#postxmortem

[ice-for-eyes]

Project Little Sister | +postxmortem

It was late in the evening and Naoto was sitting at his desk, his hands in his hair and a desperate look on his face. He had been trying to come up with a new project for days, but most of the ones he thought of were either impossible due to a lack of resources or so incredibly far fetched that he barely knew where to begin. He had been trying to come up with a drug that heightened the human senses without any risk of addiction or permanent damage to the body or brain. It would be perfect for athletes or scholars, or even people with disabilities. A drug like that would make anyone stronger. Unfortunately, all his tests so far had failed.

He sighed, shoving aside the blueprints on his desk and accidentally spilling his coffee on the floor.

"Shit...", he cursed under his breath, turning around to go get a towel but stopping in his tracks when he noticed how messy the room was. He couldn't work like this. Maybe if he cleaned up he would be able to focus more and it wouldn't look like such a dump in here. He began to gather all the garbage of the ground, mostly discarded blueprints, notes, sketches, some food wrappings, a LOT of broken equipment and several other things that weren't of use to him anymore. He dumped it all  in a garbage bag and went outside, planning to take it to the garbage containers across from the parking lot.

It was dark outside and there were only a few street lamps, lighting the pavement just enough for him to see as he made his way across the parking lot. He dumped his garbage bag in the nearest container and turned around to get back to work, when something suddenly caught his eye. A foot, sticking out from behind the container, wearing an oddly lolita-esque shoe that seemed dirtied and old.

He frowned, stepping backwards a bit, expecting to see some kind of old doll that somebody had thrown away. Instead he noticed a girl, sitting among a few of the trash bags, holding a lace covered umbrella. She was dressed surprisingly tastefully, but her clothes seemed old and ripped up. There was even makeup on her face, but he couldn't really see her eyes.

A cold chill ran down his spine as he looked at the girl. There was an odd smile on her face and for a moment he thought it might be a really life-like doll. Until he noticed her breathing. This was weird. Why would someone dress up and wait for people at the garbage disposal. Was she just trying to creep people out? He thought it might have been a prank, but he noticed that her knees were bruised, and she looked awfully skinny. He couldn't help but worry a bit, maybe this was a mentally unstable person or someone with dementia who got lost on their way to the parking lot.

"Hey, are you alright?", he asked carefully, not wanting to scare the girl.

[sabazio]

reprise

Monday.

He's still groggy from studying so intently the night before. A bout with a rival school is scheduled for the coming week, add Ono-sensei's tortuous tests, Tereuchi's trick questions, and even tighter grading scale. For those reasons alone it was enough for a sleepless weekend, and his stupor when the boy awakes.

Motions are carried out as if he were on strings: arm through sleeve, sock on foot, shoes in hand. Breakfast is downstairs; he smells something wafting through the hallway as he stumbles forward until his stepping gives rise to something wet; tepid. Strange. He stops. A chill rises within his spine for reasons other than the wetness seeping into his sock, and more because of the stain and its attributes. It's wet, mostly fresh, slightly brown about the edges. The streaks, thick beyond the cracked doors of the various other rooms, then drag like sumi-e strokes converge on their trails down the staircase. Shinjiro's, Ken's, Junpei's, and the others, too. They all begin, and end the same.

Something had happened. An elaborate prank, maybe? Never had he seen something of this caliber, even from Iori, himself. Follow the trail, and he may find what happened, if his legs would allow it— they shake ever slightly in his pause, and he must brace himself against the frame of the door before moving onwa—

A sound of displaced air; the swing of some able-bodied object against the occipital lobe. Color fades from the world around him, and he wobbles before he falls.

Something went wrong. Something went terribly wrong.