refining my agent dissociative disorder ideas tonight.
it was victim's insistence to collect his memories, to preserve them perfectly, that caused the parts of him which were fresh and confused and in pain to grow weak and slough off and drain somewhere. he thought it meant he was getting better. it didn't hurt to see mitsi like that anymore, it didn't hurt to feel her lamb rub along his shins when he fed it, it didn't hurt to do his job.
it was effortless again. it was all that mattered. every weapon and machine in the facility felt like an extension of his body, it felt like the two blurred. his lines even matched the walls in certain lighting. "camouflage!", they'd joke.
he was victim's best. he never failed.
so why, why, why couldn't he do anything when victim was sawed in half in front of him?
his joints had locked stiff. his GUI, cybernetically connected to his mind, didn't activate when called. he was screaming at his own TV screen in frustration, in pain.
he'd been in pain since mitsi stepped out. there was a vague realization of how it all hurt so fucking bad all of a sudden. mitsi was saying syllables and he responded with consonants back.
the dark lord (why didn't he-?) hit victim (why can't i-?) and victim (he's not-?) didn't (why does my-?) even flinch and the dark lord was shouting verbs and conjunctions and victim—
izzy806
prguitarman
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
gummygunk
areudirty
