Unacceptable. (Sam!)

[Anonymous]

(bleh this is a bit crap, I need to get into the swing of writing him! xD)

Absolon cursed under his breath as his back hit the wall, accidently biting his tongue, which only served to frustrate him all the more.  When he looked up, Vann was simply standing there, exhausted but smug; the disgusting grin spread across his unshaven face looked as though it had been designed solely for the purpose of pissing Absolon off.

“Not quite at the top of yer game today, are ya?” he sneered.  Solo snorted, grunting to himself as he pushed off from the wall and back onto his feet, swaying unsteadily for a moment before he regained his balance.  The sweat trickling down his face was horrible, but Vann looked rather worse for wear, and that gave just enough satisfaction for him not to care quite as much.

“We agreed no–”

“I thought you of all people knew life don’t always play by the rules?” he could’ve sworn he saw spit flying out of the other man’s mouth when he followed the remark with an unpleasant cackle.  Solo was hardly a model human being when it came to keeping to rules or promises and the like, but he was very unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of it.

The bastard ran a hand through his matted blond hair and turned around, waltzing out of the simulation chamber in a fashion most befitting of the arrogant moron that he was.  All he offered was a dismissive wave of a gloved hand before Absolon could speak, though this was only due to his own pausing when he noticed the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and the pulsing pain on the tip of his tongue.  Any harder and he would’ve bitten clean through it.

He growled, ripping his fitness monitor off his wrist and hurling it unceremoniously at the floor.  Vann had had no right to do that – Solo could’ve won if he’d only anticipated that the guy would be, as always, a stupid prick.  How could he not have seen that coming?  Not good enough.

He’d get back at him later.  Someone needed to wipe that stupid smile off his ugly mug, might as well be Absolon.

He gritted his teeth together, biting down in the vain hope that it’d distract him from the aching muscles and the throbbing of his tongue.  Bastard.  As if it wasn’t enough that he’d been beaten, his worst injury was his own fault.  He was not going to go to a medic because of something like that; it was just plain embarrassing.  Solo turned around to face the wall, leaning on it, his chest still heaving as his breathing slowly regulated itself.

Too much recovery time, poor observation, terrible intuition.  He didn’t need the stupid device on the floor to know everything that had gone wrong.

Suffice to say, he was seething.  To begin with, he didn’t notice the air around his body begin to shimmer, but even when he did, he did nothing to stop it.  It was good for stress, as far as the young man was concerned.  He focused on it, fists clenched at eyes shut tight and, with a loud snarl, aimed a punch straight at the wall in front of him.  An ominous, pulsating noise echoed through the chamber as compressed air flew from all angles of his body, knocking down and, in some cases, even shattering various obstacles positioned around the room.  

He didn’t even feel the wall dent under the impact of his own punch thanks to his offensive abilities, though the rebound of the blast did make him grunt with the force of it.  He’d learn to use his powers without hurting himself one day; he had to.  Stupid thing often caused more harm than good, and that was unacceptable.

[Anonymous]

The fireflies blinked at intervals like little sparks.  Spark, near the door, spark, disorientingly closer, like the little bugs were all one bug, making quantum leaps.  Zeke leaned back in bed, head pillowed on his crossed arms, and watched the show, the little blips against the dark gray late-dawn.  Nine years and he still felt lucky to live up where he could see the sun.  Even if the fireflies had woken him up before it had even risen.  He imagined he could hear the gray sound they made, too, just the whisper of rustling wings.  One of them landed on his orange shrub; it winked out at him from between the leaves.  A part of him wanted to dart out a hand and grab for it, but he only grinned to himself at the thought, and felt the too-sharp points of his teeth dig into his lower lip.

Zeke had loaned the bugs from the lab's bioluminescence project, a part of their continuing search for cheap and easy illumination.  He would have to give them back today.  Maybe next time he'd get a ferret; he'd owned one once, and it hadn't been as nervous around him as were most animals.

