Breachers

Breachers – Path of Steel

1

I

Marks

- - -

Marcus

Across a worn desk, two men sat on opposing seats, their presence a study in contrasts. One, a police officer, occupied his chair with a commanding presence, his uniform crisply pressed and shoulders squared. The other, a young man wearing jeans and a shirt, appeared disheveled, his clothes marred by bloodstains. The young man had just been brought in by another officer. His face bore the aftermath of a recent scuffle—his nose swollen and bruised, his skin marked with various shades of blue and purple. Despite this, his blue eyes remained locked onto the uniformed man in front of him. The officer's fingers danced across the keyboard with deliberate slowness, each keystroke echoing in the heavy silence that filled the room.

A soft smile played upon the police officer's lips as he reviewed his freshly typed report, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Marcus Laurens Smit, twenty years old. Dutch nationality and lives near Utrecht,” he mused, his pause hinting at the significance of the name. “Presumably named after his incredibly handsome uncle,” the older man added, his gaze briefly drifting towards Marcus, a glint of familiarity in his eyes. “Suspect is around one hundred and ninety centimeters tall and has a physique that mimics his uncle’s impressive build, although an obvious lesser variant.”

In his desk chair, the older man seemed almost ready to burst from his short-sleeved police uniform, the fabric clinging to his robust frame. His cleanly shaved head gleamed under the light, its polished surface a stark contrast to the hint of character provided by his reddish beard. Like Marcus, his eyes contained the same bright blue hue. His right arm bore a sequence of seventeen inked notches, each etch seemingly harboring a tale.

"Come on, Uncle Laurens," Marcus implored, his voice carrying the weight of hours of suppressed frustration stemming from the recent altercation and the following stay in a holding cell for the last few hours. He leaned forward, his words suddenly calm and warm. "This all just started as a heated discussion in a cramped bar. The situation escalated after a while, and I had no choice but to defend myself." Marcus's fingers gingerly raked through his tousled black hair, fingertips skimming over his scalp, wincing at the slightest hint of tenderness or soreness. “And how is mentioning yourself related to my file?”

"Oh, it’s not related," Laurens chimed in, a mischievous glint noticeable in his eyes as his fingers slowly tapped the keyboard to a finishing tune. "I just want it in your file that you have an attractive uncle." His gaze pivoted back to Marcus, the hint of challenge evident in his eyes. "Now, regarding your 'defense'..." Laurens leaned forward before continuing. “The officer who handled the incident described it more like a one-sided cage fight, with you single-handedly beating the shit out of two young men.” He paused, running his hand through his beard, feeling the coarse texture brush against his fingertips.

“They were older than me. And like I said, I was just defending—”

“Defending... Right, and I suppose I’m secretly a stunning Norwegian blonde with a tickle fetish,” Laurens interrupted, voice thick with sarcasm as his expression momentarily hardened. “Let’s make things clear. One of those guys you ‘defended’ against, has a broken nose, and the other is limping around like he won’t be jogging anytime soon. And let’s not overlook the myriad of bruises you so generously adorned their faces with.” Leaning closer, he fixed Marcus with a stern gaze. “You got lucky, Marcus. This isn’t the first instance where you’ve found yourself embroiled in such trouble, and it’s only thanks to a colleague of mine recognizing your last name that the consequences aren’t more severe. When all is said and done, you should consider yourself lucky if all you’ll face is a slap on the wrist and the biblical wrath your mother has in store for you."

“Wait! You called her?” Marcus asked, his voice nearly breaking off at the end.

“What, and jeopardize my own hide? I’m not an idiot. Hell, I’m the one who taught you half of those moves you employed tonight while ‘defending’ yourself,” Laurens retorted, rising from his seat. “I called your dad. He’s right outside, ready to jump on that grenade.” He then gathered his belongings before he made his way over to the door and cracked it open, revealing the silhouette of a man waiting just outside.

Marcus’s attention was momentarily captured by the murmur of voices seeping in from outside, though too distant to decipher, the tone alone conveyed the judgments cast upon him. His gaze shifted towards the entrance, revealing the arrival of his father, Bas. With well-defined features, clean-shaven, and piercing blue eyes like Marcus’s own. Deep lines etched with disappointment appeared on Bas’s face as he took in his son’s current state. Marcus wanted to justify himself, parting his lips to speak, but a single raised finger from his father silenced him instantly. “Was my son in the right?”

Marcus’s uncle cast a glance at his brother, his eyes then settling on his nephew. “Tough to say. He’s the spitting image of you,” Laurens remarked, his voice tinged with a mixture of familiarity and concern. “Too much passion and a very, very short fuse... but I believe his intentions were good. Something about sticking up for a friend of his.” With that, he stepped aside, creating an opening for the two men to exit and join him. “I’ll do my best to ease the weight on the whole thing. But it’s already flagged in the system, so his brief dance with the judicial system isn’t over. I’ll keep you and your son informed, alright?”

