[ keep a firm grip on him, then, because this one's going to be a doozy.
the screen flickers to life between them, and it's big enough that perhaps some of those closest to the barrier might even be able to catch bits and pieces of it. at the very least, they'll be able to hear it.
The video in his cell switches on, watching the once savior waste away. He’s in much of a similar state, clothes rumpled, hair once again falling out of its braid, and eyes so tired it’s obvious he hasn’t slept a wink. And yet, there is something in him that seems to sense the feeling of being watched, and so he moves to sit up—making direct eye contact with the camera. ]
Oh? Someone has a bad hobby.
[ He checks the time on his I.R.I.S., almost yawning. ]
For the interested: twelve hours and forty-nine minutes in captivity, Suika high score 3,648, and—
[ His multi-colored eyes flash, the eerie bright blue of them widening. His thoughts broadcast.
W̷̨̿h̶͌͜a̸̘̽t̵̟̓ ̶̭̀u̸̹̓s̴̬̾é̷̲ ̴͉̃ì̷͈ŝ̵̖ ̴͕̀ä̴͍́ ̷̰͊ǵ̷̭o̸̼͝d̴͕͌ ̶̼̃f̵͕͛ä̶ͅl̴͓̆l̷̼͐é̵͔n̷͉͌ ̷͚̑t̷͎̽o̶̭͛ ̶͍͝e̴̫͂à̸̪ŕ̸͔ṱ̸͌h̵̤́?̵̬͆ Had I not decided to live as a human? A̷̫͐n̶̩̑d̶͉̆ ̴̭͐w̷̳̐h̴͇͂ò̸͖,̵̗͊ ̸͉͛ě̶͜x̶̬̓ạ̶̋ć̴̣t̵̳̆l̷͉̿y̶̮̅,̷̥͐ ̷͙̄d̵̰̒o̵̡̒ ̴͚̌I̵͕͌ ̸͎̓t̶̨͠h̵͙̏ḭ̷̊ṉ̶̕k̵̞͝ ̵̜͐ț̶̒h̶̘͌ȧ̷̹t̷̗̿ ̵̺̊Ì̵̥ ̸̻̌c̸͔̚â̴͕n̷͔͒ ̶̠́s̵̡̀t̷̮͝i̸͎̐l̶̡͐l̴͕͆ ̶̥̊h̷̗͂ô̸̻p̷̱͆e̶͌ͅ ̴̫́t̸̫̃o̶̳̎ ̶͖͊s̶̬͝a̸̤͋v̸̼͗ë̴̦?̷̛͔ W̷h̶a̴t̸ ̸i̵f̴ ̷I̶ ̸w̵i̶s̵h̴e̵d̵ ̸t̶o̶ ̸s̵a̸v̴e̸ ̵m̷y̵s̸e̶l̴f̶?̶
His expression falters, and he comes to his conclusion almost immediately after:
No.
And no one will think to save him either. Not when he's made it abundantly clear that he is not a person who expects salvation. His hand comes up to his own neck.
The video feed cuts to black.
Distant voices, like those that belong to faraway memories, start to swirl in the audio, broadcasted:
”Not understanding human emotion makes you the saddest, most pathetic existence of all.”
“I’m sure you will never understand this comforting, heart-wrenching pain.”
The lights in the brig have dimmed. An odd red hue has washed over the cell. Scien’s grip has tightened, squeezing. His shoulders shake.
With what little breath he seems to be getting, he wheezes out a off-tune hum. His head lifts to face the camera again and his usually placid expression twists into something unnerving. ]
I se░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟. You want to █̝̭̫͉͔̟͒ͮ͘͟█ke me into the e͞x̨̛̕p̸█̧͎̥̳̰̙̝̪̟̿̎̃ͯ̂̆̃ͫ́̕█̝̭̫͉͔̟͒ͮ͘͟█̧̬͉͉͎̳̈́ͫ̓̂̀́█̧̦̾̾ͫ̎̅ͥͩ̚█̧͎̥̳̰̙̝̪̟̿̎̃ͯ̂̆̃ͫ́̕█̝̭̫͉͔̟͒ͮ͘͟█̧̬͉͉͎̳̈́ͫ̓̂̀́█̧̦̾̾ͫ̎̅ͥͩ̚░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟? Á s͝pe̢c͞ta█̝̭̫͉͔̟͒ͮ͘͟█░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟? [ He laughs around his own asphyxiation, and it is a cruel sound. Vindictive and ancient, like a god reawakened. His hand shifts to where the beautiful, intricate floral tattoo rests right over his throat. A mark of a Reliver. The mark of the first Reliver. His fingers dig into flesh until they pierce the thin barrier, blood spilling. Is this Scien Brofiise? ] What if I beat░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟ you to it?
I’ve always been ready to mak░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟e the first sacrifice.
[ The camera cuts out again.
The sounds of coughing. A struggle. Gurgling. A wretched life clinging to its place despite the known end goal. A different sound - the rustle of cloth, and then of something being gouged. A laugh, maniacal, bleeds into a shout of pain.
One last thought to share:
It’s not so bad to let emotion rule over my actions for once. Maybe they were onto something. ]
cw: self-mutilation, strangulation, virche
the screen flickers to life between them, and it's big enough that perhaps some of those closest to the barrier might even be able to catch bits and pieces of it. at the very least, they'll be able to hear it.
as dana writes - ]
[ cw: self-mutilation, strangulation, virche
OST. ]
[ On Sunday morning, Scien is playing Suika.