Well, it'd be a long day today, and he was already up.  If he got up now he could get in some quality time with the Network after he taught his first physical combat class.  Some Pilots hooked in right after they woke--Alesku and Bryn were usually up at the Eyries about now, probably Fala--but Zeke liked to work up to Connection.  It wasn't easy to appreciate half-awake and still hungover.  Last night had been great, whatever it had entailed; he couldn't remember.

He yawned until he felt the hinge of his jaw creak and pushed himself upright, scratching at his chest and the back of his neck.  His ports felt cold against his fingertips.  Yep, he was on his way to 'as bad as Fala.'  Not quite there yet.  

Ezekiel popped a tablet of product on his way to the gym, swigged it down with some water, and let tingling pleasure pour all through his body.  Little electric sparks danced down his spinal cord and he felt his brain come awake in blinking bits, like the fireflies.  With this shit around, who needed coffee?  His hangover faded quickly, replaced by a nice chemical buzz, a serotonin high with a background of adrenaline.  He needed the aggression for his warmup.  

In the gym he ran a few laps and then went at one of the hanging bags for awhile, keeping half an eye on a Candidate fight in the corner.  One of them fought dirty--no, make that both.  Which was all well and good if you did it right, but their balance was crap, the both of them.  He recognized them both in a distant way.  Both arrogant little shits, but they'd lose that with time, or had better.  He caught the fragments of projected irritation, but didn't catch the tension building in the one, Kaskara, until he felt the air snap tight and ripple--

Ezekiel ducked reflexively as a sonic boom shook the room.  It sent his obstacle course flying to pieces, even the damn wall he'd set up in the middle of the room.  The rope uncoiled itself and slithered down from the ceiling, and the racks of free-weights blew over and went rolling in heavy circles.  It knocked Ezekiel back from his bag, which began to swing wildly, but he reacted quickly, before the kid could do more harm--he slammed him with a shield.  Ezekiel was no Marshal, but he'd have little respect for himself if he couldn't neutralize a Candidate.  

Mouth contorted into a snarl, he pushed himself upright and strode over to Kaskara.

"Candidate Kaskara.  Clean tha' shit up," he said, throat vibrating around the words.  They would be loud, he knew.

[Anonymous]

( ugh, crap post.  DDD: sorry it's so much shorter! )

The release that came with his powers was enough to ease some of Absolon’s frustration – it was almost as though, as his power flew from his body at all angles, the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders.  Unfortunately for him, though, the sensation did not last long.  He didn’t see the Pilot, he didn’t sense him.  Not until he was hit with the full force of the older man’s shield, causing him to yelp involuntarily when he suddenly felt his own energy be constricted, forced to contain itself.  

That only pissed him off more.  The feeling was something akin to wanting to throw up, but not being able to.  It’d subside in a while, sure, but damn, he was annoyed.  Solo hated restriction.  Of course, when his gaze snapped to his superior with a cold, unadulterated glare, he saw the reason for the Pilot’s quick (and as far as he was concerned, uncalled for) reaction.  

He hadn’t intended to obliterate the obstacle course; it was only an unfortunate, unexpected consequence.

Solo growled to himself under his breath, straightening himself up.  He wiped the sweat off his brow, the blood off of his lip.  He wanted to spit, but judging by the look of outrage on the Pilot’s face.  Every fibre of his being was begging him to snap at the other man for the shield – no one had the right to do that to him, after all – and he probably would’ve managed not to, had the loud order not pierced right through him and sufficiently rattled his cage.

Though his posture was straight and professional, as it should’ve been in the presence of someone of such a significantly higher rank, the scowl on Solo’s face was by no means quite so respectful.  “If I could take all the responsibility for the mess, I would,” he spat, staring off to one side in contempt, more for Vann and the absurd situation he’d got him into than the Pilot himself (though there was, by no means, no contempt for Ezekiel as well).

