking at the profile of Elora once again.
Koehler spoke again, "Look at me when I'm talking to you.", He demanded. "Stand up."
He shook his head again, while towering over the relatively short individual he was quite annoyed with.
"Nice to see you too, Koehler." Yeshua returned in a polite and dry form. He switched back and forth between Stukov's, Miles, Ryan's profiles, analysing their worryingly brief reports and statuses. These were dead people, Yeshua realised, and the institution brushed it off like a failed test drug. This was the cost of being a Pilot. These were the risks he would be taking, and had taken, by arriving at the Solaire facility.
Koehler, not caring about such things, nor noticing them in the first place, simply grabbed the chair Yeshua was sitting on and dragged it with him, back towards the dormitories. This would've obviously startled Yeshua, and Koehler responded with a quick, sharp "Don't fucking move outta that chair."
Yeshua rolled his eyes at the very, very, rude boy. He hadn't seen such insolence from someone larger than him. Quickly, he shot himself up from the chair and sat on the table, finally deciding that he couldn't concentrate on his clearly dangerous fate.
"Young man, we're in public. Don't make me take you home and send you to your room." He pouted, far too impressive at putting on the voice of an annoyed mother.
Harold Koehler, easily the largest, most physical person of the group, was beggining to get enraged at this short fuck giving him shit. That was enough, and he was getting sick of this. He grabbed Yeshua himself, almost like a toy, and dragged him by the arms towards the dormitories, his greater strength and ability at this type of thing giving Yeshua little chance to actually get out of this situation.
Teasing, whilst not exactly a stairway to success, had only made him madder. He couldn't have used many things against him, being the shorter and smaller boy of the two. It would be an incredibly ludicrous suggestion that Yeshua had arrived to become a pilot without reading some form of martial art. It wasn't exactly a martial art, he corrected himself, but it was useful.
The boy reached forward with his right hand and yanked the hair on Koehler's head, stopping him in his tracks. He was scrawny, but it was very hard to resist the pull of someone on your hair.
Koehler noticed the pulling, and decided to surprise Yeshua with an unexpected headbutt, Yeshua unwittingly assisting such a maneuver with pulling Koehlers' hair. Their heads smacked together, and they were both ejected from eachothers' grasps.
Yeshua fell to the floor as a searing pain entered his forehead. Their skulls had collided as a sickening crack jelled into the walls. He heaved himself up, keeping his distance.
"Try to overthrow Rome next time, you barbarian." Yeshua teased in between heavy breaths.
Harold rushed at Yeshua, lowering his upper body a bit to the ground and preparing to deflect any counter-attacks with his own fists. When he got close as possible, he decided he'd try to do an uppercut, or kick him in the groin. Those were decent openings. Yeshua did have a moment to attempt his own strike first, of course.
Yeshua saw the wall of idiocy and rushed to one of the tables, while not particularly high, that would give him a barrier. He leaped on top of it and was sure that nobody was eating here. However, there was still a tray left on the side which found itself in his hands. It had just been cleaned and was warm with soap.
"Try to think with something other than your fat head, Koehler. I thought pilots were supposed to be the cream of the Corps, not mediocre saturday-night show imitations of spanish Bulls." He moaned, keeping the tray in front of his jaw and chest.
"Yeah, I guess that's a good point.", Koehler said as he went to the table that Yeshua was sitting on. He wondered for a second if he could flip it over, but since it was more of a bench, that was unlikely. He then decided to try and kick Yeshua off, aiming for his left leg. The tables were 'thankfully' small enough to allow that, and Koehler's legs were long enough anyway.
Yeshua's knee felt the powerful blow of Koehler's kick, knocking the wind out of him and letting him collapse on his stomach. Groaning, he rolled off and threw the tray at Harold's face. With some space between them, he tried to catch his breath.
"I knew that Bowhead Whales were family-loving creatures, social and slow. You're breaking the stereotype."
Koehler jumped up on the table as the tray hit his head, further hurting his skull. He paused for a moment to regain his momentum, then jumped off the table to do a fucking divekick towards Yeshua's chest, aiming for the lungs. Apparently just to fuck with him.
It was a pathetic attempt at a divekick, but to see someone's body move like that was a priveledge. He almost envied Harold, with his desperate attempts to hurt him. "Hurt" rushed through his arteries and veins as his leg collided, sending him to the floor once again. He coughed blood and rolled as far away as possible. He rubbed the blood off his lip.
"Are you trying to teach me a lesson? If so, I've learnt that the Id is much more of the Thanatos than I first thought. Go on Socrates, make your allegories."
"I don't even know what the fuck you're saying. What the hell does that mean?", Harold wondered for a second, enjoying the pain coursing through his legs. Even a successful divekick hurt like hell, for both parties.
