@tartareus gets a plotted starter from Scorpion’s Revenge Scorpion.
▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || For just one moment, a shooting star had flashed before Scorpion’s half-crescent moon eyes; bright, clear, daunting as a dying comet’s fragments of film reel flashes with every moment Hanzo Hasashi has lived. He’s seen every dream he’s ever dreamed that fell into his heart amidst the ignited, erupting darkness, deep inside and he has wept, silently as he would continue to tremendously wept as he held all its majesty and fragility of his emotions. He had drowned in the sea of darkness and loneliness, even as the wildfire of his vengeance skewered through Quan Chi’s bones like celerity of his chained kunai would shatter them like toothpicks, as sanguine spectacle befell in immeasurable depth, deeper than mind’s conscious as he attempted to stay afloat in the delirious trance, as the world rendered submerged in the tainted water of sorrow and melancholy, as the air of hope squeezed out on every corner of his system.
The will of the man refurbished as the Phoenix’s plumage revivified along with the liberation of Scorpion’s architecture, and the demon clawing through the xylophone ribs had long been eroded and mitigated as the wicked sorcerer of the Netherrealm disintegrated into charred blackened skeleton, with sprawled ground meat and viscera, the splattered sinew and whatever was left of the wicked smile dusted in the ephemerality of his now-nonexistence. Scorpion stands assured and proud, even when the hollow echo of his excruciating torment still becomes ceaseless to persist. Will the shadows of his demon ever be pulverized and brought to his knees? As he continues to dream in his awaken unlife as it manipulates his heart into reliving the same memories that cause the burning in the back of his throat whenever he feels the chasmic earthquake that was more destructive and annihilative than the one that would render Shang Tsung’s Island into rubble and dust.
Ever since then, seemingly eons had passed before him, as he strands himself in the vacuous obsidian daydream where no authentic and raw original self exists. Scorpion has embodied a new freedom, rapidly taking over and affirming his not-so-clandestine secrets which hold to be truths. Once erect, hollow walls, amidst the sprawled carnage of years ago still haunts the corridor of his mind, yet Scorpion could never return there. All those haunted, afflicted faces staring at him from the walls, as if asking him something, beseeching to their heart’s spilling, expecting something of him. Every step he takes towards his future, another would follow from his past. He will never be able to move forward in his life without the constant weight of his heavy heart dragging him across the serrated floor pleading for time and tribulations to stop. And he feels the familiar fatal spark, a sudden charge of pain in the cold dead night, the familiar impalement he endured as Sub-Zero’s crumpled, transparent pale cadaver greeted him, along with his own, but his viscera was once again unfurling in a gale of dust, as thickened quagmire of his crimson becomes rivulets, then floods from his hollowed gut.
It’s eerie, moribund, yet comforting in the most strangest way; if all those people would have lived, Scorpion could really look deep into their long lost souls and console them, while seeking his own consolation. How Scorpion struggles as he further loses himself in the scattered jigsaw puzzles as the tangible corporeality of his spectral form unfurl, become cleaved apart; as his brain remains caught between the jagged pieces, the twisted sides causing such a muddle. A pile of broken masterpieces burning as the time around him disappears. The unfixed stretch of chronos continues to spill like water slipping through his fingers and his own pulse chases him for his form to split through the collapsing crumble of boulders and columns, as his form breathes a series of split celerity of hellport, breaking through the clouds of dust and ash that would bury him in the tides of seismic fissure of dirt water rapids. As the peril of being flattened by rocks decreases, the probability of Scorpion falling victim to his preordained exsanguination rinse and repeat, as darkness disguised as light approaches before him as familiar landscape of Earthrealm nears.
Through the oncoming stretch of life, the Netherrealm’s spectre only spirals downward into an abyss of misguided beliefs, until they become false narratives and sad realities mistaken for the truth. And he collapses, on all fours, as clawed fingers dig into the dirt as every ounce of his tenacious strength stretches thinner and thinner as his heartstrings wane. He couldn’t ever let the wildfire of his heart die down, even when his face drops to the crook of his neck. Scorpion does wonder though, an act of just vengeance would have landed him in clarity of irreversible death he once refused to seek on his own. For his vitriol ire and revenge was too great that this undying, eternal embers recreated him as Scorpion. How he wanted to be snuffed out, extinguished forever and join the requiem of suffering. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||
