Yes, I'm god moding myself. You want to fight about it? :I
What left the dark-hued femme's tongue next shocked the one-eyed man beyond words. He, Maluki, had committed such an atrocity that the beast could hardly find thoughts to try and clarify; the girl staring back at him had the most gruesome of smiles, but one that Jefferson knew he recognized as his own. Their eyes, the color that burnt within, was the same rage and fury that lit like a fuse and burnt continually within himself, from the day he'd woken up clueless and scarred to the moment he stood in time then. He knew that anger to be true: their fury was his, they'd inherited it from him. The girl and her cruel, crooked smile, the boy with the ashened arm that reminded him of his own useless one, and the last boy with the eyes of tainted ice, whose silence suddenly chilled the brute to the bone. They all burnt the coldest of fires as one, and it was directed to the perpetrator, the criminal, the rapist.
Green eye, widened and horrified, slowly shifted back to the woman when she continued, and remained as such as she spoke. "No," he stuttered slowly, stiffly shaking his head. No, I don't remember, I..." He clamped his teeth shut, grimacing. What had he done? What was his curse: to have forgotten, or to have been gifted with never having to remember? "I'm Jefferson; I'm not Maluki anymore! I lost my memory -- I can't remember..." His words trailed away. His eye closed tightly, as if searching for something. No, he remembered things. Faces. Hundreds of faces. Alive, then dead in their blood. Happy, shocked, dead. Unsuspecting, dead. He remembered looking down on them and laughing as scarlet rippled against and stained his feet. There were so many of them -- so plentiful that it became hard to distinguish when their events had been: during his amnesia or after, when he wandered the land searching for himself in the fog. He didn't know who she was. He didn't know who they were. Jefferson was... afraid. Their words, their eyes, their scowls scared him. Scared.
The sound of a snarl erupted the fighter's instinct within him, however. The dazed brute threw his eye at the third, once-silent boy, suddenly exploded into a monster with a remarkable speed that Jefferson immediately recognized in his own, but had no time to think about when the boy with the tainted eyes made contact. The dig of the silent boy's teeth into his already pained, hopeless arm sent a hiss and an instinctual snarl at the Patriarch's lips, but it was too late: teeth dug in deeper and his throat was seized, cutting off air. Eye widened and he gasped for breath, but the deadliest of scowls darkened his features and the hybrid reflexively clamped his good arm on the boy's defenseless back, preparing to rip away. No, shot his conscience. No: he's your son!
"Oh, goddamnit!" He shrieked into the sky, seizing the back of the boy's neck while kicking out the back of his leg and ripping the yearling from his contact and throwing him aside and onto the ground. As he was pulled away, the boy's jowls dragged along in the flesh of Jefferson's bad arm, at which the Patriarch howled and gritted his teeth: the sling was ripped and his arm now hung uselessly at his side. He held it tightly with his other hand; rivers of blood flowed over his fingers. "Fuck!" he shouted, then peered his piercing green eye at him in a crazed bewilderment that nearly matched their own. "You little shits can mock me all you damn well please, but you won't take me down!" It was true: he was a seasoned fighter whose killer instincts ruled his actions. Surely they recognized that: they were only yearlings and wanderers. He wasn't going down.