Reality melds and fuses with memory, like burning flesh, blistering and melting until one feature cannot be distinguished from the next. Like a record skipping, over and over, a scene plays out, unable to finish, unable to move beyond a single, fixed point in time. He remembers his family. He remembers the smell of sizzling skin and hair, he remembers the pleading wails, the innumerable death keens more animal than human. And he recalls his own voice— a wild, hoarse scream he can scarcely place as his own. Hot tears are squelched from wide, unfocused eyes and in that moment, that single moment suspended too long in time and memory, he knows he will be forever numbed to feeling. That this moment will demand too much of him, mind and body, and that nothing can remain of him save for a husk, a shell. A devil.
And it begins again.
He is there in the carnage, and at the same time, he is outside it. Watching as impartial observer, viewing a narrative of which he will never be free. He carries with him a totem, a symbol of protection, long strands of matted blue hair clutched tightly in his fingers. It is a head, or the idea of a head, glazed over eyes gazing still and sightless. Holding it, he knows he should feel at peace. The boy could have hoped for no better final rites in this place... but still. There is something off. Like a word half remembered, a task left unfinished. A great wrongness. Something nagging at his consciousness, dizzyingly warping his perception of his own inner hell. A more immediate reality seeps in strange, stark fragments.
Here, he would see a glimpse of a clean, white hallway as he walks the corpse ridden landscape. There, he would feel himself lifted too easily by many, many hands. Other fragments of memory seep in, other glimpses of a more real, solid world, though he cannot which is which.
He remembers himself as a much younger man, being chained and poked and prodded. The questions are the same, as is the chemically induced haze brought on so he might answer them. No matter. The old walls he had built up over his heart and mind are still in place, and he holds his tongue.
He allows himself to slip back into oblivion, embraces the hellish landscape of his mind, and takes comfort in the thought that soon it will end. He will prove to be no further use to them, like all his people, and he will return to the earth. He has failed his people, fallen short of his vengeful purpose, but perhaps he can be granted that much. If he can pose this last bit of resistance... perhaps it will be enough. Maybe it will make up for all he has done, all those he has wronged.
"...Aoba." The hoarse suddenness of his voice surprises even him, his silence having gone long unbroken. Is that regret in his voice? He has grown so used to steeling himself from emotion, he can no longer tell. Still, in his lucidity, he can sense a sudden pique of interest in his captors. In his brief lapse of lucidity, he can hear hurried whispers. The name "Toue" flitted around amongst them, and he knows he has already said too much.
The questions begin to change. What is Aoba to you? Would you like to see him? He wants so badly to believe it is the drugs and the exhaustion that weaken his resolve, not the questions themselves. Perhaps he answers. Maybe that is a dream too.
The fiery visions of that night never truly leave him— he is always there, in the back of his mind. However, the real world is beginning to come into more and more focus, while his mental landscape fades to mere background noise.
He wakes in the center of a sleek, maddeningly white room, bright and immaculate much like the rest of the facility. Already his eyes hurt from looking at it, though there is a vague sense that the pain in his eyes may be from something else. Undoubtedly they'd removed his contacts, and he wracks his addled brain to remember any flashing lights employed to weaken his will. He comes up with little. A brief inspection of his person yielded nothing encouraging. His hands were bound, and he had been dressed in an all too familiar uniform. Toue had his inmates dress in white— part inmate, part test subject, he thinks with grim, distant amusement. He finds himself untethered to anything, but that was likely because he is far too weak to move much, anyway. In front of him is an electronic door, appearing to open only from the outside. Behind him, there is a wall shining with a strange reflective sheen, implying the possibility of a one way reflective surface. It is a struggle to right himself into a sitting position— his muscles feel weak and remote from lack of use and he aches deeply all over—but somehow, he manages. He had to gather himself, pray against hope that this momentary clarity was accident on Toue's part, rather than a ploy, and wait.
And it begins again.
He is there in the carnage, and at the same time, he is outside it. Watching as impartial observer, viewing a narrative of which he will never be free. He carries with him a totem, a symbol of protection, long strands of matted blue hair clutched tightly in his fingers. It is a head, or the idea of a head, glazed over eyes gazing still and sightless. Holding it, he knows he should feel at peace. The boy could have hoped for no better final rites in this place... but still. There is something off. Like a word half remembered, a task left unfinished. A great wrongness. Something nagging at his consciousness, dizzyingly warping his perception of his own inner hell. A more immediate reality seeps in strange, stark fragments.
