Piece Of Shit

Klaus stared at the Puppeteer with an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The man was bound in enchanted chains that shimmered faintly under the dim light, cutting off all access to essence and ability usage—not that the fool seemed to realize it yet.

Driver paced in tight circles nearby, irritation etched into every line of her face. Her disheveled hair framed her sharp, stormy eyes—clearly still riled from the battle. When her patience finally snapped, she strode forward and grabbed the Puppeteer's head without ceremony.

The man spasmed violently.

"Aghhh! What the fuck!?"

Electric sparks crackled from Driver's fingers as she slapped him hard, waking him up with a jolt of raw voltage. Her expression didn't shift. If anything, she looked pleased.

"Speak. What's your name? Where's the base? Who's in charge? Who's the commander? Numbers?"

The Puppeteer grinned, then spat on her jacket. He leaned back—only to receive a screwdriver jammed into his eye. Blood streamed down his cheek as he recoiled, screaming in agony. His body trembled from the pain, but his expression remained defiant, as if his life didn't matter.

"Don't fuck with me, or I'll gouge out the second one too," Driver growled.

The Puppeteer sighed, shaking his head in disbelief.

"What a brutal woman… Well, I'm Erica. As for the rest of what you asked? Sorry, love, but I can't tell you that."

Driver looked over at Klaus, who was smirking as he leaned against the wall. He wore his signature white lab coat—and nothing else, just a pair of swimming shorts. The contrast made him look like an idiot, though his smirk suggested he didn't care in the slightest.

"Well, if that's the case," Klaus said, "there's nothing we can do, right?"

Her heels clicked sharply against the stone floor as she walked. The wolf fang emblem on her dark purple tactical jacket flickered to life, projecting holograms in mid-air—schematics of mobile suits rotating and dissecting, rearranging as she studied them with detached focus. Even here, even now, she was already working on improvements.

Klaus sighed, shaking his head slightly, deep in thought. Then, without a word, he raised a hand—and Miseria materialized beside him.

The Wraith tilted her head at her master in silent inquiry. Her form shimmered with faint ethereal light, elegant and haunting in equal measure.

"Be careful. We don't have enough information about them. Not he, it's she, I guess. The name is Erica—which means this isn't her real body. I want you to dig through her memories. I need to locate Yggdrasil's branch and destroy it. There are too many unanswered questions about this organization."

Miseria huffed in annoyance and floated toward Erica.

"Well, apologies in advance," she muttered, her voice lazy and delicate. "Looks like I'll have to… uh, violate your privacy."

Klaus had already turned and walked away, his steps heavy with weariness. Not from the fight—he had refrained from using any of his powers. That had been a strategic choice. Revealing too much now would give the enemy time to prepare countermeasures, and he wasn't about to risk that.

Instead, he had allowed only his spirits into battle. Even then, he had truly unveiled only Miseria and Hemera. Loki had been present, yes, but his abilities remained shrouded in ambiguity—just as Klaus intended. The fewer enemies who understood how Loki worked, the more valuable the chaos he could create.

As for Lich and Hassan?

He hadn't even summoned them yet.

Klaus sighed, feeling strangely hollow—like something inside him had quietly rotted away. Then, without warning, the world twisted. Colors drained from the air, leaving everything washed in grey. In the next moment, he was standing alone on the Monkey Island—the highest accessible part of the ship, perched just above the bridge, where no one usually came unless they wanted to be forgotten.

He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, letting the silence wrap around him like a shroud. The night sky stretched endlessly overhead, but he wasn't really looking at it. His eyes were blank, glassy. He wasn't thinking. Not even feeling. Just... existing.

Time slipped by unnoticed.

Then footsteps approached.

She leaned on the balcony railing beside him, her crystalline blue eyes blind but unflinching. There was something hollow in them too, but not from exhaustion. Her stillness was practiced. Controlled. She shifted slightly, tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear, and exhaled.

"What is it now?"

Klaus shrugged, saying nothing. He wasn't in the mood for conversation. Especially not with her.

Cassie frowned, then smacked the cigarette out of his hand. It flew off the railing, a trail of sparks vanishing into the night. That finally got a reaction—his eyes narrowed slightly.

"What the hell was that for?"

She gave him a cold, pitying look. "Hmph... I don't know. Maybe because something's clearly eating at you, and you're too much of a coward to admit it. Is it the war? The pressure? Or are you just scared—scared of losing?"

His jaw tightened. A bitter expression crept across his face.

"It's nothing."

Cassie's frown deepened. There was irritation now—anger.

"Just answer the question, Nik! What is it?!"

He didn't flinch at her raised voice. He just stood there, unmoving, empty.

"I said it's nothing. Leave me the fuck alone."

A sharp crack echoed through the night as she slapped him. His head snapped to the side, and he stared at her, stunned, confused. Before he could speak, she cut him off.

"I said answer me, you miserable bastard!"

Klaus looked at her. Blankly. Quietly. Something cracked inside him—not loudly, not visibly. Just a slow, silent fracture. He didn't understand why she was acting like this. Was she real? Some illusion? Had he pissed her off that badly? Maybe. Probably. He didn't even remember anymore how many people he'd hurt. It blurred together. Hurting people was just... part of who he was, wasn't it?

He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and exhaled slowly.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I just… I just want more."

Cassie let out a breathless laugh. Shook her head like he'd just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"More? More?! What the hell else do you want?!"

She slapped him again, harder this time. His head remained bowed.