Bas acknowledged his brother’s presence with a nod before extending his hand, revealing a series of tattooed notches on his right arm—twenty-one in total. “I owe you one.”

“Consider it added to the long list of debts you already owe me. But hey, I never say no to a free meal when I drop by,” Laurens chuckled, taking the lead down the hallway. Not long after, they arrived at a door that led them outside. “Don’t forget to pass along my regards to Liane and the rest of the kids. Though, I might not swing by for a while, if you catch my drift.” Laurens flashed a reassuring smile, while his brother simply nodded and stepped out.

Just as Marcus was about to follow suit, Laurens stopped him with a hand. “Listen, kid. You did a bad thing despite your intentions. Your old man won’t be lenient with you. Accept it for what it is and recognize that he sees a reflection in you.” Marcus just nodded silently before stepping outside into the open air. Yet, before he could go further, his uncle tapped him on the shoulder once more. “And try not to be a little shithead the next time you go to a bar, alright?” He then handed Marcus his phone and wallet that had previously been taken from him when he had been detained. With that, Laurens retreated back indoors, forcefully slamming the door behind him, leaving father and son alone in the empty parking lot.

- - -

The car ride home hung heavy with an oppressive silence, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sound of Marcus's fingers nervously tapping against his thigh. Marcus stole glances out his window, his gaze tracing the passing houses near Utrecht that he knew so well. He couldn’t help but notice the familiar bar where he had been arrested, his friend’s house, and the gym where his father taught martial arts. At seeing the latter, a sense of unease settled over him, prompting his gaze to fall upon his own hands. His knuckles throbbed beneath the surface, a vivid reminder of the intensity of the recent fight. “Dad,” he began softly, breaking the heavy silence. “I just want you to know—”

His father's voice cut through the air, its measured tone betraying a stark absence of emotion. “Why did you do it?"

Marcus sighed, replaying the events of the previous night. The memory of the men's insults and slurs resurfaced, each word echoing painfully in his ears. He had tried to maintain composure, exercising restraint for over an hour. But eventually, the anger and pressure had become too much. “I messed up,” he admitted, his voice tinged with remorse. “Felix and Oscar... two pricks were insulting them. It just kept going on and on. I just reached my breaking point... I snapped. I know... I shouldn’t have.”

The car navigated another turn as another stretch of silence fell between them, accompanied solely by the gentle hum of the engine. After a minute or so, his father broke the quiet, catching Marcus off guard with his words. “Marcus, loyalty is commendable, but being a good friend demands more than anger. You were a shitty friend to them last night.” His father’s voice held a mix of disappointment and concern. “You’re quick to anger... your impulse to solve problems with violence... your failure to consider alternatives... did you even pause and think about the repercussions your actions might have on your friends?”

“But I couldn’t just stand there! They’re my friends, Dad! How would you feel if someone insulted your friends, or Uncle Laurens?” Marcus’s words spilled out, a mix of frustration and sincerity.

“Twenty years ago, I would have acted in the same manner as you... probably even worse. But that doesn’t justify your actions,” his father admitted, steering the car to a stop in front of their house, feeling the weight of two pairs of eyes instantly upon them when a curtain slid to the side. “Your friends deserve the right to face insults on their own terms. They deserve the opportunity to grow from those experiences without you dictating the course of action. Instead, you chose violence, forcing your friends to witness it and the potential of losing a friend.”

“I know, Dad,” Marcus said, his fists involuntarily clenching at his sides. The weight of his anger issues, the lingering fury within him, remained ever-present. “I regret hitting them.”

"No, you don't," his father corrected, his gaze turning icy as it bore into his son's, as if recognizing a familiar trait he hated within himself. “Marcus, you’re not a bad person... but that doesn’t mean you are a good one either.” He let out a sigh and retrieved the keys from the ignition before settling back into his car seat. “I wish the world had more individuals like your mother, your siblings, or even your two friends. The world would be a better place if only those kinds of people were born in it. However, I also know that there are despicable individuals who only yield when faced with people who don’t mind violence.” Bas’s gaze drifted to his own arm, glancing at the twenty-one marks. “All I’m asking is for you to utilize that neglected brain of yours... find out what you were born to do beyond being a mere destroyer.”

