The strange man was ranting about socialism of all things. And in a way that made no sense. Still this was his way of evicting himself from his room that he had more or less made a habit of residing in more then was healthy. As a doctor he knew getting out into the public was a much healthier behavior. Still He sipped at his glass of milk, after all having knowledge of what alcohol does to ones body he naturally avoided the stuff. Still he set his glass of milk down and listened to the ranting for a moment before he himself spoke in return. His calm voice was cool as was his presence. His blue eyes shining with the clarity that came with being Sober.

"Would you prefer that one man had a gold pen, Another a pencil and the last one left to draw with a crayon? Socialism isn't about Others taking control from you but rather the idea that everyone should have a pen that is willing to contribute."

Rippa would sit and stair at his milk for a moment. He really didn't like politics. But politics meant order. And Order usually meant peace. Still he listened for a time. The man was comparing it to art at the moment. Apparently something about a signature to show the quality of the painting. Either way he was growing less and less interested in metaphors.

"Socialism is meant to have an equal community. One can recognize another's accomplishments with out adjusting the wealth balance. Each individual in a perfect socialist community would have to bring something important to the table. It is not impossible but at the same time not meant for everyone. Not everyone can be a picasso. So what if the socialists where all gold pen holders? Would the community thrive? If the socialists were all crayon holders would they die?"

Rippa sat there a moment. He didn't think the quality of the tool used made the art but the quality of the artist. If one needed something special to succeed then success would only be limited to those who could obtain what was special first. But then the topic changed. Dictatorship. A word most associated the feeling of anger towards. And yet this man he had just met praised it. Slowly Rippa spoke once more.

"There is always a difference between a dictator and a ruler. A ruler is wise and considers the people and what is best for his kingdom. A dictator chooses what suits his plans best. A dictator can never succeed because people will always fight against what challenges their free will. Maybe not the first hundred or thousand people. But history shows it only takes one person, one act to turn a nation against a fiendish dictator."

Rippa watched as more beer arrived. An eye brow raised at the amount of alcohol consumption. Already he had thought of plans for what to do in case of alcohol poisoning. Still his thoughts were interrupted by the mans new statement. With a concerned tone he spoke once more.

"And what exactly would draw mercenaries to this new land of yours? You need an ideal that only attracts the right kind of mercenary I would think. What keeps these people from going homicidal?"

A concerned frown crossed Rippa's face. His milk forgotten on the table as he studied the stranger before him. They had just met but already something about all of what was being said was concerning him. A new nation of mercenaries? controlled by power? That sounded like the beginnings of a militarized coup d'etat. If that happened only chaos would follow.

"Power sounds like fear to me. Which puts you down as a dictator instead of a ruler. And we already went over why dictators fail. Your talking about taking on the world with power against power. I don't know how a new nation could survive that. So much life would be caught in the crossfire. And the land would burn."

Rippa could scarcely believe the unhealthy habits of the stranger in front of him. Drinking and eating bacon like it was going out of style. Surely the man wasn't concerned with organ failure. Still as much as he hated hurting others dreams he worried for others as well. To the point that he could not remain quiet. He was silent a moment letting the man eat before he spoke once more. A concerned tone all the same.

"And the fact that there will be a second dictator tells you something. Dictators really don't ever retire, Or grow old. They face mortality at a much younger age then most. Often in the most violent ways. You may not fear death but the path of a dictator surely leads down that road. The next dictator in a world like ours will likely follow you closely as well. While your ideals may be the best, As a dictator you may not live long enough to push them through to the end. Your ideals likely ending with you."

Sadness filled Rippa's blue eyes as he shook his head. The man was already dead he said. He just wanted to inflict pain on others. All of the sudden Rippa was not sure he would save the man if he started to die right in front of him. Torn from his vow as a medic and his fear of what would become of the world if this man was allowed to rule with such a mind. Still he took in a breath and calmed himself before speaking. His voice wavering with pity.

"And of the innocent people, the children who never knew hate and pain that you will find in your path? Will you butcher them and let the blood mark your path? What good will a nation do if it's leader knows not of compassion? What good can come of all that pain? Do you not suffer? Do you truly wish others to suffer as you do? To be as dead inside as you describe. It's a terrible fate. I do not wish it on you or others in your path."

Guilt struck him for a moment. The scene still so clear in his head. The man ripped in half, his upper torso pinned to the door and his lower half several feet away. The blood rage within him was terrifying. But did it make him just another murderer? Was his loss of control so devastating? Was he just another lost soul bound for hell? He swallowed, his throat felt dry but for the moment he was lost in emotion. Still his blue eyes wavered. Showing admittance that even he was a sinner before he stood up. His chair clattering to the floor as memory of all the blood filled his vision.

