miki
bottomless ruins
Hiachi Ito
SCENE:
R B A C P Y D O I L H A S
LOCATION:
July 21, 2022 || Post-Outbreak
DATE:
West District, Tak's Apartment
PARTICIPANTS:
Hiachi, Tak, Dante
Returning Back A Cheese Platter You Don't Own Is Like Having A Sleepover
Her repetitive smacks to the head were promptly stopped by a firm grip on her wrist. At first, she thought it might have been Dante, if he had snuck up behind her. But as her eyes shot open, she knew it couldn’t be true. He was sitting right there, as he had been, in shocked horror. Her look of confusion eclipsed everything else that lingered.
She turned to her side, to look at what had stopped her. Gloved, clawed hands, protruding from shoulders that towered far above hers. Her eyes followed the arm that was attached to the torso, and then to the head that was attached to the torso.
Wolf. She knew Dante had them, well enough. It was his potential. There were two, normally. Chatty ones, but mostly like wolves. The ones like Dagger’s.
But this was different. One humanoid wolf in a trench coat. His head craned against the ceiling, his initial height too great for it. This was something else.
Hiachi’s voice got caught in her throat. She had faced monsters before. Human monsters and real monsters. This wasn’t the same. Monsters threw her around and spat her out, but this one was still. Patient. Not like a predator stalking prey, but a parent firmly waiting for her to take her first steps.
Dante’s words reached her, but they slipped out of her hands. She knew she wouldn’t talk. There was a barrier between those memories and the rest of the world that sat in her throat. Every time she thought of detailing it, explaining why she was so fucked up, she paused. Because in truth, how would she live if that was out there? She’d be acknowledging the worst of her. The worst things that happened to her. And after that, nothing would change. Just another person to carry that weight.
They didn’t need to know. They could guess. And that was enough; enough for her up until this point.
The wolf addressed her again. Mocked her, like a million different monsters she had been face to face with. Tone soft, firm, like the fleeting wisdom from those she couldn’t remember. That gun.
Her tool: her first and last line of defense. A practical joke from Lorette that she never got. That gun was all she had. She wasn’t born lucky: she was born a liability. There were benefits to being able to see as well as she did, but it wasn’t enough to warrant the great pride she had about it. To think, if she had been born normal, she wouldn’t even be here in the first place.
Or maybe if she was born to a different mother, in a different country, spoke a different language, had a different face—a million alternate universes. And this particular one was the one: the one where she suffered again and again and again.
She watched as the gun bore into his skull. The fur on his face parted just for the muzzle.
And what if she shot him? What was another? This was the calm: to know that no matter how hard anyone tried, the threat was gone forever. She was a little bit safer. She could sleep a little bit better at night.
Hammer. Trigger. Click!
Hiachi clenched her jaw.
She wanted to get mad. It’s what she would have done. This creature, born from shadow, genetically apex, wouldn’t know the half of it. He didn’t know how it felt to be nothing. To be a maelstrom of misfortune after misfortune. To be forced to crawl when all she wanted was to quit living.
As she sat languid, she felt it. Something building in her chest.
It would have been bad; it got worse.
Something shifted. The mask slipped, if it was a mask at all.
His swollen wounds almost matched her own. Red and scalding. Puffy. That’s the way it had been then. She had been gifted a miracle: as much of a miracle as she could get in that situation, anyway. She was healed to the point where the worst of it was discomfort and a coma. Deep, infected, bloody mental scars, but physically intact, for the most part.
Tak was entirely different. To be frank, he looked fucked. His blood whirred like the drone of oil in an engine. He needed… help, he needed help badly. She knew a little about biology and a lot about machines. To accelerate that
“No, stupid, you’re getting infected blood all over your body…”
To her, everything he said was dumb and childish. So much so that it stabbed at her heart and made her tear up. She hadn’t meant to pull the gun, but she meant every word: he wasn’t allowed to die. She couldn’t get out of this hole alone. Even if he was stuck down there with her, at the very least—
She could feel the precipice again. The edge of something.
Pale green eyes of a demon.
Grin of a demon.
Those weren’t his eyes, his face, but it was too late, too similar. She was back in that alley.
