( closed to @luck ) your turn to die: sou hiyori

[killed]

With varying vanities, from every part, they shift the moving toyshop of their heart.

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[killed]

[ He wonders if he's getting rusty, or if perhaps it's just being on even footing with another that's throwing him off. He doesn't like either option, but he tries to overcome his misgivings for now, instead offering a sigh of relief as he's finally left to his own devices. He looks around the room first, searching for the window. He finds it easily enough, as he's decided that it always existed - drugs melt the mind, but they also leave it far more flexible. It's small and it would be a bit of a squeeze, but he's tall enough to reach and could slip through easily enough.

Good, he has an escape route if he needs it. It's always best to secure one, no matter how much he might trust the other. He doesn't like that behavior one bit. Komaeda would never tell him he was forgiven, he would reject it and put himself down and act like an overbearing mother about the entire affair. It's part of why Hiyori loves him so much.

Ah, well, maybe it's just his imagination though. Komaeda has been under just as much stress after all, and he can't prove it either way. He looks around one more time to try and determine the safest space, and decides on a few steps away from the window, standing at an angle so that he can glance around easily. Then he breathes out a sigh of relief as he opens the bag, his hands trembling as he forces himself to calm down and avoid digging into it like some kind of common trash. He's too good for that, too refined - he can only imagine how he'd be scolded if he were not only taking it, but in such an careless and unsavory manner.

He opens it up slowly instead, taking a fair pinch of it between his fingers and rubbing it between to test the texture of it. He knows what pure drugs should feel like, and what it should taste like as he puts just a bit on his tongue. It's just the standard test, nothing unusual at all. ]

[killed]

[ Hiyori trusts his own judgment. His mind has been clouded by long days and nights, blurred and tampered with by drugs, but it's still in tact enough to trust his basic senses. Even if he couldn't, he's stable enough to be more inclined to make a mistake by being too cautious than suffer for an error. He spits on the floor to get the substance out his mouth, then a couple more times to ensure he'd removed the entire thing. There's a hint of red mixed in, a slight coppery taste in his mouth.

This is why he's careful about which dealers he goes to.

He sets the back in the trash, coating it with the remainder inside. It won't be noticed this way, and perhaps he'll get so lucky that the blood on the ground will be satisfactory proof that he's taken it. How unfortunate that he doesn't have the tools to mimic a raspy, torn up throat. ]

Komaeda-kun...?

[ He coughs, spitting out a little more blood. It had been just enough to cut his tongue. How disgusting. He supposes his joke about vampires is being followed up on. To open the window, or not to... Neither choice is very good. How unfortunate. ]

Are you quite alright?

[killed]

[ Of course it will be, but he's still following the rules of humans, and so long as he's convinced that his choices will have some impact then they're able to do so. He laughs, a nervous and irritable laugh as the ground starts to shake. It's going out the door and stepping into the jaws of a beast, or slipping out the window and falling into a bottomless pit.

Either way, he's being forced to move forward. This headache is what he gets for falling asleep. Should've done more coke, he thinks bitterly. ]

My, my... Did I cause some offense?

[ He sighs and shakes his head, and in the end he chooses the door for no reason other than to avoid being left hanging halfway out of a tiny window. He cracks it open, stepping to the side and reaching to the side as he does so to ensure he's not directly in front of the opening. His hand reaches to his side at the same time, moving beneath his jacket ]

[killed]

[ His way back in, leaving him only able to go forward. He takes the object he was grasping beneath his jacket out now, a sawed off shotgun. He holds it with both hands, clicking off the safety but leaving his hand on the trigger. The scenery is something out of a fantasy novel, and there's nothing more damaging to fantasy than a gun. It's the same as logic and facts and denial, a corrosion that eats away at the scene, bleeding out its color and burning through it to reveal the reality hidden behind it.