Here, he would see a glimpse of a clean, white hallway as he walks the corpse ridden landscape. There, he would feel himself lifted too easily by many, many hands. Other fragments of memory seep in, other glimpses of a more real, solid world, though he cannot which is which.
He remembers himself as a much younger man, being chained and poked and prodded. The questions are the same, as is the chemically induced haze brought on so he might answer them. No matter. The old walls he had built up over his heart and mind are still in place, and he holds his tongue.
He allows himself to slip back into oblivion, embraces the hellish landscape of his mind, and takes comfort in the thought that soon it will end. He will prove to be no further use to them, like all his people, and he will return to the earth. He has failed his people, fallen short of his vengeful purpose, but perhaps he can be granted that much. If he can pose this last bit of resistance... perhaps it will be enough. Maybe it will make up for all he has done, all those he has wronged.
"...Aoba." The hoarse suddenness of his voice surprises even him, his silence having gone long unbroken. Is that regret in his voice? He has grown so used to steeling himself from emotion, he can no longer tell. Still, in his lucidity, he can sense a sudden pique of interest in his captors. In his brief lapse of lucidity, he can hear hurried whispers. The name "Toue" flitted around amongst them, and he knows he has already said too much.
The questions begin to change. What is Aoba to you? Would you like to see him? He wants so badly to believe it is the drugs and the exhaustion that weaken his resolve, not the questions themselves. Perhaps he answers. Maybe that is a dream too.
The fiery visions of that night never truly leave him— he is always there, in the back of his mind. However, the real world is beginning to come into more and more focus, while his mental landscape fades to mere background noise.
He wakes in the center of a sleek, maddeningly white room, bright and immaculate much like the rest of the facility. Already his eyes hurt from looking at it, though there is a vague sense that the pain in his eyes may be from something else. Undoubtedly they'd removed his contacts, and he wracks his addled brain to remember any flashing lights employed to weaken his will. He comes up with little. A brief inspection of his person yielded nothing encouraging. His hands were bound, and he had been dressed in an all too familiar uniform. Toue had his inmates dress in white— part inmate, part test subject, he thinks with grim, distant amusement. He finds himself untethered to anything, but that was likely because he is far too weak to move much, anyway. In front of him is an electronic door, appearing to open only from the outside. Behind him, there is a wall shining with a strange reflective sheen, implying the possibility of a one way reflective surface. It is a struggle to right himself into a sitting position— his muscles feel weak and remote from lack of use and he aches deeply all over—but somehow, he manages. He had to gather himself, pray against hope that this momentary clarity was accident on Toue's part, rather than a ploy, and wait.
Awakening, it was like coming into a dream. Never before had he ever been offered this amount of unrestrained control over this shared body, and yet... he couldn't exercise it with these shackles, these needles, these lights. How ****ing frustrating.
Nagging at him, Aoba knew. He had failed. In innumerable ways, he had failed. The purpose for his being, and even in destroying Mink, in giving him exactly what he wanted. And it was what he wanted, right? That Aoba had no concept of making people happy, he would only ever betray their interests, and he never listened. Aoba had got them here. Aoba had gotten himself killed.
There was so much grief, a part of himself after all had been ripped away. He felt phantom pain, like one would feel from losing a limb. Even more than grief, though, was fury. It was all that was left of Aoba now. Aoba's hatred, Aoba's bitterness, Aoba's tattered pride. That's all he was, all he would ever be.
The florescent beams above his head were like daggers in his eyes, burning white heat into his skin. So often there drugs in his body wouldn't allow him more than just a few seconds of consciousness. He was used to it. This Aoba had lived in the dark, without motion or voice, for years on end. This was normal. This was almost comfortable.
His neck was a ruined mess of jagged scars, stapled skin, bruised and swollen. Could he even speak anymore? His throat was in a constant state of burning, a thick acidity lapping along the back of his tongue.
He didn't know how long he had been here, but the somewhat emaciated state of his weak body told him probably at least a month, if not more. When he sat up in his sterile, unfeeling hospital gurney he was greeted with researchers, faces distorted by light.
They prompted him to speak, and he felt compelled to honor the request. All resistance that he would have offered was gone along with Aoba, at least, that's how it felt. He obliges them with a few vocalizations, throaty and unrefined. He finds, strangely, that his voice somehow seems... stronger, and less restrained. What was this? Was it the result of tampering or... was it without Aoba to hold him back, he could access his full potential?
Something swelled in him, you could call it joy, but it was more like excitement or... purpose.
"We have someone who wants to see you."