His gaze soon shifted to the ground upon realising what he’d said, and whom he’d said it to, and his shoulders slumped somewhat.  The scowl and the animosity in his voice didn’t fade, but he did manage to utter a rather hateful: “Yes sir.”

[Anonymous]

Ezekiel wondered if Kaskara thought deaf people couldn't perceive sarcasm.  

He could, and did.  It wasn't only in the tone of voice.  The set of his shoulders, the sneer, the way the skin moved between his eyebrows, and the distorted shape his mouth made of his words all dripped sullen insolence.  And he wasn't even looking him in the face.  The Candidate stared first down to one side, then to the other, like Ezekiel's gaze had the same magnetic charge as his and he couldn't get them to match up.

Ezekiel brought one hand up and grabbed Kaskara by the throat, then settled his palm along his jaw and forced his head up.  He dug his thumb in hard enough to leave a bruise.  Holding his head in place, he drew back his other hand and slapped him, very deliberately and very hard.  Twice.  Red handprints blossomed, first on one cheek and then on the other.

"Clean.  It.  Up," Ezekiel said, underscoring his words with telepathy so they'd be absolutely clear.

[Anonymous]

Though it did not seem to have effected his actions in the slightest, Absolon was fully aware that his sass was bound to have consequences; he knew that much from experience.  He had learned from it too, though the current situation may have said otherwise.  Year one had, suffice to say, been a hellish year.  He loathed following orders, kissing ass, acting like he was below those who were, in many cases, quite below him as far as he was concerned.  But the beatings and further degradation were hardly worth it.  

Absolon still hadn’t quite mastered his own temper, but it was at least an improvement on when he first entered candidacy.  When grabbed by the throat, he snarled, a wheezing grunt escaping him as the Pilot’s thumb dug into his throat and he was met with a firm slap to the face.  His body stiffened and, as he was met with the second, he jerked himself backwards in protest with a gasp.

The physical punishment and the added emphasis of the telepathy did at least seem to have driven the order home, despite the hint of a sneer still etched across his now burning face.  Resisting the urge to check the damage, he didn’t dare – that would’ve looked far too weak.  He wouldn’t give anyone that satisfaction.  The candidate lowered his head in a mixture of defeat and resentful respect, offering only another sour (and now slightly raspy) “Yes, sir,” before he turned away and began to clear up the bits and pieces of obstacles that now littered the once spotless floor.  

Bastard.

[Anonymous]

--Two days later.--

He always ate in the ATC cafeteria on Wednesdays.  After the morning lesson he taught there was little point in heading back to the Citadel.  He'd set the light and humidity in his rooms before he'd gone, so the trees would be fine, and his boa constrictor needed little attention.  He spared them all a thought anyway, and stepped over to the terminal outside the cafeteria to take a look.  He often checked in on his room over the video feed he kept hooked to the Network.  Some might find keeping so many optics in their rooms a bit much, but he'd never felt that way.  Besides, it was great for making sex tapes.  He had a flippin' library at this point.

All well in the Shun HQ, then.  He signed out of the terminal and went to get his food.

Lunch was time for another pick-me-up, so he balanced his tray of steak-and-salad between elbow and torso while he slugged water to wash down an upper.  Settling astride onto one of the long benches, he picked up his roll and ripped off a chunk, watching the rest of the room.

"Hey, Maxi."  He tipped two fingers in a salute to the Stage Four, who ambled over to catch up.  As with most of his nearer acquaintances, he didn't bother to speak aloud.  "I hear good things."

----

After they'd talked a little, the Candidate left to clear his tray.  With any luck he'd show up at the Citadel in the next few weeks, and Ezekiel could take him out to celebrate.  He settled in with a post-prandial ice-cream cone, a rarity for him, as he didn't usually like sweets--but they did a great low-sugar version at the ATC and he'd kind of missed the cheap strawberry flavoring they fed Candidates.  He lounged with one arm flung across the tabletop and one leg stuck out into the aisle, finishing the cone and running through a mental checklist of things Corsica wanted done.