It's amazing what a useful tool a gun is, really. It can be used to cut through one's enemies, whether they be real or fictitious, and if that fails it can be pointed at oneself. Hiyori sleeps with one in his nightstand, locked away where his troublesome patient can't get at it; he has since he was still in high school to allow him to sleep at night. It's a steadfast belief that's protected him his entire life, one which tells him that no matter how insane the world might get, he'll never be trapped.

He remembers the rules, but he never had received the details of what one was supposed to do when confronted with doors, though all the other rules seemed to suggest moving forward. But then, it didn't suggest a way out either, though he's heard similar stories in which a second person was required to wake up the first.. But in the end, he'll get no where by standing here. He places his hand on the blue door, leaning in a little closer to see if he can hear anything inside. ]

[killed]

?

it's to protect him and his cute komaeda-kun of course!! ♡

[killed]

[ He compulsively rips his hand back once the door begins to grow too hot in the same way one might a hot stove, and it reaffirms his decision to approach with caution. Fire. It's a glance into a time long past, one in which a man was burned like a witch at the stake for his crimes. They were horrendous to be certain, but such vigilante justice rarely does any good. Still, it doesn't explain why he's been pulled into this entire affair. There should be no grudge held against him, as his family has no connection to this place, no intention of interfering with the plans of others. Komaeda's luck can't explain it away either - people, monsters, ghosts, whatever form one takes they rarely choose their targets without reason. What had he done, and where had he gone wrong? No answer comes to mind.

He wonders if Komaeda will wake him up. Perhaps the Ultimate Luck's fortunes will prove to be bad today, and he'll be tied up for longer and longer periods of time. But even that is fine so long as Hiyori pays attention.

The burning of flames, the clicking of knives, and it's as much a story as it is a warning and an attempt to intimidate. He takes in a breath and keeps himself calm rather than giving into any panic, observing his surroundings once more and finding a beautiful flower blooming next to him. It's as though it were specifically made for him, a plant that calls to him and encourages him to test fate by plucking it. It's tempting enough that his hand, uninjured but throbbing, starts to reach in it's direction as he leans over before he catches himself and snaps it back to his shotgun. It's a useful tool indeed, one that he needs both to handle, one that reminds him that he's always, always in danger. Everything is a threat, and he has not a single ally in this world any more than in the waking one.

He clutches it tighter, worsening the pain as his knuckles turn white, and turns on his heel to leave the scene behind him. If he plucks it, he'll never be rid of it. He has to keep moving forward, forward, ignoring everything and everyone that tries to move him off his path. ]

[killed]

[ Even flowers will wither and die if they're not given love and care, and it serves as a reminder of how little this place has for him. It's eerie, like watching members picked off as something creeps up behind him, but it makes the ones before him all the more mesmerizing. They're symbols of beauty and life which remind one of their own continued existence. They must smell as lovely as they look, if only he could pluck one, but his hands are full.

He feels a chill run up his spine as he hears the lullaby. It's a lullaby he's familiar with. It's a warning and a threat wrapped into one. Once bitten and twice shy, Hiyori has his misgivings about experimenting with another one. He clutches his gun tighter, not wanting to release it for fear that he'll act unwisely. He takes cautious steps forward until he stands before the purple door. It's warm and inviting, almost beckoning him to come in, so much so that he finds it altogether unpleasant.

Still, while he has no hope of escape he both has staying here might come with its own problems. He turns his head to look down the trail of the flower field in order to determine if a proper pathway can be seen in the distance, or if it's an endless stretch of field, and perhaps most importantly to see if he can see any figures in the distance. Once he's assessed that, he'll cautiously reach toward the handle to examine it. ]

[killed]

[ It's the perfect dream for him for how unassuming it is. Hiyori's world is full of red roses with vines that choke those who come too close as their thorns sink into skin, cotton candy and sweets that are stuffed into the mouths and eyes of corpses, but it all looks so wonderful and sweet until one peels back the illusion that protects them. His was ripped away long ago. There are no flowers, no sugary sweets, no lovely worlds that will offer him respite - everything is dangerous, everything is fatal, and he can trust no one but himself.