"I don't want to particularly kill you, Harold. Stop acting like a child."
"I don't wanna kill you either, dumbass. As long as you break a littl--"
Yeshua lunged forward, grabbing Harold's hair and thrusting his knee into his groin.
"KRAAARKASF!", Harold yelped in pain, before stepping backwards a few steps to put a little distance between them. "Jewish little shit, fight with some dignity.", he let out in some pain.
"I don't care, you teething brat. If you had the slightest bit of diginity you wouldn't instigate this beforehand. "
"Fuck it, you're gonna fight that dirty? I'm gonna fight that dirty.", Harold angrily replied, as he rummaged through his pockets for something.
By now, almost anyone in the Mess Hall had either left or was hiding behind any kind of protection they could find. The cooks were watching vigilantly behind their screen and the staff of the facility had vacated. Yeshua became aware of the situation and the trouble they would be in if he was caught fighting him. However much this boy needed to be taught a lesson, Yeshua didn't particularly want to be expelled as a pilot. His voice raised into a shout now.
"Do you want to be a pilot? We'll both get kicked out for this. What are you trying to prove? Are you proud of yourself yet? Satisfied that primitive desire yet? When you're alone and robbed of--"
Harold then got what he was looking for and threw it at Yeshua's face. The mysterious bottle breaking open, and getting what was inside into Yeshua's eyes, mouth, nose, and maybe his ears. At first, Yeshua was perfectly fine, the glass not hurting his skin aside from a tiny amount of cuts that were utterly inconsequential.
Harold asked him a rhetorical question. "Hey. Yeshua? Guess what that was?", as the blood-red liquid trailed down his face and went into his eyes some.
No noise came out of his lips as he ran away instantly to wash whatever was in his face. He could barely see but could make out the sign of the male bathroom, rushing in. Hearing feminine shrieks erupting from the room, he shot out and went into the real men's room. The door was plastered white and recently painted, lumps of the wet material still observable. The walls were still the dark metal-grey, grates lining the panels and walkways.
Yet, before he could begin actually washing it off, he faced the most pain he has ever been in his entire life. It felt like bullet ants were biting his every facial orifice, or he was being torn apart on the molecular level by some sort of demonic creature. The pain was so irritating, Yeshua at first would've feared he might die from this. After a few seconds, he'd fear he might not.
He screamed a twisted yelp, prolonged and exasperated, his lungs filling with charcoal and his heart a flint. His face was covered in a thick layer of the acidic liquid, burning into his face and bone.
Koehler could only laugh as he heard Yeshua feel the after effects of Harolds' favorite hot sauce. Hearing such pain was utterly delicious. However, he mourned the fact that now he couldn't put that shit on everything. He followed Yeshua's steps into the men's bathroom and watched as the poor, panicked individual tried to get it off in futility.
The pain almost subsiding, Yeshua stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were red and had lost their colour, a primal rage filling them instead. He had lost all sense of reason or logic, the intense pain sending so many different types of drugs into his system that he was now in a near state of comatose. He shot at Koehler, his right hand grabbing onto his hair and his left underneath his chin, his thumb stabbing into his windpipe and his knee into his crotch. While having the element of surprise, Harold found himself at the corner of the bathroom. The bare walls smashed against his body.
Koehler actually let out a small amount of puke as he reflexively did that in pain. Being hit in the groin that hard did that to a person. His head slammed into the wall, and he lost sight for a few seconds, before going fully unconscious.
As Koehler's body went limp, a sadistic smile creeped onto Yeshua's face. The pulse of the taller boy became slower as his eyelids drooped down, any sort of movement and reflex stopping. Realising what kind of state he was in, Yeshua grabbed the boy by the chin and examined his youthful face.
"You . . . brat . . . " he gasped, trying to regain his composure. But it had been knocked out of him the moment chemical warfare had been achieved. He had lost his cool and his logic, replaced by what he feared would happen; an irreplacable rage.
Harold's body was dragged halfway across the room by a stumbling Yeshua, his smile and teeth shining like the moon in the end of the Lunar Calendar. He almost fell over at one point, balancing his entire weight on his heels. The mirror was already cracked as blood trickled down Yeshua's forehead. He didn't feel any of it.
A soft rushing sound could be heard as Harold's limp body rested on the surface. Using his shaking hands, cold water dripped into the sink. He tip-toed, quietly, with no one around, into one of the stalls. Staring at the serene white surface of the toilet, he gaggled something incomprihensible and began yanking the tissue until twenty metres of it had been stolen. Stuffed into a ball and shoved into the bottom of the sink, the water began to fill in the sink. Yeshua grabbed Harold's face, twisted and broken. Sharing a last vital eye contact, he waved his hand back and forth as to mimick a goodbye.