Tar dripped from the seams of the wall. And she could point at it and say it was so: she was waking, in this blurry haze, but she could pinch herself and it was there. There was no smell, but she saw it falling, dripping from those corners, just had it had drip drip dripped down her arm, face.
What was real anymore? Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe this was a nightmare. Maybe she had died a long time ago, and this was purgatory.
Or maybe she was going fucking crazy. Because that stranger was dead, and he… she killed him. The hero turned to the crazed man, and back again. Between bloodied blond tufts of hair and that limp ragdoll skeleton.
So none of them were here, were they? Just mirages, illusions. Ghosts of her past.
So why were they here? Was it a punishment? For being a coward? For evading death, time and time again?
Hiachi crumbled to the floor again. Mimicking herself. Trying to become small enough as to not exist.
She couldn’t bring herself to pick herself up. She didn’t know what to do. She had made a mistake. She ruined everything by trying to fix herself. She crawled and crept and hid in shadows, and now where was she?
“Ahaha. Ha…”
再び。再び。
“AHAHAHA! HAHAHA!”
God, what was she thinking? He said he’d find her. No matter where she hid, what she did.
I see you.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Play or die.
“No… No…!”
Her tone lurched as laughs turned to sobs. Through her tears, her feeble mind spilled over with madness.
She was so tired. She hadn’t known it before, but she could get more tired. To the point where she wasn’t scared anymore. But she couldn’t rest. When she closed her eyes, everything came rushing back.
Outside of Hiachi’s own eyes, the walls were blank. The room hadn’t changed. But in a waking nightmare, it’s harder to tell real from fake.
Three long gasps, and she paused. She lifted her head to look at the two men, as if she had just realized they were there.
She shot up and jumped over the table.
There was no rhyme or reason she could verbalize. Maybe, if she was truly reliving that moment, needed someone there; instead of Hiachi all alone. Or maybe this was why she came here in the first place; she already knew.
She walked up to the two of them, arms spread wide. They came around sharply, shakily, onto their backs and forced them into her triad hug. Close enough so she could hear them breathe, one two one two one, two, one, separate and tangible.
She kept her head down as giant tears streamed down her cheeks. Her voice warbled out, quiet but poignant.
“...I’m scared.”
Real or fake: it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be alone this time.
Her repetitive smacks to the head were promptly stopped by a firm grip on her wrist. At first, she thought it might have been Dante, if he had snuck up behind her. But as her eyes shot open, she knew it couldn’t be true. He was sitting right there, as he had been, in shocked horror. Her look of confusion eclipsed everything else that lingered.
She turned to her side, to look at what had stopped her. Gloved, clawed hands, protruding from shoulders that towered far above hers. Her eyes followed the arm that was attached to the torso, and then to the head that was attached to the torso.
Wolf. She knew Dante had them, well enough. It was his potential. There were two, normally. Chatty ones, but mostly like wolves. The ones like Dagger’s.
But this was different. One humanoid wolf in a trench coat. His head craned against the ceiling, his initial height too great for it. This was something else.
Hiachi’s voice got caught in her throat. She had faced monsters before. Human monsters and real monsters. This wasn’t the same. Monsters threw her around and spat her out, but this one was still. Patient. Not like a predator stalking prey, but a parent firmly waiting for her to take her first steps.
Dante’s words reached her, but they slipped out of her hands. She knew she wouldn’t talk. There was a barrier between those memories and the rest of the world that sat in her throat. Every time she thought of detailing it, explaining why she was so fucked up, she paused. Because in truth, how would she live if that was out there? She’d be acknowledging the worst of her. The worst things that happened to her. And after that, nothing would change. Just another person to carry that weight.
They didn’t need to know. They could guess. And that was enough; enough for her up until this point.
The wolf addressed her again. Mocked her, like a million different monsters she had been face to face with. Tone soft, firm, like the fleeting wisdom from those she couldn’t remember. That gun.
Her tool: her first and last line of defense. A practical joke from Lorette that she never got. That gun was all she had. She wasn’t born lucky: she was born a liability. There were benefits to being able to see as well as she did, but it wasn’t enough to warrant the great pride she had about it. To think, if she had been born normal, she wouldn’t even be here in the first place.
