This is my main blog. I will probably be posting mostly Phighting! and Selfship related art here. My art may contain drug use, nudity, suggestive themes or otherwise unsavoury topics, ok? This will always be tagged but be weary, thank you..
we tag posts according to uploader with an emoji and accompanying name if applicable.
we don't care for who interacts. I'll block if you're a type of weirdo we have no interest in engaging with.
crazy how quickly dust accumulates. i should be allowed to put my trinkets on a shelf and not touch them and they remain in perfect condition forever. dont even get me STARTED on the inside of a computer. why do i have to brush your teeth. youre technology.
Most of this is written as pre—disaster Hyperlaser with no mask.
tags/warnings: vaguely described violence. absolutely 0 comfort, it is all angst.
final wc: 1.8k
( I did no research for this & it was written while stoned at 3 in the morning. Terminology is absolutely mixed up and wrong. Crucify me if you please but be kind while you do it. )
Hyperlaser was a quiet teenager. He didn't step out of line, even as the winter winds of Blackrock whipped around him and the sound of inline marching drowned his thoughts. The cold metal of his gun burned his fingertips, he had a permanent purple tint on his fingers from drills.
He was a dedicated soldier.
He was a proper man.
That's what his sergeant would always tell him, with a hard pat on the shoulder. One that hurts, more like a strike than an approving gesture. He remembered the first time it happened, he had flinched, and he had watched as his officer's face soured. It made his stomach turn, his breathing had stopped in that instance.
As his back straightened out and shoulders squared and his eyes set ahead, he heard a satisfied noise. Even then though, he didn't get so much as spoken to for a year afterwards.
The second time he had learned his lesson. Despite the stinging pain of rough cloth and hard plastic gear grinding into his skin, he grit his teeth and held his position beside his bunk. "Improving. Good job, Hyperlaser."
Those words carved a spot in his brain. Approval. He would sit up late at night, twirling a string, listening to his fellow soldiers snore or stir with half asleep mumbles. Sometimes he wouldn't be the only man up. Hyperlaser couldn't remember his face, or his name, but they were always reading.
He tried to think harder on it, the memory growing static and silent as he recalled them leaning into him from the adjacent bunk. Showing him what they were reading, smiling softly despite the tundra that sucked the joy from even your dreams. His voice echoed into darkness, "Why do you smile?", he never got a response. Or maybe he did and he just couldn't recall the words.
It didn't matter.
Months after the fact they got sent out of their first tour, he spent months in the flat snowy plains with that same man. The only one who seemed willing to talk to him.
One dull night on patrol hit him with the cold hard reality that everything isn't forever. The sound of the gun was piercing in the empty night, he had been walking with that friend of his, before he crumpled to the ground.
That was when he snapped, silently. Below his skin, below the heavy military gear that felt fused to his body. He stood in the snow again today. Winds whipping, freezing his digits, gear stiff from frozen fibers.
Drills seemed to pass like nothing. Blurred in past-tense and numb in present. He didn't so much as ponder much anymore, he didn't stay up, he didn't toy with the hem of his administration issued bedding.
It was easier to live ignoring what he had seen the first trek out of base. The blood, the sound of guns. They had never told him why they were fighting. Had never bothered. The rest of that tour blacked out in his mind, censored like documents sent to be destroyed.
The only thing he could remember was staring into that.. blurry, content face. It coughed up blood onto his uniform as they laid beside him, head resting against the trenchline. "Dying ain't as bad as it looks, right?" The figure laughed, echoing viciously in Hyper's subconscious. "You look like hell. Does it feel like it?" Hyper had said in reply, his voice flat despite what lay before him.
"I don't feel much of anything," It heaved in another breath before squeaking more out, "The cold numbs the lot, wouldn't you know, Laser?" The man's hand was wrapped into his, Hyper wasn't sure when he had grabbed him. What remained of the others body warmth seeped into Hyper's eternally frozen fingertips. That was the last word on his tongue as he gave up. His name.
Hyper had never learned his name though.
Weeks later, tens of dead men Hyper had trained with time and time again lost to the cruel winter gales. Returning to base felt like being blessed by the Swords themselves, not that he had ever believed in them.
There was another gap in his memory. He couldn't recall anything until the ceremony for the tour. When they had called him up, to honor the dead and announce his feats. His hands trembled as they wrapped around the silver dime attached to silk ribbon. He stared at the crowd of other soldiers and officials. Taking a bow and walking back to his row.
He couldn't help but stare at the award. It made his chest hurt, ache, a piercing painful ache. He didn't deserve this. Not at all. It wasn't for saving, it wasn't for giving, it was for taking. Taking lives. Gallons of frozen blood that he was bound to drown in need he repay his sins.
He couldn't remember them. Maybe one or two. Twenty-four. His sergeant had said loud, clear.. calm, and on stage. The number made his bones chill, echoing in his head like a taunt. It was a rawness not even the inclemency of Blackrock could compare to.
Sick stirred in his gut once more. He didn't deserve this. It should have been him who died.
The people in the auditorium filtered out after the ceremony, but Hyper stayed still, stuck to his seat. Bricks of guilt, shame and disgust weighed on him, pinning him down to the cold sheet metal of the seat.