The body of Harold Koehler slept there, silently, as the water began to run. The empty bathroom giving no condolences. The shards of the mirror flexed and refracted the light of Yeshua's face. But it was a true reflection of his ego. He saw the weak boy that his fathered abandoned, the person who killed his own grandmother and the same boy who hated his own foster parents. He saw the vicious smile of a jungle cat, a large predator hiding in the wild. He saw the flesh ripping, the tendons tearing, the heart hardening. He saw that smile. For the first time in two years, a laugh erupted from his throat. Patting and stroking the soft hair of Harold, his fingers dug into the soft scalp. His hair was thin and fleshy, unlike his. This was the first time he held someone. He placed his lips upon his head and embraced his contact. His body was still warm.
Yeshua drooled slightly as he spoke.
"Nesi'á tová, monster."
Yeshua lifted the weapon, about to bash the bigger pilot's head in when he heard a rushing noise coming from the hallway. He turned around, and saw a boot kicking him square in the face. Yeshua was knocked on the floor, and was immediately overpowered by the military officer who brought her tazer pistol to bear: Ritsu came in at just the time to put an end to the attempted murder Yeshua was about to commit. Yeshua saw soldiers line up in the room before the back of his head was zapped with an electrical charge, knocking him out.
"I can't believe this happened," Ritsu said as a soldier went to Koehler and lifted his head from the sink. He was still unconscious from the beating he took from Yeshua; he would have been dead if not for the Lieutenant's intervention.
"Place him into custody," Ritsu gave an order to the corporal in charge of the strike team. "And bring the other pilot to the med-bay. I'd like to have some rest before the court martial begins."
Yeshua woke up in a detainment cell, on the wrong side of the bullet-proof glass. The room was empty and desolate, save for the chair he was sitting on now. They had managed to catch him in the act. It wasn't his fault, but the amazingly idiotic Harold Koehler. He had only malice reserved for that baffoon, who in Yeshua's eyes, had caused the escapade. There were people watching him, he realised. He jerked his head up to the CCTV camera in the corner of the room. Did they think he was dangerous? Did they think he was a criminal?
A hearty laugh filled the room.
Yeshua didn't know how much time passed before Lieutenant Ritsu, accompanied by a couple armed soldiers, came in to the detainment room before the cell, and stood in front of the glass. Ritsu had the kind of gaze that would pierce the soul of anyone she looked at, and it was with this gaze that she looked at the prisoner.
"Cadet Horowitz, you are to attend court martial for the assault and attempted murder of your fellow comrade. Do you even understand what you've done?"
"Do you understand how much of a mistake it was to expect soldiers out of us?" Yeshua returned, staring at the ceiling and leaning back. His arms were crossed and his feet tapped on the floor.
"I expected a rational human being who can follow orders, and doesn't try to kill his fellow man in a bout of teenage rage. How could you even justify what you've done?"
"How can you justify what you're doing?" He spat again, not even flinching. He sighed, realising how deep of a hole he was digging.
"I will pilot the Anzu again. I will not kill anyone. I will save the human race. What else do you want from me?"
Ritsu was about to answer when a soldier entered the room and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, and sent him off.
"Cuff him up, and bring him to Z-sector. You'll have only one chance at convincing the Executive Officer, so make it count."
The soldiers entered the cell and put bound Yeshua arms with cuffs. Then, following Ritsu, the group entered an elevator that travelled a fair distance down, before it stopped. They walked through a couple of corridors, and entered a large room that resembled a court room, only more streamlined, with a defendant podium and opposite to that a stage where a line of high-ranking officers were waiting. Yeshua only recognized one person out of that line: Lorenzo.
Yeshua was placed in the defendant podium, and an older officer from the left began speaking. His eyes scanned the chamber with an impressed look stuck on his face, like a child in an aqaurium.
"All, rise." The officers stood up and saluted, before sitting back down. Then another officer, a pudgy one, spoke up.
"Cadet Yeshua Horowitz, do you know why you are currently standing here for judgement?"
Yeshua cleared his throat before speaking. He wrapped his arms around himself as a cold child would.
"Your honour, could you please go over my charges?"
The officer cleared his throat, before he spoke again while looking at a list.
"Assault on fellow comrade...Attempted murder on fellow comrade...Grievous injuries afflicted on fellow comrade...Disruption of peace...And violent, unhumane behavior."
Yeshua grabbed his shirt and felt the bruise which had formed, a reminder of Koehler's "divekick". His eyebrows arched and he looked worried.
"Does this take into account I was not the person who instigated the violence and as such, almost all of my actions were taken as self defence?"
