[humandevils]

a writing sideblog for original characters of original lore, developed by xm (they/he, 21+, asian-american). follows from impersonalgod.

carrd, undergoing reconstruction.

[vtriol-deactivated20251215]

their nails drum a careful, patient rhythm on the table. boxes litter the kitchen, living room, @impersonalgod's bedroom in that liminal state of full yet ever a work-in-progress. (they could've packed up a lot sooner. most of it was done in the flurry of their rage. when they calmed, the packing process felt a lot harder.) ❛ i don't feel like leaving, so i'll have the bed. you can enjoy the couch. ❜ sentiment only gave leland so much grace. ❛ are you cooking dinner? make enough for me, too. ❜

[humandevils]

A  pot  of  water  boils  on  the  stove,  as  if  furious  or  inconsolable.  White  steam  rises  from  the  pot,  coiling  into  the  exhaust  hood  roaring  overhead.  Indignantly,  Leland  fumbles  with  an  unopened  box  of  dry  penne  pasta,  and  it  rattles  as  he  tilts  it,  trying  to  dig  his  nails  into  the  thin  flap  that  reads  OPEN  HERE  in  tiny  capital  letters.  After  a  brief,  yet  humiliating  struggle,  he  tears  open  the  top  ———  and  nearly  spills  the  pasta  everywhere.

Just  as  Leland  catches  the  box  and  frantically  covers  its  wide  opening  with  a  hand,  amazed  and  relieved  at  his  own  luck,  Thana’s  voice  rings  out  over  the  noise.  Despite  the  cacophony  surrounding  him  in  the  kitchen,  Leland  hears  each  word  ———  along  with  the  unmistakeable  bitterness  in  them.

“Yeah,  I’m  making  pasta.  Do  you  want  marinara  or  pesto  sauce?”

He  tilts  the  box  and  pours  all  of  it  into  the  boiling  water,  watching  the  bubbles  die  down  with  each  piece  of  penne  that  drops  into  the  pot.  He  might  as  well  make  enough  for  leftovers.

“And  could  you  set  a  timer  for  ten  ———  no,  nine  minutes?”

[humandevils]

Vitaly’s  gaze  travels  down  to  Aizen’s  neck,  watches  the  flex  of  his  throat  as  he  swallows  his  drink.  Then,  as  if  abashed,  Vitaly  lowers  his  glass  without  drinking  from  it,  eying  the  liquid  inside  it  once  more:  the  same  show  of  scrutiny,  repeated.

“I  was  almost  willing  to  believe  it  wasn’t  poisoned  ———  but  now,  I’m  not  so  sure.”  His  tone  is  playful,  despite  the  meticulousness  of  his  inspection.  He  rotates  the  glass  in  his  hand. 

“You  drank  yours  too  eagerly.”  Nevertheless,  Vitaly  brings  the  glass  to  his  lips  again,  and  tilts  his  head  back  to  down  it  all  at  once.  Nonchalantly:  “If  this  doesn’t  kill  me,  will  you  try  again?”

He  smiles  again,  thin  and  delirious:  the  laughing  face  of  a  comedian’s  mask. 

“It’s  a  pleasure  ———  Aizen  Sōsuke.”

@yeshens, continued from here.

[yeshens]

       “   come,  have a drink.   worry not   —   it isn’t poisoned.   ”   he smiles,  raising his own glass in a mocking imitation of a toast,   “   but naturally,  i have to wonder :  would you really take my word for it?   ”

@impersonalgod ,  ♥

[humandevils]

Vitaly  offers  a  pleasant  smile  in  return.  It  doesn’t  reach  his  eyes:  all  mouth.  Still,  civility  is  a  mask  that  he  knows  how  to  wear,  intimately. 

“Of  course  I  would.”  Despite  his  half-mocking  profession  of  trust,  he  lifts  his  glass,  watching  the  light  filter  through  it:  a  show  of  scrutiny. 