He should have dropped breadcrumbs, but if he had the birds would have eaten them. He can see the rotten truth hiding in here. If he looks down there's mutilated corpses fertilizing the flowers, if he looks up he can see the gouges and smears of blood on the wall, and when he views the white smoke that hides behind it a deathly cold. Perhaps something will yank him in and close the door. Wouldn't it be lovely if it were nothing more than a walk in freezer, one with a corpse that has a key hidden in it's stomach -- CUT HERE written along the dotted line so he knows where to find his treats?

Then it all fails to matter because the walls crush him for daring to feel a moment of relief. Never, he'll never do that, he'll never make the mistake of forgetting the knife at his back nor the gun pressed to his forehead. The only way to remove them would be to kill every last person who could threaten him.

Should he go back anyway? He frowns as he considers. When a person is lost, it's best to stay in one place, but that option was taken from him. The handle is frigid enough that he can't keep his grip on it for more than long enough than to crack the door open. Everything about it screams danger, and there's countless other options for him. He settles for brushing his fingertips against the handle again, taking a step back and to the side as he cautiously begins to pull it open.

He should check the time soon. That will tell him what to do next. ]

[killed]

[ It's red blood that splatters against his his face and chest, it stains his clothes and hands, and as he stares his world blurs for a moment as memories race through his mind. It started with this same unshakable fear, a tension that promised him that the world would never be safe, the frustration with those around him and how ignorant they were. He hated how gray that world was, and so he had filled it up with the stench of iron and pops of red, continuing on even as his hair matted and his skin grew sticky and unpleasant. He had taken matters into his own hands because no one else would.

That's right. No one had been there to help him then, and now is no different. The only thing that might help him is Komaeda's hopeless devotion to the Ultimate Surgeon, but the thought that he might change his mind lingers in the back of his mind, and he wonders how it is that he's been able to sleep next to another.

His fingers tremble as he holds onto the shotgun tighter, knuckles turning white as he starts to lift it before pointing it back down. It's too noisy here. There's the sound of rain and the ticking of the clock which are joined by the crunching of bones, stomping of feet and ropes snapping against the ground. The lullaby is a reminder of the specter on his tail, and he can only welcome it now. He can't ease up a little, not now, not ever.

But he forces himself to relax, looking from the building to the pharmacy. It's always the wrong choice to go with the first option presented, especially when it's so conveniently placed, but he can't quite ignore it either. He inspects his surroundings before approaching the house, stopping several feet away before craning his head to see if he can make out what's inside. His phone has a flashlight on it, as most do these days, so if it's dark perhaps he can use that to begin to get an idea.

Tick tock, he's winding down the clock, time is breaking and broken, and much like this world and much like Hiyori it can never be whole again. ]

[killed]

[ He doesn't have much time to make a choice, but when has he ever been afforded that luxury? The taste of iron is still on his tongue from earlier, and he shivers as he thinks of what might have happened if he were to have ingested it when offered. Just what little he did has left a dull ache on his tongue and the room of his mouth. Now is no different, as he can see a tall shadow inching closer to him. He can see a faint reflection reflection of the man in his phone, the figure in the corner of is eye, and he has to work to keep his eyes forward. One way or another, he needs to keep moving.

Anytime he notices which way he's being led Hiyori finds himself wanting to do the opposite, but to do so each time will turn it into one more way to entrap him. He can't afford to be so predictable. He doesn't like the look of the house, but the bloodstained road ahead of him is no better. He chooses the former. As long as he keeps walking without giving the man behind him time of day, there should be no issue.