Bas’s gaze fixed on his son’s clenched fist, taking note of the battered knuckles and the bruises adorning his arms. “You’re my son, and I love you for your loyalty. It’s the one redeeming quality that we both possess,” he said, his voice slowly turning more affectionate. “But don’t let it consume you... channel it wisely. Look at your uncle and your friends as an example.” He offered a gentle pat on his son's leg before swinging open the car door and stepping out onto the pavement. Afterwards the two men made their way towards the house, crossing the threshold together.

“Take care of those knuckles first. Ice them up. Then barricade yourself in your room until I can appease your mother,” he instructed. Marcus entered the living room, while his father intercepted his mother with both arms, her expression a torrent of emotion from the moment they entered the living room. Still, Marcus could feel her gaze stare green daggers in the back of his head as he retreated further into the house.

The mixed stares of his younger brother and sister, Martin and Joline, in the living room also didn’t help things as he maneuvered past them, stepping into the kitchen. Marcus hesitated for a moment before he snatched a sack of frozen peas from the freezer, his fingers brushing against the cold surface, a shiver running down his spine. The coolness of the package seeped through his fingers, providing a momentary relief from the throbbing pain. With a careful grip, he pressed the icy compress against his bruised knuckles, wincing at the immediate sensation of chilling coldness.

“Are you hurt?” Martin suddenly asked after tailing his older brother, his green eyes fixed on Marcus’s injured fist, filled with genuine concern. Despite the considerable age difference of nearly nine years, it was clear to all that the eleven-year-old held his older brother in high esteem.

“Nah, just a little bruising. I tripped when I went out with Felix and Oscar,” Marcus lied before letting out a soft chuckle, ruffling Martin’s black hair in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.” He could sense his sister’s skepticism from the next room through a snort, as if she saw right through his feeble excuse.

As he left the kitchen, Marcus sensed the weight of Joline's watchful gaze trailing him, a palpable sense of her amusement hanging in the air as he approached the staircase. With each step he took, his sister’s mischievous voice sliced through the air, teasingly laced with something. "So, how was your stay in prison? Did you make any new friends? Or did you find a girlfriend there?" Her golden hair framed her face as a sly grin played on her lips, just daring Marcus to retort.

He was tempted to respond in kind, but he resisted the urge, recalling his father’s words. Masking his true feelings, he offered her a forced smile, then ascended the staircase to his room, closing the door with a soft click. Seconds later, he sank onto his bed while pressing the bag of frozen peas against his bruised knuckles, harder than what was necessary. A wave of remorse washed over him, fully aware of the troubles he had caused for his family. ‘Way to go, Marcus,’ he rued silently.

Marcus's gaze swept over his room, landing on a battered laptop that was placed precariously on his desk while a hamper stood in the corner like a forgotten friend. Next to it was a small wooden cabinet, its glass panel revealing a trove of medals and trophies, drawing his attention. Some of them were his own, remnants of his prior athletic feats, but the majority belonged to his father and uncle. Among the mementos, a framed newspaper article stood out the most, its headline proudly proclaiming, ‘ The Twin Wolves of Utrecht’, and their most recent fights they had won. Comparing his father’s youthful visage to his own, Marcus couldn’t deny the similarity, despite his father having blonde hair. He clicked his tongue before he closed his eyes. ‘Mom’s going to tear me a new one,’ he thought before he felt the urge to yawn, realizing just how tired he truly was at that moment.

Just then, Marcus’s pocket vibrated, alerting him to the arrival of several new text messages. Suppressing a groan, he carefully slipped his injured hand into his pocket and retrieved his phone. With his eyes fixed on the screen, he read the group messages displayed before him while sending out a few of his own.

┏                                                                                                                  ┓

Felix - “Dude! Heard you got out!”

“Also heard you dropped the soap.” - Oscar

Felix - “Lol, but seriously. How are you holding up?”

“Need anything? And how pissed are your folks?” - Oscar

Marcus - “Banged up but doing fine. Sorry about last night, lads.

Dad gave me a speech. Mom cursed me with her eyes.”

“No worries. Glad to see they didn’t lock you up for longer.

So... grounded for life?

Or are you allowed to come with us this weekend?” - Oscar

Marcus - “...?”

“Really? The Amsterdam Tech Expo.” - Oscar

Felix - “Dude. Don’t tell me you forgot!

You’re not going to bail on us, right?”

┗                                                                                                                  ┛

Marcus dropped the phone beside him, letting out a deep sigh. He buried his hand in the bag of frozen peas once more and closed his eyes as he tuned out the distant murmur of his parents’ discussion downstairs. He couldn’t help but feel sympathy for his dad, knowing his father was bearing the weight of his mother’s anger. Clicking his tongue in thought again, he recalled his father’s words from the car ride.

‘Find out what I’m born to do, huh?’

- - -

Copyright: OsiriumWrites