Who? Who wants to see Aoba? Would they be disappointed, then, to find he was no longer here? They had no way of knowing, these people, that he wasn't the Aoba they knew anymore. Simpletons. It's not like anyone could ever tell. Except one person.
Oh.
He was still alive?
Questions about Ren, his family, his friends, Midorijima... They all didn't concern him. These were material things, things that didn't matter anymore. Nothing but this mattered.
Dressed in the same white, generic uniform that everyone here seemed to wear; he liked to think it was some grand metaphor, a reflection of their washed out souls, their washed out brains. They were made up for burial. Aoba's hair had been allowed to grow out even further, but since the testing started, it had begun to lose pigment at it's tips. His eyes now no longer bidden by Aoba were a bright, brilliant yellow that seemed to glow unnaturally. His skin too, was markedly paler although strangely not all that much more sickly than the rest of him.
They led him to a room where Mink lay on the floor. He looked pitiful, pale, malnourished, a mere shadow of his former self. Still, gold eyes peered back at him, and he subconsciously lifts his hand to feel along his serrated neck, feeling disgust swell up in his throat.
"So you made it."
It was the only thing he could think to say.
Nagging at him, Aoba knew. He had failed. In innumerable ways, he had failed. The purpose for his being, and even in destroying Mink, in giving him exactly what he wanted. And it was what he wanted, right? That Aoba had no concept of making people happy, he would only ever betray their interests, and he never listened. Aoba had got them here. Aoba had gotten himself killed.
There was so much grief, a part of himself after all had been ripped away. He felt phantom pain, like one would feel from losing a limb. Even more than grief, though, was fury. It was all that was left of Aoba now. Aoba's hatred, Aoba's bitterness, Aoba's tattered pride. That's all he was, all he would ever be.
The florescent beams above his head were like daggers in his eyes, burning white heat into his skin. So often there drugs in his body wouldn't allow him more than just a few seconds of consciousness. He was used to it. This Aoba had lived in the dark, without motion or voice, for years on end. This was normal. This was almost comfortable.
His neck was a ruined mess of jagged scars, stapled skin, bruised and swollen. Could he even speak anymore? His throat was in a constant state of burning, a thick acidity lapping along the back of his tongue.
He didn't know how long he had been here, but the somewhat emaciated state of his weak body told him probably at least a month, if not more. When he sat up in his sterile, unfeeling hospital gurney he was greeted with researchers, faces distorted by light.
They prompted him to speak, and he felt compelled to honor the request. All resistance that he would have offered was gone along with Aoba, at least, that's how it felt. He obliges them with a few vocalizations, throaty and unrefined. He finds, strangely, that his voice somehow seems... stronger, and less restrained. What was this? Was it the result of tampering or... was it without Aoba to hold him back, he could access his full potential?
Something swelled in him, you could call it joy, but it was more like excitement or... purpose.
"We have someone who wants to see you."
Who? Who wants to see Aoba? Would they be disappointed, then, to find he was no longer here? They had no way of knowing, these people, that he wasn't the Aoba they knew anymore. Simpletons. It's not like anyone could ever tell. Except one person.
Oh.
He was still alive?
Questions about Ren, his family, his friends, Midorijima... They all didn't concern him. These were material things, things that didn't matter anymore. Nothing but this mattered.
Dressed in the same white, generic uniform that everyone here seemed to wear; he liked to think it was some grand metaphor, a reflection of their washed out souls, their washed out brains. They were made up for burial. Aoba's hair had been allowed to grow out even further, but since the testing started, it had begun to lose pigment at it's tips. His eyes now no longer bidden by Aoba were a bright, brilliant yellow that seemed to glow unnaturally. His skin too, was markedly paler although strangely not all that much more sickly than the rest of him.
They led him to a room where Mink lay on the floor. He looked pitiful, pale, malnourished, a mere shadow of his former self. Still, gold eyes peered back at him, and he subconsciously lifts his hand to feel along his serrated neck, feeling disgust swell up in his throat.
"So you made it."
It was the only thing he could think to say.
He curses Aoba for trying to fix him. He curses himself for being well beyond redemption. And this... thing. This devil, standing before him, wearing the boy's face, mocking him. He curses it too. It is almost laughable to think there was a time when he wanted to draw this Aoba out. He needed him, once. He needed his blind animal instinct, his power. Revenge seemed so far away now, remote. It was a need that would never be extinguished but never be met, like a man dying of thirst where the mere memory of water only serves to infuriate.