His shotgun remains in one hand and his phone in the other. He can see the dust on the tables, the pulsing of the walls, and the familiar framed portraits on the wall. There's the ticking of the clock that tempts him to move deeper and the faint sound of a voice in the distance. He shrugs it off as one more trick of the mind. He just needs to keep going on now. He just needs to wake up. His grip on the phone tightens, heart pounding in his chest, as it's unlike him to walk into such an obvious trap.

The shotgun stays at his side. The sudden thought that it would be bad if it were to accidentally discharge comes to him, and so it's with a pinch of reluctance that he flicks the safety back on as he moves deeper. It's fine. It takes a split second to flip it back off, and he has more than enough practice with firearms. ]

sanity roll: 5

[killed]

[ How troublesome. He has the distinct sense that the walls here are connected to him, or he'd simply point the gun over his his shoulder and pull the trigger. It would cut through what's behind him like butter, cause it to break down and scatter like dust in the wind, but the bullet might pass through into something important. He doesn't worry for Komaeda should something happen to him and while part of that is that his own survival trumps all else, there's the more significant fact that he's already made other arrangements.

It had cost him a great deal to ensure that he would be taken in and cared for after his death, especially considering the high likelihood that he would cause it, but he had managed it. Nagito Komaeda would inherit his possessions and be taken in by another Ultimate in his absence - Sasahara or Harai, either one of those would ensure that no one would ever lay a finger on him - it has to be an Ultimate, and one that he trusts. The survival of those who knew him is part of living on too. He doesn't worry about that one bit when ASUNARO has all the power in the world.

But he does worry about his own fate. There's no one who will secure his future but himself. He clicks the safety off. It's fine as long as he keeps moving. If he causes himself some injury, will he wake up? He's always been such a light sleeper, the faintest prick and he'll wake up. Maybe he'll put a hole through his heart though, or his stomach, or his head. But he's damned if he does nothing.

There's something grabbing at his ankle. He jumps, instinctively starting to turn his head before just barely stopping himself. His eyes flick down but not to the side, so he misses it. But it causes him to miss a step, and he can feel whatever's behind him creeping up. There's a little laugh, the humorless laugh of a person who's fear has overtaken them. There was never any point to this little game, there was never any reason for him to play pretend at running when it's only gotten him into more and more trouble.

Another step forward. He'll keep going, one after another, because those are still the rules, but it's all so stupid. Worthless, stupid, to imagine that he's wasting time with this disgusting, filthy trash, to imagine that he might die by the hands of some worthless monster that has no idea what that word means. Burned alive? Killed? Possessed by demons? Who the Hell cares, it's nothing more than a pathetic cockroach crawling around on his floors and under his furniture. It can only be seen when his eyes are close because it hides in dark shadows, because the second he yanks it into the light it'll burn it. The second he did he'd smash gun into that worthless creatin's face repeatedly, until it was nothing more than a disgusting puddle of meat and flesh and blood.

He sucks in a breath, counts to three, and snaps the gun to the side, just slightly back, before pulling the trigger. He'll be lucky if his hearing isn't damaged, but he's always had good fortune, and that's why he can ignore the snap of his wrist as the recoil hits long enough to twist his wrist, holding the gun over his shoulder and firing off his second round. His wrist snaps forward with the second one as the recoil hits, the gun snapping back to the front. It hurts like Hell, but that's not enough to break it. But he'll keep going. ]

sanity: 9

[killed]

[ It hurts. He grips the weapon tighter, taking care to keep his finger off the trigger, and curls his fingers as his body starts to burn. He digs his nails into his palm. It's like his entire body is being lit aflame, but he already knows it's not. This house is taking a peek inside of himself. He wonders if Komaeda would scold him for acting so recklessly, or if he wold go off on some tangent about how amazing it is that he can act in such a manner under such duress. His mind is fractured, but nothing he does is thoughtless or intentionally suicidal. If he acts, he might die; if he doesn't, he will.