Another officer, who wore glasses, now spoke up: "Lieutenant Ritsu, is this correct? Was this man acting in self-defence?"
Ritsu, who stood at the back of the court room, saluted, and responded:
"We believe that to be the case, Captain. The incident was instigated by Cadet Koehler."
The officer then said: "Yes, your charges are made with self-defence accounted for. Still, these are serious war crimes you have committed. How do you plead?"
Yeshua swallowed a very large, obvious stone in his throat and darted his eyes like a deer in headlights. He made himself look as uncomfortable as possible.
"Before I plead, may I ask who I am being charged as?"
"You are charged as a war criminal, you idiot!" Lorenzo screamed. "Don't you understand what kind of shit you've dug yourself into, Horowitz?"
"I mean this in no disrespect to you, Lorenzo, but I'm sure you are aware I am fifteen years old. Does this not qualify as a case for juvenile crime? For minors?"
He grabbed the fabric of his clothes and shook slightly. He stood completely adamant under the watchful eyes.
The officers started talking to each other in hushed tones, while Lorenzo glared at Yeshua. Yeshua did not return the gaze. After a couple of minutes, the pudgy officer spoke:
"The Cadets are not considered to be part of the conventional military force, and thus are subject to exceptions in martial law. However, war crimes of a severe enough magnitude are judged upon with the same jurisdiction as those done by a regularly serving member of the organization. This would have went more smoothly if the incident with Cadet Koehler only went as far as throwing a few punches. But the fact that you actively tried to murder him does not exempt you from the appropriate punishment for such an action."
Yeshua remained still.
"I did not try to murder him."
"Is this true, Lieutenant Ritsu?" The officers looked at her again. You could tell she was sweating as it was her time to again speak.
"Captain, Cadet Yeshua may have gone though a hormonal phase where he couldn't tell between assaulting Cadet Koehler non-lethally and lethally."
"That didn't answer the question. We can bring the truth detector to test if Cadet Yeshua indeed is not convicted of the crime..."
Cadet Horowitz put his hands behind his back.
"The prosecution cannot convict me without substantial evidence. I was not aware of my actions at the time. I plead not guilty."
"Very well. Bring the machine over." The machine was a helmet adorned with wires connected to a larger machine in the back with a visual display of the neurons that run through the person's brain, along with other technical information. The helmet was placed over Yeshua's head, and activated. The results were then shown: a big red FALSE.
Yeshua's face contorted as he winced and shook his head side to side like a small child being told Santa Claus wasn't real. He tried his best to feign innocence, even crying at one point. He covered his face and made loud, yelping sounds.
The officers looked at the result, and once again spoke in hushed tones, one of them watching a video from his device. Sounds of fighting could be heard from it.
Again, it took another couple of minutes before they came to a single agreement, and the officer wearing the glasses spoke:
"The evidence speaks for itself. Though you may have been induced into a crazed state by hot sauce applied by Cadet Koehler, it wasn't enough to completely blur out your conscious decision to attempt to murder him. Cadet Horowitz, you are hereby convicted of all charges. Your sentence wil be carried out with the Executive Officer Lorenzo's discretion. How do you think we should proceed?"
The sounds from Yeshua became louder. He cried for them to stop.
"Heh heh...Now you fucked up, Horowitz." It seemed that the professor was enjoying this.
"I propose a new type of treatment I've devised, one that is sure to turn our psychotic pilot here into an obedient soldier; we extract a lobe of his cranial organ that directs his aggression levels. The treatment has been tested, and been confirmed to be effective."
The crying did not stop. He tucked himself into a ball on the chair and continued to shout some words in Hebrew. "IT'S UNRELIABLE! TRUST ME! PLEASE! FATHER, DON'T LEAVE ME! DON'T LEAVE ME!"
"Silence!" The pudgy officer comanded. A soldier came behind Yeshua and gagged him.
"Very well then. We shall proceed as the Executive Officer has deemed necessary. Prepare for the operation immediately."
"Of course," Lorenzo said, and rubbed his hands together as he stepped out of the room. Yeshua was knocked out by a tazer again, drifting into darkness.
Harold didn't wake up at all, as his mind was stuck in that strange state called a coma. Perhaps he was just barely lucid, perhaps he was completely out of his mind. He couldn't tell himself. He tried to look around the room he was going to be stuck in for some time, but found he couldn't, for reasons obvious. He was going to be stuck here staring at the same damn thing, the same unfamiliar ceiling.
Indeed, in this state, he couldn't even tell who he was. Why was he here? What was he?
Why did he have these few scattered memories? If only he could correlate the contents of his own mind right now. Of course, he tried, and had 'dreams'.
When he does wake, he might not be the same Koehler anymore.