[Anonymous]

A rousing session of psychic training had left Absolon feeling rather cheerful; any morning that involved him proving himself to be very much above the rest of his classmates in a particular field was a good morning indeed.  If only he could come to grips with the more offensive side of his abilities in addition to the passive, then he’d be the best that there was.  If only.  He shook his head, running a hand through his hair to rid his line of sight of stray strands.  It was at an irritating length.  Not long enough to be long, but too long to be short.  Not long enough to tie it back, either.  

Hopefully time would fix his abilities as well as his bloody hairstyle, but even with the worries in the back of his mind, Solo could not help but be in a good mood.  Ego boost in class, plus the amusing titbit of information he’d found out just the other day?  What was not to like?

Depositing his things in his dormitory, Absolon made his way to the ATC cafeteria to make the most of his long lunch time, luckily combined with a break between hours of training.  Any leisure time was cherished leisure time, even if some of it was, in Solo’s case at least, taken up by extra work.  He knew full well that he was neither a pleasant companion nor a student of exemplary behaviour in the eyes of those around him, but hey, none of them could deny that he worked hard.  That was more than some of the other dolts around here did.  He had reasons to be arrogant; what were their excuses?

Although the meals currently being served were not particularly to his tastes, Solo was not about to argue for one simple reason: ice cream.  Processed foods, sweets, fats; he had an iron will when it came to avoiding them in favour of a healthier option more fitting of an athletic candidate.  Today, he decided to treat himself.  He finished his meal, topped with a chocolate ice cream that put him in an even more pleasant mood than he’d already been in.

He had cleared up his tray and was preparing to leave when he spied Pilot Shun lounging at a nearby table, and though he still had the ugly bruise stamped on his neck from the other day, he couldn’t help but crack a sly grin.  Did he know?

Solo approached with mild caution, unsure of whether or not the Pilot would react well to being disturbed by the likes of him, but his actual greeting was far less restrained.  “And how’re you today, cousin?”

[Anonymous]

"I hope you won't forget the scale brush," Corsica said.  "I realize I'm nothing more than a Network siphon to you, but I try to look my best."  

Ezekiel performed the mental equivalent of an ironical shrug.  He half-appreciated that his Dragon felt the need to behave like a four-year-old child, and half-wondered if the young creature was just having him on.  Probably a bit of both.  

"Besides, it's itchy."  

"Will do, boss," Ezekiel said, taking a lick of ice cream.  

"Good boy!"  

If he hadn't been wrapped up in the conversation with his Dragon, he would've noticed the nearby Candidate immediately.  As was, neither his predator's instincts nor his habitual telepathic awareness alerted him to Solo's presence until he picked up the tail end of a--he'd said something to him?  He caught the fading impression of something preverbalized and looked sharply up at the tall boy.  Almost a man, really; he was old for a Candidate.  And too smug for his age.  He had that upper-caste entitlement that pinged Ezekiel's patience just a little.

He also hated to ask anyone to repeat themselves, hated to demonstrate his difference or inferiority.  Usually he wasn't caught off guard this way.  Usually he paid more attention.  Damn.  Ezekiel reminded himself to stay more alert, lowered his ice cream cone, and made eye contact.

"Excuse me, Candidate, I didn't catch that."  He said it telepathically because he wanted the conversation on the level with which he had the most facility, and because just jumping in with the mind-speech was a hell of a lot easier and quicker than asking Absolon to reply in kind.  He could modulate tone more easily this way, too; his mental tone rested somewhere between faintly amused, cold, and a little cautionary.  

Why had the kid wandered over here, anyway?  He still had the bruise from his last mouthing-off, though he'd done a decent job, even an obsessively impeccable one, cleaning up his mess.  Bygones were bygones, as far as Ezekiel was concerned.  But the Candidate was going to wind up in trouble again if he chose to make more of it.