Playfully,  Vitaly  ghosts  his  lips  against  the  rim  of  the  glass.  A  kind  of  taunt,  a  mere  death  wish.  “After  all,  what  reason  would  you  have  to  poison  me?”

[humandevils]

Dusk  in  autumn.  A  soft  bluish-gray  swathes  the  world  as  the  sun  teases  its  own  death.  Nikola  leans  against  the  metal  railing  of  the  balcony,  staring  at  the  distant  and  dimming  horizon.  The  air  is  cooler  than  it  usually  is  at  this  time  of  year,  making  everything  seem  crisper  ———  clearer.  Pulling  the  cigarette  away  from  his  lips,  Nikola  exhales  a  cloud  of  smoke.  His  hands  are  shaking.

“Some  questions  will  ruin  you  if  you  are  denied  the  answer  long  enough.”  Beside  him,  @ambice  stands  unacknowledged.  He  does  not  have  to  look  toward  her  to  discern  her  unwavering  presence,  her  astute  and  piercing  wisdom  ———  and  he  does  not  want  to.

Ash  breaks  off  his  cigarette,  scattering  in  a  sudden  gust  of  wind.  He  squints,  the  setting  sun  a  white  eye  that  returns  his  gaze,  piercing  through  his  narrowing  pupils.  Finally,  Nikola  turns  toward  Sofia,  if  only  to  avoid  the  harsh,  vanishing  light.

“So  ———  you  do  understand,  then.  Why  I  cannot  stop.”

He  sounds  resigned  and  relieved  at  once.

“If  I  do  not  keep  going,  I  feel  ———  I  know  that  I  will  go  mad.”

Inside  him,  the  faint  stirring  of  something  inhuman  has  already  taken  root.  An  eye  opens  in  his  anatomical  heart,  its  blown  pupil  accepting  his  blood.  He  realizes,  belatedly  and  suddenly,  that  he  has  laid  bare  too  much  of  himself.  Embarrassment  colors  his  cheeks.

“…  You  always  know  what  to  say,  so  that  I  will  say  more  than  I  mean  to.”

annihilation.

[diegetically]

@impersonalgod / FROM HERE.

HERE LIES THE VIOLENCE OF MIMICRY. in a charitable representation, vita has lost himself in the process of replication. in a realistic representation, there was nothing on stage but a vanity mirror and the blood of first choice actors. ( what a relief, the understudies are finally under the spotlight! )

foolishly, nika’s mouth opens to answer the unanswerable question. you’re acting, obviously. or you’re playing a game ... some kind of prank, maybe? these words don’t have to be said to be written; these actions don’t have to be scripted to be real. in the sea of answers, nika says nothing. the world plunges into darkness and his words fall flat to an unrecognizable face.

( BEYOND THE SMOKE AND MIRRORS, THERE ONLY LIES YOU AND ME. YOU FOLLOW THE SCRIPT SO DUTIFULLY, STAGE ACTOR. )

he can only deny the truth for so long before it rots. like a fly to a molding peach, nika settles for a reality that feels safe. he doesn’t dare to move, lest he bump into vita in the lonely audience. even now, he refuses to denounce vita’s humanity. even now, he offers an empathy that we, writers, cannot afford to give.

( A THOUSAND EMPTY SEATS, WITH A THOUSAND HOLLOW EYES — GOD SMILES DOWN CRUELLY. )

"your skills are as exceptional as ever, vitaly.” his words are tense and unsure, hanging at the end of his sentence like a composed note. “you’re acting. i understand. you act ... this must be a hobby ... ” i can’t begin to imagine how you have time for this. “i asked a silly question. why ... why do you do this? do you enjoy it?”

[humandevils]

Alive  as  a  statue,  Vitaly  looks  down,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  Nika's  faltering  expression.  With  each  word  Nika  speaks,  Vitaly  feels  some  part  of  himself  tearing  frantically  at  the  tether  between  them.

“You  don’t  understand  me  at  all.”