The video in his cell switches on, watching the once savior waste away. He’s in much of a similar state, clothes rumpled, hair once again falling out of its braid, and eyes so tired it’s obvious he hasn’t slept a wink. And yet, there is something in him that seems to sense the feeling of being watched, and so he moves to sit up—making direct eye contact with the camera. ]
Oh? Someone has a bad hobby.
[ He checks the time on his I.R.I.S., almost yawning. ]
For the interested: twelve hours and forty-nine minutes in captivity, Suika high score 3,648, and—
[ His multi-colored eyes flash, the eerie bright blue of them widening. His thoughts broadcast.
W̷̨̿h̶͌͜a̸̘̽t̵̟̓ ̶̭̀u̸̹̓s̴̬̾é̷̲ ̴͉̃ì̷͈ŝ̵̖ ̴͕̀ä̴͍́ ̷̰͊ǵ̷̭o̸̼͝d̴͕͌ ̶̼̃f̵͕͛ä̶ͅl̴͓̆l̷̼͐é̵͔n̷͉͌ ̷͚̑t̷͎̽o̶̭͛ ̶͍͝e̴̫͂à̸̪ŕ̸͔ṱ̸͌h̵̤́?̵̬͆ Had I not decided to live as a human? A̷̫͐n̶̩̑d̶͉̆ ̴̭͐w̷̳̐h̴͇͂ò̸͖,̵̗͊ ̸͉͛ě̶͜x̶̬̓ạ̶̋ć̴̣t̵̳̆l̷͉̿y̶̮̅,̷̥͐ ̷͙̄d̵̰̒o̵̡̒ ̴͚̌I̵͕͌ ̸͎̓t̶̨͠h̵͙̏ḭ̷̊ṉ̶̕k̵̞͝ ̵̜͐ț̶̒h̶̘͌ȧ̷̹t̷̗̿ ̵̺̊Ì̵̥ ̸̻̌c̸͔̚â̴͕n̷͔͒ ̶̠́s̵̡̀t̷̮͝i̸͎̐l̶̡͐l̴͕͆ ̶̥̊h̷̗͂ô̸̻p̷̱͆e̶͌ͅ ̴̫́t̸̫̃o̶̳̎ ̶͖͊s̶̬͝a̸̤͋v̸̼͗ë̴̦?̷̛͔ W̷h̶a̴t̸ ̸i̵f̴ ̷I̶ ̸w̵i̶s̵h̴e̵d̵ ̸t̶o̶ ̸s̵a̸v̴e̸ ̵m̷y̵s̸e̶l̴f̶?̶
His expression falters, and he comes to his conclusion almost immediately after:
No.
And no one will think to save him either. Not when he's made it abundantly clear that he is not a person who expects salvation. His hand comes up to his own neck.
The video feed cuts to black.
Distant voices, like those that belong to faraway memories, start to swirl in the audio, broadcasted:
”Not understanding human emotion makes you the saddest, most pathetic existence of all.”
“I’m sure you will never understand this comforting, heart-wrenching pain.”
“Pitiful soul.”
“Yes, pitiful ░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟soul.”
"Pitiful soul. Pitiful soul. Pitiful soul. Pitifulsoul. Pitifulsoulpitifulpitiful░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟pitiful░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟soulpitiful░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟soulpitifulsoul."
The feed cuts back in.
The lights in the brig have dimmed. An odd red hue has washed over the cell. Scien’s grip has tightened, squeezing. His shoulders shake.
With what little breath he seems to be getting, he wheezes out a off-tune hum. His head lifts to face the camera again and his usually placid expression twists into something unnerving. ]
I se░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟. You want to █̝̭̫͉͔̟͒ͮ͘͟█ke me into the e͞x̨̛̕p̸█̧͎̥̳̰̙̝̪̟̿̎̃ͯ̂̆̃ͫ́̕█̝̭̫͉͔̟͒ͮ͘͟█̧̬͉͉͎̳̈́ͫ̓̂̀́█̧̦̾̾ͫ̎̅ͥͩ̚█̧͎̥̳̰̙̝̪̟̿̎̃ͯ̂̆̃ͫ́̕█̝̭̫͉͔̟͒ͮ͘͟█̧̬͉͉͎̳̈́ͫ̓̂̀́█̧̦̾̾ͫ̎̅ͥͩ̚░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟? Á s͝pe̢c͞ta█̝̭̫͉͔̟͒ͮ͘͟█░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟? [ He laughs around his own asphyxiation, and it is a cruel sound. Vindictive and ancient, like a god reawakened. His hand shifts to where the beautiful, intricate floral tattoo rests right over his throat. A mark of a Reliver. The mark of the first Reliver. His fingers dig into flesh until they pierce the thin barrier, blood spilling. Is this Scien Brofiise? ] What if I beat░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟ you to it?
I’ve always been ready to mak░̛͘͝░̶͠░̵̡͜͜░̸̷̨͟e the first sacrifice.
[ The camera cuts out again.
The sounds of coughing. A struggle. Gurgling. A wretched life clinging to its place despite the known end goal. A different sound - the rustle of cloth, and then of something being gouged. A laugh, maniacal, bleeds into a shout of pain.
One last thought to share:
It’s not so bad to let emotion rule over my actions for once. Maybe they were onto something. ]