[Anonymous]

Solo resisted the urge to frown when asked to repeat himself; he hated doing that.  The guy’s tone wasn’t exactly nice to hear either.  If he wasn’t a Pilot, Absolon would’ve eaten him alive long ago.

He met Ezekiel’s gaze this time.  “I said: how’re you today, cousin?” his tone wasn’t quite as cheery (if you could’ve even called it that) as it had been the first time.  It never was if you had to get him to say anything a second, or even third or fourth time.  It made him feel stupid, even when it was the fault of the other person.  He wasn’t a parrot, for fuck’s sake.

[Anonymous]

Cousin?  Ezekiel blinked.  Kaskara... he'd read his file as a matter of routine; he glanced at all the new Candidates he'd one day find in his class.  There was some relation on his mother's side, but since she'd moved to Upper Caste, Ezekiel's family had understandably written off the relationship.  Caste grudge.  Justified, in this case, because Absolon seemed to embody every obnoxious Upper mannerism in the book.

The insolent way he spoke just wasn't okay for a Stage Two.  But he hadn't done anything wrong this time, so Ezekiel just raised one eyebrow.  The little ring looped through it touched his skin coldly.

"That's Pilot Shun, ya little runt," he said, both vocally and telepathically.  He licked at his ice cream cone again, before it could drip; his open mouth exposed teeth that were slightly too sharp to be normal.  "And I'm doing much better tha' you will be if you keep mouthing off."  He pointed at Absolon with his ice cream cone, but he didn't say it like a threat.  He was still lounging back against the table, eyes at half-mast.  "Your attitude sucks."

[Anonymous]

Absolon studied his superior’s expression with his own cold stare, holding back a snort at the insults and threats spat at him in response.  Well, the threat was hardly a threat compared to what would have probably happened had he kept being disobedient yesterday, but it was still enough to irritate the candidate regardless.  

“What, no acknowledgement of our wonderful newfound relationship?” his voice was positively oozing with sarcasm as he sat himself down on the bench next to Ezekiel.  He kept a reasonable distance between the two of them, but the fact that he was plopping himself down there alone was enough to show he was willing to try his luck today anyway.  How far could he go?  Hm.

“I could say the same for you, Pilot Shun,” Solo replied, brushing some hair out of his face as he cocked his head, watching the older man carefully (though certainly not too obviously).

[Anonymous]

Ezekiel grinned at Absolon's persistent sarcasm, and shook his head.  He shifted a little on the bench to keep the Candidate in his field of view.  They weren't really all that closely related, but he was surprised to realize he did feel a touch of accountability.  Of course, he felt a little accountability toward most Candidates, until they'd used up their allotted idiot coupons.

"The difference is," he said patiently, leaning on his elbow and looking Absolon over, "I've earned mine, you copy?  Now listen, because I'm here to help.  Your attitude and arrogan' are gonna make people hate you, if they don' already, and that can get you TRIMed or seriously damaged.  The other Candidates migh' not be able to do much, but eventually a Pilot will get fed up and wipe the floor with you.  I could do that now, if you wanna 'et it over with."

[Anonymous]

Solo snorted, half-heartedly watching the other Candidates go about their business in the canteen.  He wasn’t all that bothered about whether he was hated or not; he wasn’t out to get into everybody’s good books.  Sure, he’d suck up to the bosses if he had to, but everyone at his level and below?  Why should he waste time trying to get them to like him?  If they didn’t, well, that was their losses, not his.

 “I don’t really care if people like me or not,” he shrugged.  “Not Candidates anyway.  As for Pilots, you just caught me at a bad time,” Absolon said with a smirk.  Hey, he could behave himself!  Shouting the odds and treating him like dirt when he was already in a foul mood and chock full of pent up aggression just didn’t give him a whole lot of choice in whether to be good or not.  He knew he had to get his temper up to scratch and learn to shut his mouth, and he was learning, but it didn’t stop it from being difficult.  