Or maybe if she was born to a different mother, in a different country, spoke a different language, had a different face—a million alternate universes. And this particular one was the one: the one where she suffered again and again and again.
She watched as the gun bore into his skull. The fur on his face parted just for the muzzle.
And what if she shot him? What was another? This was the calm: to know that no matter how hard anyone tried, the threat was gone forever. She was a little bit safer. She could sleep a little bit better at night.
Hammer. Trigger. Click!
Hiachi clenched her jaw.
She wanted to get mad. It’s what she would have done. This creature, born from shadow, genetically apex, wouldn’t know the half of it. He didn’t know how it felt to be nothing. To be a maelstrom of misfortune after misfortune. To be forced to crawl when all she wanted was to quit living.
As she sat languid, she felt it. Something building in her chest.
It would have been bad; it got worse.
Something shifted. The mask slipped, if it was a mask at all.
His swollen wounds almost matched her own. Red and scalding. Puffy. That’s the way it had been then. She had been gifted a miracle: as much of a miracle as she could get in that situation, anyway. She was healed to the point where the worst of it was discomfort and a coma. Deep, infected, bloody mental scars, but physically intact, for the most part.
Tak was entirely different. To be frank, he looked fucked. His blood whirred like the drone of oil in an engine. He needed… help, he needed help badly. She knew a little about biology and a lot about machines. To accelerate that
“No, stupid, you’re getting infected blood all over your body…”
To her, everything he said was dumb and childish. So much so that it stabbed at her heart and made her tear up. She hadn’t meant to pull the gun, but she meant every word: he wasn’t allowed to die. She couldn’t get out of this hole alone. Even if he was stuck down there with her, at the very least—
She could feel the precipice again. The edge of something.
Pale green eyes of a demon.
Grin of a demon.
Those weren’t his eyes, his face, but it was too late, too similar. She was back in that alley.
Tar dripped from the seams of the wall. And she could point at it and say it was so: she was waking, in this blurry haze, but she could pinch herself and it was there. There was no smell, but she saw it falling, dripping from those corners, just had it had drip drip dripped down her arm, face.
What was real anymore? Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe this was a nightmare. Maybe she had died a long time ago, and this was purgatory.
Or maybe she was going fucking crazy. Because that stranger was dead, and he… she killed him. The hero turned to the crazed man, and back again. Between bloodied blond tufts of hair and that limp ragdoll skeleton.
So none of them were here, were they? Just mirages, illusions. Ghosts of her past.
So why were they here? Was it a punishment? For being a coward? For evading death, time and time again?
Hiachi crumbled to the floor again. Mimicking herself. Trying to become small enough as to not exist.
She couldn’t bring herself to pick herself up. She didn’t know what to do. She had made a mistake. She ruined everything by trying to fix herself. She crawled and crept and hid in shadows, and now where was she?
“Ahaha. Ha…”
再び。再び。
“AHAHAHA! HAHAHA!”
God, what was she thinking? He said he’d find her. No matter where she hid, what she did.
I see you.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Play or die.
“No… No…!”
Her tone lurched as laughs turned to sobs. Through her tears, her feeble mind spilled over with madness.
She was so tired. She hadn’t known it before, but she could get more tired. To the point where she wasn’t scared anymore. But she couldn’t rest. When she closed her eyes, everything came rushing back.
Outside of Hiachi’s own eyes, the walls were blank. The room hadn’t changed. But in a waking nightmare, it’s harder to tell real from fake.
Three long gasps, and she paused. She lifted her head to look at the two men, as if she had just realized they were there.
She shot up and jumped over the table.
There was no rhyme or reason she could verbalize. Maybe, if she was truly reliving that moment, needed someone there; instead of Hiachi all alone. Or maybe this was why she came here in the first place; she already knew.
She walked up to the two of them, arms spread wide. They came around sharply, shakily, onto their backs and forced them into her triad hug. Close enough so she could hear them breathe, one two one two one, two, one, separate and tangible.
She kept her head down as giant tears streamed down her cheeks. Her voice warbled out, quiet but poignant.
“...I’m scared.”
Real or fake: it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be alone this time.