Mink's face betrays none of this. His eyes are fierce flashes of gold set in a pale, sunken skull, and he meets the inhuman yellow of the devil's eyes without fear. Already the young man's scent has changed, deepening, which hits him before the paleness of his skin or the white of his hair. The fragrance of death, he thinks, faraway. His bound hands tighten, and for a moment, he thinks he can feel the texture of wet, matted hair.
"You told me... I could keep his soul," he says firmly, his voice a low rumble. His words are more statement than accusation, and he seems at once strongly guarded.
Mink's face betrays none of this. His eyes are fierce flashes of gold set in a pale, sunken skull, and he meets the inhuman yellow of the devil's eyes without fear. Already the young man's scent has changed, deepening, which hits him before the paleness of his skin or the white of his hair. The fragrance of death, he thinks, faraway. His bound hands tighten, and for a moment, he thinks he can feel the texture of wet, matted hair.
"You told me... I could keep his soul," he says firmly, his voice a low rumble. His words are more statement than accusation, and he seems at once strongly guarded.
"Did I? I don't remember. That Aoba was pretty useless, anyways."
Years of feeling far away, his voice felt so strange coming out of Aoba's mouth so freely now. The only thoughts he had were his own, the space no longer shared among two voices. It was refreshing almost, if not just a bit lonely. But that was a minor complaint.
Behind them, the tapping of a keys could be heard behind the two-way glass. Aoba glances over his shoulder, and flashes an unnatural grin at them before sinking down into a squat beside Mink. He keeps his distance. Even with his hands bound, the man's temper was still fresh in his memory, and he knew better than to stand within striking range of a cobra.
"That Aoba is all yours now. I want to thank you, you know. For setting me free. You're kind of easy, I knew you'd jump at the chance. I messed you all up."
The pain in his body felt so far away now. There was a sick satisfaction from watching Mink all withered on the ground like he was. It was sort of a shame, he had been so impressed by his size before - but now, he looked all sickly.
"You got what you wanted though, right? Here I am. This is the Aoba you wanted to see."
His smile was bitter and hateful, yellow eyes watching him full of sadistic expectation.
Years of feeling far away, his voice felt so strange coming out of Aoba's mouth so freely now. The only thoughts he had were his own, the space no longer shared among two voices. It was refreshing almost, if not just a bit lonely. But that was a minor complaint.
Behind them, the tapping of a keys could be heard behind the two-way glass. Aoba glances over his shoulder, and flashes an unnatural grin at them before sinking down into a squat beside Mink. He keeps his distance. Even with his hands bound, the man's temper was still fresh in his memory, and he knew better than to stand within striking range of a cobra.
"That Aoba is all yours now. I want to thank you, you know. For setting me free. You're kind of easy, I knew you'd jump at the chance. I messed you all up."
The pain in his body felt so far away now. There was a sick satisfaction from watching Mink all withered on the ground like he was. It was sort of a shame, he had been so impressed by his size before - but now, he looked all sickly.
"You got what you wanted though, right? Here I am. This is the Aoba you wanted to see."
His smile was bitter and hateful, yellow eyes watching him full of sadistic expectation.
Rage builds inside him, each cutting remark only serving to deepen his hatred. It gives life to him; it is the first real sensation he has felt since his hazy return to consciousness. He almost welcomes it— hate has always driven him, after all. It guided him through his last lengthy imprisonment, brought him within hand's reach of taking Toue's life. He has always harnessed it, though, sure that he let himself go at precisely the right time, focusing it on precisely the party he needed to.
He wanted nothing more than to take this monster's neck in his hands, press his thumbs hard into his windpipe until he could no longer corrupt Aoba's memory, move and talk with his body and his voice. But then, they were being monitored, weren't they? He remembered enough about the lab's security measures, and as a former escapee, he was sure they would have only been tightened. This Aoba had to have known that... did he want to provoke him? Did any of that matter at this point? Freedom was an illusion, a means to a very short, immediate end, at most.
"Free?" Mink's voice came out with low, hollow irony. His following silence seemed to punctuate the situation, the whole of the complex they were in. "Did you get what you wanted?"
He wanted nothing more than to take this monster's neck in his hands, press his thumbs hard into his windpipe until he could no longer corrupt Aoba's memory, move and talk with his body and his voice. But then, they were being monitored, weren't they? He remembered enough about the lab's security measures, and as a former escapee, he was sure they would have only been tightened. This Aoba had to have known that... did he want to provoke him? Did any of that matter at this point? Freedom was an illusion, a means to a very short, immediate end, at most.
"Free?" Mink's voice came out with low, hollow irony. His following silence seemed to punctuate the situation, the whole of the complex they were in. "Did you get what you wanted?"
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