The  plainness  of  his  voice  is  a  tree  stripped  bare  by  winter.  Suddenly  and  without  warning,  his  eyes  grow  cold  like  stone.  Backlit,  with  his  face  submerged  in  an  opaque  shadow,  Vitaly  no  longer  exists.  He,  whom  you  have  mistaken  as  human  ———  has  never  existed.  

Nika,  you  are  a  fool.  Even  now,  you  understand  nothing.

“I  already  told  you  why.”

The  stage  person  laughs  carelessly.  His  voice  is  light,  like  fine  satin  curtains  billowing  beside  an  open  window.  Like  someone  talking  frivolously  about  the  weather,  or  a  daydream  they  used  to  entertain.

“You  are  the  worshipper,  asleep.  I  am  the  sacrifice.  God  is  the  actions  you  wish  to  take,  but  cannot.”

The  mold  overtakes  the  peach,  now  ———  a  human  heart.  The  fly  lands  upon  it,  buzzing.  A  sickly  sweetness  emanates  from  the  bloody  organ.  In  the  orchestra  pit  of  the  theatre,  a  violin  screeches.

“Nika,  would  you  like  to  hear  ———  the  rest  of  your  lines?”

[diegetically]

@impersonalgod​ / ❛ that’s how the madness of the world tries to colonise you: from the outside in, forcing you to live in its reality. ❜

IN THE EMPTY THEATRE HALL, THERE ARE A MILLION EYES ON HIM. he lingers around the entrance, hand resting on the wall, shoes squeaking uncomfortably against the floor. everything about this — everything about him doesn’t belong here. he feels sick. attention turns, wide - eyed, at the performer in front of him, who’s running lines for … well, he doesn’t know. nika always believed that this place was abandoned. 

a familiar face brings nothing but dread. the spotlight shines on vita — or, what looks like vita. he moves and speaks with such gracefulness, nika’s almost convinced it’s nothing more than a marionette. there’s a pause where he realizes he’s speaking to him, waiting for an answer that hasn’t been scripted yet. 

“…i don’t understand.” soft voice reverberates across the hall. “i don’t understand any of this. i thought i knew theatre, but this is…” disgusting. absurd. cruel. “this is unprecedented. tell me what you’re doing.” lie to me, so i can forgive you. so i can forgive myself. 

[humandevils]

“This  is  ...  (disgusting.  absurd.  cruel.)  unprecedented  ———”  The  performer  reenacts  the  improvised  line,  verbatim.  Even  his  voice  is  the  same  as  yours. 

It  is  a  horror:  the  stage,  a  violating  mirror.  Then  the  illusion  shatters:  the  performer  lowers  his  upturned  head,  and  his  face  is  not  yours.  His  face,  of  course,  is  not  yours. 

The  face  smiles  like  a  comedian’s  mask,  emotionless  and  plain.

“Yes,  it  is.”  Vita’s  insouciant  voice  is  made  of  air.  Within  it  lies  a  faint  thread  of  amusement  ———  disgusting,  absurd,  cruel  amusement.  The  stage  is  darkness.  He  is  the  only  light.

“What  do  you  think  I  am  doing?”  A  childish  taunt;  yet,  there  is  no  joy.  Vita’s  expression  remains  static  and  performed.  He  doesn’t  wait  long  enough  for  Nika  to  answer.  “What  everyone  desires  to  do,  but  fears  doing.”

the  spotlight  dims.  vita’s  face  blurs  out  of  focus.

“———  So  I  act  for  them.  They  sacrifice  me  to  action.  and  within  me,  they  watch  themselves  act  out  their  natures.”¹

The  world  is  darkness,  a  stage  without  boundaries.  From  within  it,  I  can  speak  without  speaking:  I  can  speak  without  quotation  marks.

Dear  Nika,  don’t  you  understand  even  now?  Forgiveness  doesn’t  exist.²

¹  modified  from  anne  carson,  grief  lessons:  four  plays  by  euripides. ²  frank  bidart, “confessional.”