Porcelain Face | HIATUS |

Chapter 1: Pain Hurts From Within

Pain. All that Tord Hansen could feel was pain.

The wind whistling in his ears as he fell from the sky, it seemed like pain was all he could feel. His right face and arm was scarred and bloodied. But that's what didn't hurt.

It was actually the searing pain that was on the inside. It was like all reality crashed down upon him; and it really did.

His limp body hit the ground of a grass cliff. He could hear the sound of a car parking, and the shuffling of two men.

Tord used the remains of his strength to stand up on his two feet, his head was turned to two of his best men— Paul Lincoln and Patryk Holt.

Both of the two men stood in shock; a man who ruled an entire army with an iron fist was standing right in front of them, his face and arm scarred, bloodied, and shredded. The cherry red hoodie Tord used to wear was fairly ripped and torn, his caramel brown hair was miraculously saved to be styled to the same devil-like horns; Tord's trademark look. The metallic smell of blood wafted into their noses. Tord clenched onto his torn up arm like it was the only shred of what used to be his cloud nine.

It was an silent act. But Tord moved his head away from his soldiers, his eyes laid on the rubbish of what used to be a house filled with good memories. A green clad man held his dead friend in his arms, mourning and crying. A trio of three men walked limply to a place that God forbids Tord to see in fear he might ruin the place they were going to next.

His good hand landed on an robotic arm— that was one was the remains of his giant robot, one of his greatest inventions. A few drops of blood fell down to the lush green grass.

Paul forced himself to stop his staring, and shook Patryk to come to Tord's aid.

They sat Tord down, grabbing bandages from the car to wrap Tord's wounds. Patryk did his face, and Paul did his arm. But Tord didn't care. It didn't hurt anyways.

As Paul and Patryk carefully wrapped his wounds, Tord had some time to himself to rethink his life. His mind went immediately to his army that he ruled upon.

He was a tyrant. He ruled an entire army with his cold heart and an iron fist. He was an sadistic murderer. He betrayed his best friends. He murdered a man. He destroyed a house of three happy men. And for what? To be feared? For power?

Tord needed to fix this. But how? An idea crossed his mind. What if he could finally do some good in his life? A chance to... perhaps start over?

His silver grey eyes sparkled with the very little hope Tord still had for himself. Maybe there was just a small chance to anoint for all the sins he had done in his life.

The red clad man opened his mouth to speak. "Patryk..." Tord's raspy voice caught the soldier's attention. A Norwegian accent that belonged to him filled the odd silence that was between the three men. Both Paul and Patryk stopped wrapping Tord's wounds to listen to their leader's words.

"Yes, sir?" Patryk looked into Tord's dull, dead eyes.

Tord coughed before speaking again. "After healing my wounds, I want to talk with the army..."

Paul and Patryk exchanged looks before nodding to Tord. The man felt a tiny smile tug at his lips.

It's his time to make this cruel world just a bit happier.