“You think I’ve never had the floor wiped with me before?” he scowled, shaking his head.  Those were hardly happy memories, but the bastard was treating him like he’d never been ‘taught a lesson’.  He had, and those lessons were a pain the ass.

[Anonymous]

Ezekiel didn't like explaining obvious things.  He finished his ice cream cone in four quick, tooth-stinging bites and wiped his fingers on a napkin while Absolon spoke, trying to get his measure.  He supposed you could get through the program acting uppity and obnoxious, and often enough people did, but it had to be unpleasant.  He was of the opinion that anyone who chose to act like that was covering over some sort of insecurity.  Not that it was his business.  He wasn't a psychological counselor.

Still.  "Some of your fellow Candidates wi' be Pilos with you," he pointed out, crumpling his napkin.  He tossed it in a neat arc past Absolon, into the trash.  "Anyway, self-control helps with psychic control."  A reference to his outburst in the gymnasium.  He shrugged.  "But I'm off-hours, I don't needa lecture you.  So."  He paused, squinting at the younger man.  "Wha'd you get beat up for?"

[Anonymous]

He held back the urge to roll his eyes.  He’d heard the self-control lecture before, though he hardly blamed the Pilot for bringing it up.  “I’ll work on that, then,” Solo said, deliberately keeping a neutral tone and stance.  Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t.  Well, the fact was he’d already been working on it, but he was hardly going to whine ‘I’m trying, but I just can’t seem to manage!’ to Shun, was he?  He’d keep his personal failures to himself, thanks.  Like hell did anybody else need to know, it was irritating enough as it was.

The candidate quirked a brow at the other man’s next question, shrugging lazily.  “What don’t you get beaten up for around here?” he snorted, clearly not all too happy with the social hierarchy that he had to suffer through.  Solo could cope, of course, but that didn’t mean that he had fun doing it.  Being smacked about by your teachers and elders, and started on by your fellow candidates every now and again got to you after a while.  In any case, he’d started to build up a resistance to it, at least, that’s all he’d lead the twits to think.

“Why have you beaten candidates?” What?  He was genuinely curious.  Could be him one day.  No, that would be him one day.  Karmic payback.

[Anonymous]

Aha.  Stage Two cynicism.  Ezekiel supposed he'd been a pretty cynical twosie himself.  There were certain arbitrarinesses in Candidate training... hell, half of it was arbitrary, whatever the rule-bound types like Macario wanted to believe.  There was no method to turning out Pilots.  

Sure, you'll work on it, he thought to himself, mildly amused.  What a typically arrogant answer.  

"Mostly 'cause they don' ask for help early enough," he said, raising one eyebrow Absolon's way.  "If they make a serious mistake and they shou' know better.  If it's the kinna thing that would get them killed in the real worl.'"  His shoulders rolled back slowly and he tapped a finger idly against the table while he thought.  "If they try to fuck with me.  When I was a Candidate, it was 'if they would have fucked with me otherwise'.  So."  Half a smile again.  "Las' time occurred when a gracie came in from the Lower City and said he could take me.  Nice kid, it turned out."  

His telepathic tone, beneath the words, implied that he doubted the same was true of Absolon.  He shifted on the bench and reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, then flicked one free.

"I don' do it just because I can, if you were wondering," he said, lighting up.  "That's a bad reason."

[Anonymous]

Tch, Solo thought, barely managing to believe what he was hearing.  Because they don’t ask for help?  That was pathetic – surely there was more of a reason than that.  There had to be, right?  There were plenty of other Pilots around who’d kick the shit out of you for a lot less than making a mistake that could’ve been learned earlier on.  Or was it just him who always got into seemingly unnecessary fights..?

Nah.  But what was that eyebrow supposed to mean?  How insulting!

