Meme: Β send βgripβ to grip my museβs jaw in your muses handStatus: acceptinβ
The sun, the wind on his face; he canβt remember them anymore. No concept of them ever having existed. All there is, is pain.Β And when that is vacant? Numbing disconnected nothingness. That lies heavy in his veins, preventing him access to the natural world. That chips away at his sanity as much as the mind warping torture does. The only momentary solace provided is the moments between waking and that door so tantalizing close he can taste it, opens. Though the silence is hardly a comfort. Even it spoiled by the screams, of the other poor souls bound, the same as him within this place. Victims ofΒ an inhuman that should have the capability to inflict the kind of invasive hell that he does. And how god-damn-hypocritical that is of Bastian to come to terms with in hindsight.
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Good morning. And how's my favorite little mouse today? Did you sleep well?
Β Β Β Β Β βF---uck you.β
The words seem to swim, the way everything else does. A sensation heβs learned to get used too. And how very telling that is, in regards to how longΒ he must have spent here. How many weeksΒ this bastard has been picking away at Bastianβs mind. Looking for something but never finding it. Not believing him every time he reiterates his mother is dead. That there is no rebellion. That inhumans are hiding because they are scared. Not because they are forming some sort of resistance to over throw the powers that be. This isnβt the movies. Real life just doesnβt workΒ like that.
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Youβre not that lucky.
He would laugh had he the strength but that is a commodity thatβs been taken from him. The track marks in his arms and neck have taken care of it. Slowly murdered it over time with the help of this mind fuck of a suit. But where his body has failed him, his mind still holds out. His mother had taught him to withstand things like this, the innate stubbornness inherited from his father only reinforcing it. This asshole would not break him, Bastian would die first. But the thought does not make it any easier to stomach the sudden stroke down his face.
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β I do owe you an apology, we're going to have to make this quick today. Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β I'm on a bit of a schedule. Company meetings, personal reports. Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β But I'm sure you'll forgive me, eventua---
Itβs violent an sudden. The heavy proectile of spit that he sends flying between them. Connecting with the assholeβs face. And maybe thereβs a smile on Bastianβs part at the way he marginally jolts. Takes several moments to understand what happened, before heβs wiping it away. But oh how the satisfaction is short lived. How quickly his jaw is locked down in a crushing vice like grip. No real chance of escape, not with how weak he is now. Not with how useless his body has become. And he goes where it directs. Face turned upwards to the person he wishes to kill most in the world.
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β βI ainβt le--β
Blue rolls backward with the intensity of the blow. Every nerve ending screaming as they are ignited. Burning away everything else that came before it, until his lock lock up. Until his mind is inches away from oblivion before it is yanked back hard and abruptly. Leaving Bastian to heave for breath. Blood trickling from places it was never meant too.
Β Β Β Β Β Β Now that I have your attention....
The first real attack comes then. And heβs panicking to back peddle. Lock down his kingdom. Bar the door. And when that rattles and warps he throws himself against it. Planting his feet, pushing back with every bit of himself he has left. Blue fixed on golden green, defying the fucker his prize with every ounce of his stubborn inability to give ground.Β
Even as the door...the ground beneath his feet begins to crack. Even when his legs give out beneath the weight of exhaustion no one was ever meant to live through.He fights. Holds that ground because if he doesnβt...if he slips...the people heβs helped escape---it will all be for nothing. His mother would have died for nothing...and that is not a betrayal a son like him can live with. So he holds...holds until the very foundations of him give way and---
Itβs like free falling. The pressure and the pain fading into never having happened. Memories being written, removed and re-arranged without his consent or knowledge. The once bright autumn hue of him, fading to something sickly and black. Weaving itself into every corner of who he is. To sink below the surface; out of sight and untraceable by any that yet lived. Tucked in for the long sleep, by the most languidΒ of strokes along his jaw. The rush of warmth and pleasure that drowns the lingering pangs.
Β Β Β Β Β Β Thereβs my good boy.
Because what else could theyreallyΒ have wanted him for? If not a puppet and a pawn. The son of one of their greatest thorns, poisoned to be the enemies undoing. And not a one would see it coming. Not even Bastian himself.