The mat afore her seems to stretch on for miles. It takes her longer than usual to find her balance-- yet, she's patient. Composing the training space at her own, steady pace. ( Although, it is mildly frustrating that merely building the space to her liking is enough to leave her breathless. ) She pushes loose strands of ivory back behind her ear and takes a deep breath. For this is a risk. Being caught outside the recovery quarters could be a good enough reason for the Foundation to put her down. Perchance, that was a dramatic way of perceiving things. And... it wasn't like she was scared of death.
( The longer she stayed in that hospital room,
the more she would desire her own e r a s u r e.
Her mind & body longed for this. She needed this. )
It felt as though she spent the last two months watching an hour glass. Sand pushing it's way through a narrow gap, grain layering upon grain and collecting at the bottom. A solid representation of dead time; which was spent worthlessly. Pressed flat in a hospital bed, held captive betwixt sheets. Nothing to do but inhale air that reeked of drugs, listen to apologies, stare at ceilings, apologize. Her thoughts taunt that she's better off dead. And how is she to ignore it, amidst the silence? The Kuzuryuu Clan tarnished-- and yet the ruins of her own self-destructive thoughts were enough to substitute fear and pain in their absence. The label tacked to her existence was that of a protector. Without that purpose, she had no use in this world. That's the way her mind had been programmed to work, therefore it continued to work as such. No attempts at rewiring her inner workings saw fruition.
Left to dwell on how she was to live on uselessly, as a failure. In failing to save Bocchan from himself, she had in turn lost herself. And then nothing mattered. She woke up. And their sometimes beautiful, sometimes terrible world was naught but rubble and ash to be whisked off by a breeze. And no matter how small a part she played in the larger scheme of things; she was an EXECUTIONER, stealing lives-- lives that weren't hers to take. Harrowing, it was, that she couldn't even remember their faces. The incident itself was a kaleidoscopic rush in her head, a hundred shades of red and not much else. At the time, she had accepted herself as a tool. Accepted herself to be something other than human. Therefore, she was numb. Cold as steel, the sword which is blameless. For the person who wields it is always at fault. Junko Enoshima was dealt the most blame. Still, the Foundation kept her under close watch. Her shinai had been confiscated, perchance banished to a closet on another floor. Perchance t'was all in her head, yet it felt as though her recovery was being measured-- as though they were scared of her becoming too strong. She supposed they had every right to think as such.
She was still at fault for the crimes she committed. And she would shoulder that responsibility. Even so, many of her actions were a blur, thus making it hard to regret what she'd done in full. At most, she would take an ache to the chest at such thoughts. Perchance, it was 'horrible' of her to be most concerned over the fact that she'd allowed Bocchan to slip so far from the reach of sanity. He lost, so she lost. That's how it worked. That's how it would always work. She considered that the blocks of her memory might stack and rebuild over the course of time-- maybe she would come to feel something more if she only remembered what happened more vividly. It disappointed her-- she wanted to feel something more. And yet, she was mostly apathetic. A side effect of her dosages? Despair's effect on her mind? She couldn't place it. Now, she had to live on with this second chance that she didn't even deserve. She couldn't erase the fact that she'd failed once. And she wouldn't dare let herself fail again. To do that, she needed to be able to protect him. And though he pressed her not to exert herself, she still insisted she was well enough to test her strength again. If she could stand, she could fight. She stubbornly persisted, yet was always denied the opportunity to test her muscle memory.
( She should have died and stayed dead: blissful, ignorant.
Convinced that she died to protect him. T'would be better
than living with the knowledge that she FAILED. )
Yet, he still depended on her recovery. He hardly ever left her alone since her awakening. The weight of his sins were heavy 'pon his shoulders-- if she let herself fall so easily, she'd let him down. Again. She couldn't stand to do that to him.
This particular night, a patient residing further down the hall was creating a stir. And that gave her some leeway to slip past unnoticed. Bocchan had pushed her down these linoleum halls a few times in her chair, escorting her to rooms designed for therapy. So many doors, yet she hadn't the slightest clue where any of them lead to. Eventually, she came to a heavy duo of doors. The caged, glass windows revealed a particularly large, empty space inside. A gym, presumably. Thus she wandered inside with the intention of training. She tested a staff in her hands. Whilst it wasn't nearly the same as wielding her shinai or an actual blade, it did enough for trainings' sake.
The mat felt refreshingly cool against her bare feet. Soft, wintery breaths escape her lips before she dips forward to begin. In willowy posture she starts, delicately practicing swings she'd long ago devoted to memory. Her staff connected with wooden equipment in a series of gentle clacks. She moved slowly, allowing herself time to adjust. She blinks away memories, tries to fixate primarily on her handiwork. Just as she was brave enough to begin testing her footing; the lighting in the room shifts-- the shadow of an elongated silhouette snaking inside the dimly lit room.
Curiosity barely tweaks her expression, in the angling of her concentrated brow and glinting rose quartz eyes-- shining beneath shadows like those of a m o n s t e r waiting in the dark. She stood patiently; poised and unafraid, despite the fact that this could be one of the authorities readying herself to call someone stronger to sedate or pin her down. She'd predicted that she might get caught, after all. While the woman standing in the doorway was clearly someone she never met before (or, at least, didn't recognize) she's fairly certain that her own pale blue hospital robe indicates her status of a remnant quite clearly. That she doesn't have any place being there. Perchance it's an undying sense of pride that prevents her from letting her disposition fall-- a low hum emits and she folds her arms over her chest.
( Albeit it's still hard to ignore the fear coursing through
her veins as she lays her weapon down 'cross the mat. )
❝ Are you... here to take me back? ❞