#ix200event

[coldhyun]

À quelque chose sert malheur. [ I / - ]

Another hallucination.

Fuck.

Guilt has become a mundane emotion that he’s started to endure, it’s something he truly hates because not once did he ever consider any emotion other than stoicism to be acceptable. Very few, that he deemed at-least, had broken past that barrier and got to know Vincent rather than Jonghyun were aware he was  - no, that he is a tired soul. Everything was fatigued in his life, ranging from his already marked body all the way to the emotions that were intwined with hubris and irritation. 

He didn’t intend on calling Jieun his actual sisters name, but in the hay-like daze of it all, he did. For that brief moment they managed to have a conversation after a months abuse, he was under the hallucinatory impression that he was talking to his real sister, Sodam. The whole conversation about being ‘reunited’ had, in his mind, worked out to be in regards to being separated for so long. He thought she was dead, so to see her again, or so he thought, had truly been a dream he would have loved to stay in. 

It was only when that numb haze had burst into nothing more but a real-time conversation had he realised he was talking to Jieun. That pained expression on the females face simply confirmed his words, so in the conflicted moment of it all, he simply fled back home. It was cowardly. He hated letting the female know he was still enduring the after-effects of enduring a months worth of torture, it had proven to be weakness and he regrets every minute that he spent in that room, referring to Jieun as Sodam. Not that he didn’t appreciate the fact he gained a sibling, he did obtain some sort of sibling-ardor for her, it just was still difficult. The legistics of knowing his mother had slept with another man, and his.. step-fathers regular taunts of saying he was a ‘whore’s child’ had simply rung true, at this point. Did that mean he deserved the torment he did as a child? All those times his ”father” crept in his bed and reminded him of who the true ‘man’ was, did he deserve that? He couldn’t help but to think that he did. 

Still, he felt that he needed to.. explain this to Jieun, at least. Plus, he needed to grab some things from Jessica’s old laboratory anyway, with the recent decision of buying a home together, he needed to find the last of her remnants from this god-forsaken place. 

It was like any other day. He entered the building with his glasses coveting his face, eyes aimed at the floor unless he has to scan his ID card cross certain rooms. Nothing felt out of his place, other than himself, of course. Jonghyun felt like taking the stairs, maybe to find some clarity in order that he could sort out what he could say, but his leg was still aching from the newly cleansed stitches Yunho sorted out for him. With a sigh, he ended up in the glass elevator and jabbed in the floor he was supposed to be at. He always hated how transparent they had constructed the glass elevator to be, the concept of it was supposed to be privacy, so why let the world see you in here? Before he could provide a hushed comment about how useless the technology had been, the lift had come to a standing point - after that, everything moved so quickly.

Violently, the elevator had dropped a few stores and the glass panelling had shattered, a few digging into his own skin. His arms innately raised to cover his face from any further damage, but it was useless since already ripped skin had once again been torn. The lights cut out and the the roof of the lift had collapsed onto the creator, causing him to be pinned down onto the floor. He hadn’t been immune to the smoke that had arisen from the right wing, nor did the musical sounds of people screaming and begging for help. How many bodies dropped like flies? Instead of counting sheep, would he have to count the corpses of his friends?

Jonghyun was pinned down onto the cold floor, the infasctructure of the roof had damaged his ribcage and it made it difficult for him to move, let alone breathe at this point. How long was he going to fall? His lips parted to let out a sound, but nothing came out. To silently suffer, that had been his life already. In a sudden halt, the elevator stopped at a tilt and he saw nothing but the heavens at this point, sunlight hadn’t broken through the smoky rays, but instead it was the fire that made him feel so warm. His body was actually cold from the large mass on him, though he felt like he was back in the confines of his European altitude when he feels the sun.  

The ground shakes beneath him, and even though everything around him is violently convulsing, Kim Jonghyun is actually at an ease. He doesn’t take into account the beeping phone on the floor, the endearing saved ‘BUTJUSSHI’ with a picture of the two is ignored. His ears are ringing with a different sort of sound, one that is shrill but provides the perfectly melody to soothe the creator into darkness.

[deaxtivatedzitao-blog]

ZITAO ● REBIRTH, PHASE 1— ❞

It was days like this--  slow days, gray days, days where he had idle hours of which to do nothing, with no one-- when Zitao would wish for sleep. He allowed his body to slump across the cluttered, paper-strewn desk, neatly folding his arms and resting his head atop them, face down. The automaton closed his eyes and willed his synthetic body of wires and steel and fake flesh to sleep, to drift away to the steady lullaby of the tick tick ticking of the clock. Of course, sleep did not come to Zitao. It would never come to him... not now, at least. Not as the way he was at that very moment, with his head bowed and cheek pressed against the back of his hand. If only the bot had decided to do something instead of daydream... if only he had gone outside to play basketball instead of staying inside, pondering the future and what might be in store for him... if only, if only.  Was he lonely? No, Zitao decided, eventually giving up his attempt to rest and raising his head from his arms. He gave himself the task of straightening up the messy desk-- Jongin, its owner, carelessly threw countless files and folders and loose leafs of paper onto the surface in haphazard piles, resulting in the build-up of a disorganized heap. While he worked, Zitao pondered that question: was he lonely? No. He felt a bit more firm in his answer. Although IX was painfully quiet at the moment-- as was his life, without the constant presence of his best friend, Jongin --the quiet did not leave him feeling empty. Zitao had waited this long for an owner, for someone whom he could finally devote his entire being to... he could be patient just a bit longer. The only thing that bothered him was the itching in his hands... the aching, the burning, the need to do something with them. His hands felt like restless birds, their wings clipped and bound, eyes hungry as they peered at a blue sky from between the bars of their cage. So he did something with them, sifting through the paperwork with diligence, stacking and organizing and filing.  Zitao allowed himself to do what came closest to dreaming for him; while his hands busied themselves with the fluttering papers, he attempted to visualize his owner. His future owner. Surely he were out there, right now, going about his daily lifestyle. Perhaps his owner was drinking a cup of coffee on his morning commute to work; or, perhaps he was late and in a mad rush, scarf whipping about in the bitter wind as he rushed up the steps to the office complex where he worked. Yes... Zitao could feel it in his bones. His owner was out there; fate had just not brought them together yet. The robot tried to picture their face-- the shape of their eyes, the outline of their nose, the curve of their lips. Their lips... Zitao felt compelled to graze his own with the pad of his thumb as he placed a report into the proper folder. In theory, he knew how to kiss. He had been programmed to know this, to know how to kiss and make love. What did it feel like to actually kiss, though? This question was not out of grasp, unlike his desire to sleep-- he would kiss his owner one day, their mouths slotted together. Would their noses bump, teeth clash? Would it even matter? Zitao imagined the mouth of this unknown man, tried to visualize how those lips would feel and taste against his own. Whenever he managed to paint a portrait of that mouth in his mind-- even if only a hazy blur of color, a glimpse of a smile seen through misted glass --it would drift away, too brief to truly capture.  The faint smell of gas began to sweep down the hallway, leaking beneath the cracks of doorways and creeping in through the ventilation. Zitao caught a hint of the subtle scent and quickly jerked his head upright, eyebrows knitting together with confusion. But then he remembered that the AC in Jongin's office had been broken for quite some time; it often would stop and restart, an odd smell wafting from it. He chose to ignore it and continued working. Sorting papers, reports, blueprints. His hands still felt restless, itchy, wanting to do something, something.  Gas continued to silently fill the room.