"You've got your own organization! The potential to become the strongest being this world has seen since the dawn of creation! You've had more chances than anyone else alive—family, friends, money, power, influence, knowledge, divine-ranked memories, spirits with the strength to destroy entire legions!"

Her voice broke into shouting, her hands striking him again and again like she could beat the truth into him.

"So what else does this world owe you, Nik?! What more do you think you deserve?!"

It had been a long time since he allowed himself to feel anything. No mask. No smirk. No jokes to deflect or cheerfulness to cushion the fall. Just raw, honest emotion. Ugly and exposed.

""I don't..." he started, the words shaky, like they'd been caught in his throat for years. "I just want to feel good about myself. That's it. I just... I don't know how. I don't even know if I can. I want to escape all this—the responsibilities, the promises I made to people I don't even remember loving anymore... I don't want to carry the weight of everything my parents—and the world—dumped on me. I just…"

He paused, his voice cracking into a whisper.

"I just want to be free."

His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. He was trembling now. A bitter, miserable expression twisted his features.

"I don't want to hate myself anymore. I want… And maybe... maybe I just want someone—just one fucking person to say I deserve a second chance. That it's not too late. I want someone to believe I'm not just some wicked, fucked-up beast who ruins everything he touches…"

He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, the flame briefly illuminating the shame carved into his face. He didn't look at her—couldn't. He stared out into the night like it might carry his words away before anyone heard them.

But what followed wasn't comfort. It was laughter.

He closed his eyes, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. Of course. Of course. Why had he even said anything? Why had he thought, even for a second, that opening up would go differently?

That's why he didn't talk about these things. That's why he pushed people away—even the ones he loved. It was safer. Cleaner. If no one knew the truth, then no one could hold it against him.

Because the moment he let someone in—really in—he was reminded of how rotten he truly was.

"It's just... I want to be a good person," he muttered. "Someone my friends, my family—you—could be proud of. I want to be happy. I really do. But I can't. And I don't know why. No matter how hard I search, how many nights I lie awake tearing myself apart, I never find the answer."

Cassie wiped her eyes, still grinning. But when she finally spoke, her words cut like razors.

"But you're not, Nik. You're not a good person. You're terrible. You ruin lives. You lie. You torture. You manipulate and deceive. You kill. Not just enemies, but family. Friends. Me."

Her voice softened.

"You don't deserve someone to tell you that you're a good man. Because deep down, you already know you're not."

Klaus didn't argue. What would be the point?

She was right. Of course she was right. What could he say that would matter now?

When he opened his eyes, she was gone.

There was no one on the deck but him. The empty railing. The burned-out cigarette. The heavy silence.

He stared at the space where she'd been as realization hit him like a brick.

Again?

Hallucination.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck!"

His breathing grew erratic. He started digging through his coat like a man possessed, frantic and feral.

"Where is it?! Where the fuck is it?! Come on, remember, you useless piece of shit!"

He unscrewed it with shaking hands and drank, desperate, gulping it down like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Then, without hesitation, he pulled out a roll of weed, lit it, and inhaled deeply—lowering his resistance to the toxins on purpose just to feel something stronger.

The shaking stopped. His breathing evened out.

The bottle hit the floor, empty.

Smoke curled from his lips.

He sat down slowly, leaning back, eyes glazed over. A smile crept onto his face, not joyful but empty. Like he was laughing at the garbage joke that was his life.

"Time to work," he muttered to no one. "There's a war to win. Heh... hehehe..."

***

Hey everyone, how are you doing?

I just wanted to take a moment to talk to you all from the heart.

This chapter… it's the core of Klaus's character. I know some people have seen him as loud, cocky, or even a bit over-the-top—some have compared him to characters like Gojo or Klaus Mikaelson, and while I did draw inspiration from them, that's not really who he is at his core.

Klaus isn't meant to be the "cool" or "invincible" type. He's miserable. Deeply human. When he talked about freedom being something created from within, this was what he meant. Not freedom from cages or enemies—but freedom from guilt, expectations, and self-hate.

The sarcasm, the edginess, the jokes, the bragging—it's all a mask. A coping mechanism. I actually spent time researching psychological struggles to understand how people deal with inner pain, and how we often bury it behind habits, work, distractions. In Klaus's case: smoking, drinking, sex, fighting, nonstop research—it's all there to avoid thinking about who he really is and how much he's hurting.

Klaus is lonely. Disappointed in himself. Disillusioned with the world. You might not have noticed at first—because he hides it well—but every time he said something like "I'm unbreakable" or "I'm the smartest," what he really meant was the opposite. It's a defense. A way to avoid collapsing.

And I think… maybe a part of that is relatable to a lot of us. We all have things we carry quietly. Regrets. Guilt. Thoughts we can't share with friends, family, or people we love because we're scared of being judged or misunderstood. Sometimes we say or do things we don't mean—and we only realize too late how much it hurt someone, or ourselves.

That's Klaus. That's what he's struggling with. He's done terrible things, but he doesn't even fully understand why he does them. He just wants it all to stop—but doesn't know how.

This chapter, for me, is the culmination of everything he's been silently carrying since chapter one. The masks come off, and the truth—no matter how messy or painful—finally surfaces.

Thank you for sticking with the story, and with Klaus. Your support, theories, and even critiques have meant so much. I hope this chapter made you feel something, and maybe helped you understand him a bit more deeply.

Take care of yourselves—and enjoy what's coming next.

***