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( closed to @luck ) your turn to die: sou hiyori
With varying vanities, from every part, they shift the moving toyshop of their heart.
With varying vanities, from every part, they shift the moving toyshop of their heart.
With varying vanities, from every part, they shift the moving toyshop of their heart.
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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 ]
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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. ]
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it's to protect him and his cute komaeda-kun of course!! ♡
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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
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
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
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. ]
roll: 19
The appearance of the man catches his eye, and he can't help but snicker. He's quite the interesting specimen. His skin is badly damaged, burned and scarred, and no doubt if he were alive blisters would cover his body. He's fortunate enough to be dead, wearing his death as a reminder of his need for revenge, but he does wonder what would happen if he were to sink his fingers into it and scrape along. Would it neatly peel off? Would it be burning hot? How many reminders of his old life are hidden on him? But that's not the reason for his reaction. ]
I disposed of the last body in the furnace. She fought me a little too much, and I wound up destroying her pretty face, and I loved her too much to let someone see her in such a state. But I had to.
[ It's not meant to be unsettling in the least. It's idle chatter, no different than speaking of the weather, as he's so rarely had the luxury of a person who can appreciate his work. It was a mistake, but it was amusing to watch them speculate about and hunt down the source of the stench. He pauses halfway through to hiss with pain, his eyes briefly caught by the flames surrounding them, and he wonders if that's an rejection of his offer? ]
The truth is like medicine, you know. In the right doses it can heal all wounds, but too much and it becomes a deadly poison. I ingested that poison, and I was infected with the disease known as despair... My classmates so graciously gave their lives so they might act as a cure.
[ It was an antibiotic for the infection that had spread through that entire worthless school, or at least that's how it should have been.It hadn't been. They're worse now than ever for believing that he was the most frightening thing they'd have to deal with. ]
But no matter how much time passes, that poison runs through my veins.
[ If he did as should have, then he could have done such good on their behalf! He could have spread hope throughout the world, and yes, perhaps even become the Ultimate Hope! But he took too much medicine, he breathed in pure oxygen, and all those dreams and desires and expectations damaged his mind. He keeps going, the gun pointed down, a little more easily now. ]
So let me show it to you -
[ Once he's decided himself to be close enough he'll raise the gun with one hand. That leaves him vulnerable and invites attack, of course - physical? Mental? Who knows what it'll be. It's not important so long as he can draw the creature's attention to it.. ]
- The nightmare that visits me every time I sleep.
[ Because his aim is to grab at his collar, or any part of him that he can, yank, and try to kick him hard enough to lose balance so he can pull him down with him as he falls back. But even if he can't manage, he should be able to move quickly enough to avoid any major harm.
Either way, it's time to wake up. ]
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[ They're quiet, choked words as he tries to regain some semblance of consciousness. His dreams are filled with those warm and sunny days, one even bleaker than the life that he lives now. He would be better than any other. Hiyori should have been more beloved, more renowned, more talented, more of everything than any other. He might not be a person who possessed each and every talent, but he would be as close as one could come - adding one after another, showing all of humanity what they're capable of, and filling the world with such hope.
Who will do that now? They could create some artificial replication of all the talents, but such a being would have no capacity to be true hope; it would be akin to a false prophet, one that his cute little apostle would mistake for a true one as a consequence of his shallow senses. They could find Ultimate Hope in the opposite as well, one who lacked any real talent but could give optimistic speeches, taking the role of a leader while being so incompetent as to be unable to do even what their foot soldiers could. Hiyori lacked these unfortunate limiters, as he was a once in a generation talent who built up an unparalleled charisma - as he was supposed to.
He didn't do as he should have, yet he did what he needed to. He crushes the branches of despair that he finds in this world without flinching. He strengthened that place by breaking it down. He did all of that for it, and he did it for himself, for now when he finds that person he won't hesitate to cut out the sickness that makes them up. It's the reason for his despair; he's certain of it, for otherwise such a beautiful and vibrant creature that could destroy the entire world just with the flick of their hand might have tempted him with their siren's song and stayed his fervent hand.
Ah, one who only rules over dreams could never understand what a nightmare the waking world truly is. His face burns, his chest aches, everything hurts and the world is discolored. He coughs, a shudder running down his spine, and he forces himself to focus on that singular thought. His work isn't done. He's waited seven long years for this, and until he sees that creature breathe their last breath he won't be satisfied. He has to see it with his own eyes, or he'll never be able to sleep at night - the lifeless eyes of the one person who could threaten to move his heart and destroy his rotten world.
Then he'll finally be safe, even if only for a single moment. Then the world will be a colorful rainbow, if only for the smallest moment, as he comes as close to death as he ever would allow himself.
He gasps, the remaining words unable to come, but that might be just as well when even what he's said will no doubt earn him a scolding from the Ultimate Lucky Student. His face burns. There's a knife moving in and out of him. His entire body aches, and it's difficult to ascertain exactly what's happening. Hiyori coughs and chokes as he gropes around for something - anything. The knife that's slamming into him? The person above him? He's moving on instinct, unable to discriminate, breathy words following, ]
What... A shame... We didn't have to be at odds...
[ Hiyori has no fear of werewolves or monsters under the bed, not of witches and spells, for every moment of the waking world is Hell to him. His dreams are of despair and death, a constant reminder of what awaits him, yet he awakens to a Hell where he's constantly trimming off dead branches while searching for the tree they grow from. His work is never done. Never, ever, and he'll be yelled at, and how disappointed everyone must be in him in this waking world, none of them even want to remember him -
What strange things a person thinks of while half-asleep. Who is it above him...? Where is Komaeda...? Ah, if only he could be so lucky as to be abandoned by him... ]
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