He hisses with pain as it digs into his chest, a beautiful flower spreading its vine through him, and soon it will bloom. He only need to let it feed on him. He clutches the opposite arm with his free hand as he works his way toward the glove digging into him. It's agonizing, but that's never stopped him before. He's had worse than this. How pathetic to have a paltry little revenge scheme over something so minor as being burned alive.

He wonders if that same cowardice keeps him hidden within the shadows. Hiyori will draw him out. He's decided on it. This is his dream, no different than his house, and he decides what happens to uninvited guests. He gasps, shuddering as it worsens, almost unbearable from having knives dig into him. He's damn sick of that happening. If he picks it up directly, it'll change trajectory and dig into the soft and squishy body before it. It's probably like some damn spider. But it's just as likely that it's a distraction from something else.

...

He doesn't have much choice. He crouches down. He'd rather not put his hand in something so filthy if he doesn't have to, so he settles for wrapping a hand around it without pulling, but his attention is only partially on that. What is it meant to be a distraction from? Ah, he wants to see him. He'd happily risk his own life if it meant getting to see half of someone's face blown off. Where is he? ]

You are an unruly guest, aren't you? [ He flinches. He will not die. He will not. ] Go back to the lukewarm Hell that you crawled out of.

thinkin abt him insane

[killed]

[ Should he? He might as well, as any action he does will have the same result. He's not playing chess, but a game in which random pieces from different games have been placed on the board. He's not playing a game, but shuffling things around without rhyme or reason. But Hiyori can play any game that's presented to him, and so this presents little challenge to him in the end.

His chest hurts. It's agony to touch the glove, but he can handle any pain if he so chooses to. He bites down on his lip hard enough to make it bleed to keep more than grunts from escaping./ It's only when he's bit that a pained shriek escapes him, an instinctive call for help, and the broken laugh that follows as he stares at the gore dripping from his hand is because he knows that there is no one who will save him. He'll die if this keeps up, but - no, he won't, because this is the world of his mind. He's not a child who still fears what goes bump in the night, but a man who lost the last vestiges of their sanity a long time ago.

He laughs because he can do nothing else in the face of such a ridiculous statement. ]

My worst nightmare? No, no, this is nothing compared to the nightmare that visits me every time I sleep... I can only sleep at all because I have this, you know, because it's there for me in both the sleeping and waking world.

[ Those words are strained as the pain starts to overtake him, but his shaking hands manages to find the lighter in his pocket. It's agonizing, but he endures. He obtained a gun when he was just seventeen. It stays hidden with him at night, and it allows him to rest some nights. He used to until he passes out into a dreamless sleep, but Komaeda has taken it from him. Komaeda's ruined that for him. It's convenient that his husband is so restless. It covers up the fact that even now he never sleeps well, and it shakes him out of the world crafted by his mind.

He flicks the lighter on before he touches it to the cloth to ensure the flame takes, before unceremoniously flinging it into the fireplace. The water will put it out for him. He coughs, spitting out blood and listening to the splash as it hits the water. ]

.... That's right, I was never here at all... I had just forgotten, but now... Come now, let me show you the Hell that I crawled out of - no, let us do away with those pretenses, that I never escaped... The Hell that you wish to see...

[ There's another cough, the sound of sloshing water and his own gasping breaths. He an feel the water splattering against his legs and the cold sweat rolling down his skin, the blinding agony that's come in waves ever since he grabbed that glove, and taste the blood in his mouth. It doesn't matter. This inky blackness isn't what haunts him, but a transition; it's knocking off the pieces so he can replace them with a proper chess set. It'll be replaced by the soft clack of heels on wood floors, familiar scents and warm sunlight pouring in through windows, and a room that's both silent and still. The gun will remain though, as will the soft gasps and the sweat rolling down his face.

Had he played along because he wished to forget? No, it's because that child is dangerous to him. He had painted over those scenes that haunt him with bright colors and frowned and scrunched his face as he looked for the final strokes that would complete it - that would complete him. But he can't forget, for if he does he'll be trapped within it forever. ]