His sergeant hadn't cared. Until 3 hours passed and he still hadn't moved. An idle soldier was a useless one. His officer stepped into the room, the quiet click of polished combat boots the only indicator, he took the seat beside him.
"Hyperlaser." His voice came, loud and overbearing. It had a kindness this time though, deep down and unspoken. An appreciation maybe. It made Hyper shake, his hand finally letting go of the freezing silver to grab at the fabric of his ceremony uniform. "Why have you done this to me?" His voice came, quiet. "What have you made me?" It was gasped out, questioning and desperate.
Hyper was not a man who showed emotion, he didn't feel like he had it. When his voice shook with an indescribable despair, he felt his eyes sting. "You turned me into a weapon." He said, his voice so high it came out a whisper. Desperately clinging to those tears in his eyes.
He heard a soft huff of air, something like a smile in the noise. It only made him angrier. "I didn't do anything. I gave you the tools and the instructions," He started, his voice an unnerving even. "You carved the path of war."
"With your own two hands." The voice faded out like no more it too was no more than a memory. "I'm not a bad person." He muttered. "You're a wonderful soldier." His sergeant corrected.
Hyperlaser heard the rustle of fabric as his officer stood back up, clapping him on the back a few times. "Don't forget that." He said finally, taking his turn to move. "Midnight drills at 00:00. Be in line by then." And with that he vanished like he had never been in the first place, the boots clicked down the hallway and out of Hyper's earshot.
He was back on that yellow line at 00:00 exactly. Out of ceremony garb, gun in his hands, back straight and shoulders squared. The only position he knew, if he were honest. Boots shuffled along the line, a few soldiers chatting. They quieted down as they passed Hyper, he grit his teeth.
The sergeant walked in and every man not already straightened quickly found their place. Breath and comfort sucked out of the room in seconds. Every man greeted the sergeant in unison, he ignored it to yell the drill plan, screamed at a volume louder than necessary, as always.
Once it was across every man turned to face the door and begin the march outside. "You did good on the tour, proud of you." Hyperlaser heard someone whisper behind him, a perfectly timed comment to only be heard by him. The shuffle of boots masked the unnamed Inphernals voice.
His head went numb again and his ears began to ring. It finally hit him, the gravity of it all, his vision faded at the edges. Lights suddenly piercingly bright. His body was too heavy, his hands and legs trembled. The concrete floor got closer. Next thing he knew he was in the infirmary, the soft pulse of a heart monitor and drip IV accompanying sterile silence.
He heard shuffling, and an angry muttering as the steps approached, 'can't believe they out me on infirmary duty.' A healing Inphernal came around the corner sighing heavily, he had cyan horns and a face that mirrored Hyper's own, the disinterest in the compound etched into his features. The cyan horned man's eyes met his own. "Oh, you're awake." He mumbled, "You passed out in drills. Knocked yourself out cold, and a few vitamin defiencies." He rattled off with no time to waste.
"You'll be free to head back when that IV is done." The man said, looking down at a clipboard. His eyes drifted back up to a drowsy Hyperlaser. "Don't be ashamed, it happens more than you think." With that he walked off, having other patients to tend to.
Hyperlaser lay there for an hour or so more, zoned out at the wall. His head ached with a throbbing pain. His IV began making strange noises, like a hawk, another attendant, clearly not a healing inphernal, slid the shade aside. Sliding over on a rolling stool. He fixed on some gloves, handling Hyper's arm with care as he removed the IV. Clicking a few buttons on the machine he began to tend to the small wound, a cotton ball and a bandaid. It felt a bit pathetic.
"You're good to go. Make sure to eat what they're giving you." He said, not bothering to glance at the younger man. He moved back to his desk through the curtain. Hyper moved to get up, he was still in uniform, his jacket removed at most.
He made his way back to the bunk room, shuffling along the floor in silent contemplation. He kept his head down, staring at the smooth, cold concrete of the hall. People's eyes snapped to him as he entered the room, making his way to his bunk and sitting down.
No one spoke to him. No one asked if he was okay. It didn't bother him. He preferred the silent stares, instead of the nosy questions. He had gotten the next day off to recover, he hated the antsy feeling under his skin as he lay in bed the day after.
In 5 years of service he hadn't taken a single day out of drills. Only the dead and the dying were spared. Maybe he was dying and they just didn't tell him. He wished he would've died that night.
He was thirty-eight now. That medal he had stolen sat on his bedside table now. Its weight on him is palpable eighteen years later. Its silver was tarnished, long, long tarnished. Hyper had never spared a thought to clean it. It was no piece to be proud of, it was a scourge on his mind. Easier to bear buried in the grime of the past.
He stuffed the medal into his bedside drawer. Today marked the eighteenth anniversary of that ceremony. As he stood he quickly took a knee, muttering a few silent prayers to his soldiers lost in that tour. To that.. friend he couldn't remember. But still honored.
He knew if he didn't, no one would. He couldn't live with letting their image die.
He got up with a sigh, hoisting his gun over his shoulder to rest on his back, and he walked out the door like he had recalled nothing at all.
Upon moving to a new city I noticed that people, if corrected or contradicted, would simply repeat "Callous. Callous. Callous." In a monotone voice, as a response. It was meant to mean that, "your correction is acknowledged, but I think it's stupid."