"I...I have to go. I don't agree with ruling with an Iron fist. Too much...too much blood will spill."

With that he stumbled away from the table. Into the bathroom and straight to the toilet where he began to vomit from the memory.

Slowly Rippa finished vomiting and moved to the sink. Using the cool water there to wash off his hands and then his face and finally rinse out his mouth. Slowly his blue eye'd gaze rose to look into the mirror. Staring at his own reflection. So out of all the time just the mention of murdering people brought back those memories. The awareness of how if he was injured he might kill everyone in the bar horribly. Being around drunks even sober was risky. If one of them accidentally let him bleed then he could lose it. The curse he knew he had to bare as a member of the chi clan. Still he spoke with a determined tone.

'You are not the monster inside. You are a man and a doctor. You will not fall to pieces and kill them. You are here to try out a social life and so you shall. Get back out there."

And so he did. After a moment of wavering he pulled himself away from the sink. Moving back out into the area he moved to the table and sat back down. A warm smile on his face as if nothing had happened. Still it concerned him how a man as belligerent as he must be was so keen to accomplish his goals no matter the cost.

"I can't accept that honestly. I refuse to. War is just the simplest solution to ones pride being fluffed up. You think you can rule with power. But I don't think I see that much power in you. Either forget it and face reality that others would quickly kill you before letting you accomplish such a thing or foolishly and blindly step into that path. Inevitably it will put us at odds. But I implore you to remember this if you remember anything tonight. If your plans ever come after some one I care for or am protecting, You and I shall meet without the kind words. And blood will rain down on us."

Rippa watched him. His warm blue gaze was gone mostly. Something in his eyes seemed cold. And yet, Some how his expression was that of pity. Still the man ordered yet another helping of bacon and rose to his feet. While Rippa remained sitting. Watching the man. It was then the man spoke. Claiming Rippa didn't know battle. How he may have seen it but he hadn't felt it. For a moment Rippa smirked and rolled his eyes. Until the mention of burnt meat was brought up. His smirk faded before he spoke quietly.

"Burnt meat? Not so much. But the smell of blood and the feel of it crusting on the skin. The rank smell the dead give off as the flesh rots away. I know these smells. The feel of trying to scoop someones insides into their body even though they are already dead in order to make it seem less horrific. How the flesh squishes like something sick oozing between your fingers. That I know. That I have been a part of."

Still even as quiet as he had said it the others within ear shot got quiet. Their appetites gone along with their jovial mood. Still Rippa's eyes went to the window looking outside. Trying desperately to focus on anything other then remembering the feeling and the smell, yet alone the sight of it.

Rippa sat there and watched for a time as the man seemed to stare at the ceiling. Something he had said triggered a memory perhaps? He let his eyes follow the mans gaze after a moment but all he saw was the ceiling. Perhaps the man was so lost in his thoughts he was seeing something else. Or all that alcohol had messed the man up enough he was either seeing things or unaware of himself just standing there staring at the ceiling. Either way it was clear to him that the man himself was odd. Or at the very least different then the average bar hopper. Still he watched him cautiously. His experience with the inebriated was a poor choice in actions. As if their reasoning was dulled. One hand slowly slipped under the table prepared to make hand signs quickly if need be. But not hostile actions or hints of them seemed to be happening. A noise made him tense up for a second before he realized the woman at the bar had spilled something. He sighed a moment and forced himself to relax as she made a little bit of commotion cleaning it up. He was getting tense and he wasn't even sure why The man was obviously drunk and drunk people say strange things. Probably don't even remember it in the morning.

Still the man turned to him and spoke again. Talking about closed hearts. And how so many had them. That was true enough. He had met a lot of people who had hardened themselves to the world. Each with their own history of tragedy or dark experiences. The world was not designed as a kind place. Power led to pain but without power one could not protect themselves from that pain. The weak were prey but that made the strong predators. And no matter how hard one tried they could not be the hero in everyone's eyes. But that wasn't a reason to give up. Not for him anyways. He refused to let that be what defined him as a person. If it was ignorance that built the walls of his heart then he would let that be what kept him going. Too much depended on him being strong. Maybe even one day he would need to stop the sad sounding man before him. Though he doubted his own power would be the one that clashed with the mans. Some one would always be there to fight. He just needed his power to be enough to save some one. Failure was not an option. Failure might even crush him. Still the man returned to his seat. As the night drew on the discussed non important topics for a time. But eventually closing time came about and emotionally and mentally exhausted he made his way home. He would fill in a report on the discussion in the morning. Likely it would be set aside in some file and forgotten. Tossed aside as a drunk mans ranting. But still there just in case.

Exit thread

WC 2000 +