Porcelain Face | HIATUS |

Chapter 5: What If Time Was Just A Miracle?

Bills, bills, bills.

That's what Tord have to deal with. Tons of bills. The hospital bills for treating his injuries, paying for fines of felony, dealing with people suing him... karma's a jerk, isn't it?

It's his fault, after all.

While treating his injuries, he had to get his arm amputated and replaced with the robotic arm that he had picked up from the rubbish of the destroyed giant robot. After that, he had turned himself into the government, paying the fines of illegal possession of guns, and the mass murders. And then he had to go to trial for weeks, confessing everything he had done, and will take any punishment that they would give him.

Surprisingly, the judge gave him a chance, saying that he will not experience jail time, but will have the punishment of being under constant watch, giving him six months to redeem himself since he paid for his fees. He had to swear that he would never do something so malicious ever again, and he would do some good. Of course, Tord was awestruck. He thought he would at least get sentenced to a lifetime in jail. 

When the trial ended for his case of crimes, he got sued by tons of people who had been the family members of the victims he had killed. And some others? They did not feel comfortable that a mass murderer just got off the hook like that.

Tord sighed. He would have to deal with the people suing him later. There are more larger things he had to deal with. Freaking college. He gritted his teeth, chugging down a mug of coffee.

Yes. College. Just because he was a kick-butt leader doesn't mean he can't stay on top of his studies.

Despite all of the action that has been going on recently, Tord had gotten straight A's in all of his classes, joined a lot of academic events, was identified as a G.A.T.E. student — the acronym being 'Gifted And Talented Education'— and made Principal's honor roll in all of his semesters last year. And if that didn't wow you, Tord had also maintained keeping the army active, especially with its new programs, and is still kicking butt in his studies and activities.

Hours upon hour flew by, merely only a few minutes to Tord. His mind was all about his work. Time was flying faster.

Ding dong!

Tord jumped out of his seat. That very doorbell had jagged him out of his zone of work, his mind was still in that 'daydream' mode.

"Coming!" Tord scrambled out his seat, his feet getting caught in a blanket he brought to his desk to keep him warm.

He clambered down the stairs, almost falling down head first when he missed a step. The man rushed up to the door, frantically opening the door to interlock eyes with Paul. What a pleasant surprise.

Paul was a hard guy to miss. Big, bushy eyebrows, messy brown hair, bits of stubble bloomed on his chin, a cigarette dangled from his mouth every time Tord saw him. "Paul!" Tord opened the door for him. "What are you doing here?"

•••

Paul stepped into Tord's apartment, the overwhelming chill of the strong AC struck him.

Tord's apartment reeked of the foul odor of cigarettes, the light scent of cinnamon hung in the air, lightly masking the horrendous smell of stupid cologne. "I would text you, but you would just ignore it." Paul took a puff out his cigarette, contributing the horrible stench that was already hanging in this apartment.

Paul's eyes carefully gazed around his apartment, studying it like the place was a museum. Paul's face morphed into disgust, wrinkling his nose.

God, Tord's place was a pigsty.

Sticky notes were plastered on every single wall, the lace curtains was flowing due to the AC. Old newspapers were piled up on the floor, pillows were scattered sporadically everywhere as if Tord has slept on every area possible.

Paint splatters happen to be found on the carpet, cans of paint laid next to an unfinished painting, still waiting there. As if it had to be finished. He never knew Tord liked to paint.

Tord cleared his throat. "Hello?" Oh right. Back to the reason why he came here.

Paul took another puff from his cigarette. "Sir—"

"Please, call me Tord." He cut Paul off. "I'm a changed man, remember?"

He held his breath. Like he was expected to be lectured or something. But that never happened. Paul took a breath of relief, Tord giving him a confused look. "Of course. Anyways... do you remember the Red Hotline?"

The Norwegian blinked. "Of course. It's part of the new mental health installment. Why, did someone call?"

Paul nodded. "Three men in the UK. I can't remember their names, however. Their names were boring."

Tord laughed at Paul's forgetfulness, smiling softly at him. "I see. Thank you for giving me this information. I believe our therapists are handling them very well?"

"They wouldn't be called therapists for nothing." Another puff from his cigarette. "Anymore orders, Tord? Anything you want?"

A slight smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a warm look plastered on his face. "Nope. But... here's a better question."

The caramel haired man gave him a huge hug, wrapping his arms around Paul, the question Tord asked him left him shocked.

"What do you want?"