𝙰 𝙵𝙴𝚆 𝙳𝙰𝚈𝚂 𝙰𝙶𝙾, 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙳𝙸𝙴𝙳. WHAT ELSE IS THERE TO SAY? blunt force, bullet to the cranium. [ YOU REMEMBER WHAT IT FELT LIKE. THE PAIN EXPLODING IN YOUR JAW, THE FLUTTER OF YOUR PULSE AS YOU STARED DOWN THE BARREL. TERROR SAT HEAVY IN STOMACH AND YOUR VOICE HELD A QUIVER IN IT WHEN YOU TOLD DESHAWN YOU’D KILL HIM. YOUR LAST WORDS, THE LAST PROMISE YOU WERE EVER MEANT TO MAKE: YOU NEVER BECAME HIS UNMAKER. ]
BUT YOU’RE STUBBORN, EVEN IN DEATH. stubborn enough that you rise from the fuckin’ grave, if that could even be credited to you. fate demanding you escape your perdition of trash and desecrate. [ NOTHING’S EVER EASY: IT DOESN’T STOP THERE! ] god isn’t so kind to just let you sit in your self loathing / your flaws / your inabilities. revival and cardiology ever thriving in rhythm doesn’t come carelessly: despite the resurrection, the threat of unlife lurks beneath flesh [ … ] A DIFFERENT SORTA DYING.
THE WORST DEATH: THE DEATH OF MIND. brought on by a data-bound conscious,, chewing away at neural pathways until only he remains. you don’t want that to happen. 𝙸 𝙳𝙾𝙽'𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝙳𝙸𝙴 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽.
“I CAN’T JUST … GET USED TO IT.” the past few days have been reminding you of your vulnerability. just how perishable your mortality could be. your eyes have been deadset on the floor but now, it’s no longer interesting to you. “i have a few weeks left at most; months if i’m lucky.” YOU’RE NOT EVEN SURE IF YOU CAN BE FIXED. “i don’t know what to do. i can’t just …” voice still feels raw. your words fall silent. YOU CAN’T JUST DIE.
𝙳𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚂 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈𝙾𝙽𝙴, at some point. those who are lucky live full lives, marry up, have 2.5 kids, survive the heat of night city by the skin of their teeth with barely anything to show for it. the unlucky ones come back with less than what they had to begin with, or end up in an early, shallow grave. HE HAS DIED ONCE BEFORE. he speaks of it with fear on his lips and a shake in his hands, and your heart, though shriveled and burned and without feeling, aches for him.
𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚂 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙳𝙾𝙽'𝚃 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝚄𝙻𝙻 𝚂𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈, and maybe the less you know, the better. he doesn’t look the same, not anymore. death has changed him in a way that it does to all that have come back from it. like the unlucky’s, a part of him is gone, robbed, and that burglary has left a puzzle piece shape in him, empty, waiting to be filled once more.
❝ [ . . . ] i need you to tell me everything that happened to you. and i mean everything ––––– or, as much as you can remember. ❞ there’s a part of you, a foreign one, that longs to reach out, place a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort. but you are cold, and you are calculated, and gentle demeanors are not what you are known for. [ IF THEY WERE, YOU’D HAVE A MUCH HARDER TIME SURVIVING. NIGHT CITY FEEDS ON THE WEAK AND YOU REFUSE TO BE DEVOURED BY A WORLD THAT WOULD NOT REMEMBER YOU. ] but you do lean your elbows on your knees, relax your posture. you’re here to listen, and if possible, provide some sort of relief. ❝ maybe we can figure something out . . . i know people. people who might be able to give you years, decades. i just need to know which direction to go in. ❞