He couldn’t help a brief chuckle at the implications behind Pilot Shun’s tone.  “Other Pilots seem to get away with it,” the Candidate replied bitterly.  What had he ever done to them?  Nothing, that’s what.  When it came to messing with his superiors, he played by the rules.  Yeah, he had a mouth if they pissed him off, but he swore it wasn’t even the attitude that they had a problem with.  

Candidates on the other hand?  He rather liked the ‘if they would have fucked with me otherwise’ philosophy... coupled with the ‘because I felt like it’ one.

“And did you ever get the shit kicked out of you?” he smirked; he couldn’t resist.  Solo assumed that it was true of most, if not all Pilots, that they’d all been beaten down at some point in their candidacy, but it would’ve been all the more entertaining coming out of a Pilot’s mouth.

[Anonymous]

Ezekiel sucked in smoke for a long time and held it in his cheeks before he carefully removed his cigarette.  When he'd been younger he'd always needed something to do with his mouth; until Stage Three Candidacy he just hadn't talked much.  So he had cultivated all sorts of auxiliary habits.  Drugs, tattoos, gum, cigarettes, a certain facial expression... the laconic, laid-back patience he wore now.  

No one was naturally patient.  It was a decision.  One Absolon obviously hadn't made.  

His cousin was an entitled little jerk.  He was probably just scared--doubtless he was scared, though fair money said he'd not admit it unless pressed.  Not that admittance had ever solved anything.  Ezekiel found sitting around talking about how you were to be an unuseful way of changing how you were.  Better to listen.  Absolon did not seem like a good listener.  He listened just to argue.  Sad day when you couldn't listen as well as a deaf man.  Ezekiel often remarked this irony.

"Sure I have," he said, letting out his held mouthful of smoke.  "Every few weeks in the sims I still do."  He tapped the tattoos on one cheek.  "It's just your body.  And when someone mess' with you psychically, it's jus' your mind."  He winked, deadpan, and nudged Absolon's arm with his elbow.  A little mark of friendliness sometimes worked to make the Candidates feel better--most of them were just lonely.  "Nothing to get so angry about."

[Anonymous]

Solo wasn’t sure what to make of the older man’s gesture; he was far too used to acts of kindness being a disguise for ulterior motives.  Hell, he used them himself often enough.  “You’re certainly optimistic about it,” he said, studying the Pilot again.  Solo couldn’t decide.  What was his game?  Was he really that upbeat about the situation, or was it just a front for the Candidates and for his own pride?

He made sure not to let his analysis of the gesture be made obvious, and settled instead for a quiet chuckle.  Sure, whatever.  “How do you manage to keep life so sunshine and rainbows, even when you’re being beat down left and right?  Surely it has to get to you some days,” Solo said, idly tapping his index finger on the table top.  “Seen plenty of other Candidates get hit fucking hard and I haven’t even been here that long,” he mused.  Some of it may have been his fault in some cases, not that he had any issue with that.  Dog eat dog world, right?

[Anonymous]

The emotion behind Solo's last comment--his mental tone--was off.  That wasn't genuine concern for the other Candidates.  He was just using their suffering as some sort of self-justification.  And all that harping on optimism.  Ezekiel had never seen himself as optimistic.  Realist, maybe.  All Absolon's complaining--there was no point.

He shook his head and took a deep suck on his cigarette, burning it down past the half-point, then raised it in illustration.

"I don't like the taste of smoke," he said in Absolon's head, stretching the tenor of his telepathy to strike the same chords as normal speech.  "But when I keep going, I start to enjoy the experience more."  He took another drag while he spoke, because he could, then held out the cig while a bit of ash winked off its end.  He shrugged.  And crushed its tip against the pad of his thumb, then set it on the table.  It rolled a little, scattering ash.

"Ah."  He waved a hand and pulled out his pack, then offered it to Absolon.  "Anyway, want one?  It's good for you.  Gen-modded."