Feb 23, 2018 22:00:56 GMT -6
Post by NICKLAUS STRAUSS on Feb 23, 2018 22:00:56 GMT -6
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'CAUSE WHERE YOU GO, I WILL FOLLOW
THERE'S NO ONE[break]LEFT TO SAVE YOU
'CAUSE WHERE YOU GO, I WILL FOLLOW
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okay, literally only a fraction of this is actual content? look, i'm trying to get back into the groove of things, i'M SORRY... *SOBS*
okay, literally only a fraction of this is actual content? look, i'm trying to get back into the groove of things, i'M SORRY... *SOBS*
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Nikki was a man who struggled with a great many things – physical ailments, bred from insomnia and a digestive tract as Distortion World-bent on rebellion as its owner, social impairment, bred from too many sources to be able to begin to points fingers, but more than anything, psychological dilemmas. His moral high ground, the one he boasted so strongly about, was as fanatical as they came, something that seemed bombastic and justice until an onlooker examined any part of it with a thoughtful eye for any longer than a whole five seconds. Murder for freedom on principal was thin ice alone. Never mind every other questionable act he'd ever committed or thought he had fanned the flames of in his twenty-three years of miserable life. To a degree, in fact, he, himself, understood that his “righteous mission” wasn't likely as pure as he would have liked to believe, even if he could not tell a person how, but to judge his own morality and actions with scrutiny would doubtless lead him spiraling back down into oblivion – and that was pit hard fought out of. Surely, he wouldn't have the strength in him to do it again. So he didn't; and he never questioned; and so went the cycle. While his refusal for self judgment anymore than he already had kept him from questioning his own motives and results, however, a lonely life and past filled with events that could have been taken straight out of a tragedy, an opera, all the dramatics without any of the squealing falsettos left him plenty of time to question the motives and results of the people around him. The Association members he laid to waste didn't deserve a second thought, and hardly deserved the first he had to give them long enough to assure himself that he was shooting a bullet through a very notably tainted head, but there was always Mary, the woman who haunted his dreams, and the revolutionists that he knew to varying degrees of familiarity. What had they sought to gain from joining a “revolution” turned out to be money-making scheme? Had some, or perhaps even all of them known? Had he been the odd man out solely because he best played the part of the fool, because he was the only person in this Arceus forsaken world who cared not for the strength that lay in Poke, but the weight of an innocent human being's life? Worse was when he thought, hazily, of the future in which his beloved had not died on that rainy night in her church, blood running scarlet over crimson carpet, alter splattered with her ichor. What would life have been like then? (Anything would have been an improvement. Anything but that horrible hospital with its canvas-blank walls reflected in his own canvas-blank stare.)[break][break]
But that begged another question in itself: What had ultimately put him there in the first place? The death of the sweet Sister Mary? Or the betrayal of the man he had once revered as a god?[break][break]
Nikki hadn't thought much of it – of him – since the breakout that had very well saved his life, but he found the question, and much, much worse flooding back to him in a single moment. Memories, hopes, hallucination, the feeling of a throat beneath his crushing, crushing hands. He could almost feel the flesh beneath his fingers, the offending digits twitching at the sensation. But for once, the morbid fantasy doesn't seem so far away. The victim just so. Doctor X, handsome as ever, a man taller than life and bigger than the world and wealthier than any man has any right to be – walking in opposition, an unstoppable force closing in on you, an immovable object. He's just as beautiful as he remembered him. In that moment, just as in every moment that came before, he wished he was dead.[break][break]
(The hitman had hoped for, dreamed of this very instance, of finding this man in a world outside the ward, of being close enough to touch and taste and break, break, break – but the sight before him was too real, too tangible. In his head, he had ran, jumped, pulled out a gun, a knife, a bomb, ripped flesh apart with his own bare hands, no witnesses, a thousand witnesses, screaming his voice raw, “Liar, liar, liar! I would have done anything for you!” but not that, and that was all that had been asked of him. Corruption could only be defeated entirely by killing the corrupt. It didn't matter what X had meant to him three years ago. It didn't matter if his heart was tearing itself into pieces faster than the image of the man before him was ripped asunder just the same at the thought of it. Nikki murdered evil; X was as evil as they came.[break][break]
(But it's so, so easy to dream. To act – to act is another thing entirely.)[break][break]
“So you're still alive,” came the words – his voice, but not his brain, pushed past his lips like venom ejected from a wound. The distance had been crossed, now, his footfalls falling too a stop. Part of him wondered vaguely if his idol would keep going, pretend he'd never even seen him. The imagine in his mind was too crisp, too real (X, slipping right past him, uncaring as he must have been from the very beginning, for what man of wealth would care for junkie he'd picked up off the street only to throw away to a gutter even worse?), and, ignorant of whether or not the other had stopped or not, his arm shot out to grab a fistfull of collar, to restrain him just long enough to finish in hushed intensity: “Let's fix that.”
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Nikki was a man who struggled with a great many things – physical ailments, bred from insomnia and a digestive tract as Distortion World-bent on rebellion as its owner, social impairment, bred from too many sources to be able to begin to points fingers, but more than anything, psychological dilemmas. His moral high ground, the one he boasted so strongly about, was as fanatical as they came, something that seemed bombastic and justice until an onlooker examined any part of it with a thoughtful eye for any longer than a whole five seconds. Murder for freedom on principal was thin ice alone. Never mind every other questionable act he'd ever committed or thought he had fanned the flames of in his twenty-three years of miserable life. To a degree, in fact, he, himself, understood that his “righteous mission” wasn't likely as pure as he would have liked to believe, even if he could not tell a person how, but to judge his own morality and actions with scrutiny would doubtless lead him spiraling back down into oblivion – and that was pit hard fought out of. Surely, he wouldn't have the strength in him to do it again. So he didn't; and he never questioned; and so went the cycle. While his refusal for self judgment anymore than he already had kept him from questioning his own motives and results, however, a lonely life and past filled with events that could have been taken straight out of a tragedy, an opera, all the dramatics without any of the squealing falsettos left him plenty of time to question the motives and results of the people around him. The Association members he laid to waste didn't deserve a second thought, and hardly deserved the first he had to give them long enough to assure himself that he was shooting a bullet through a very notably tainted head, but there was always Mary, the woman who haunted his dreams, and the revolutionists that he knew to varying degrees of familiarity. What had they sought to gain from joining a “revolution” turned out to be money-making scheme? Had some, or perhaps even all of them known? Had he been the odd man out solely because he best played the part of the fool, because he was the only person in this Arceus forsaken world who cared not for the strength that lay in Poke, but the weight of an innocent human being's life? Worse was when he thought, hazily, of the future in which his beloved had not died on that rainy night in her church, blood running scarlet over crimson carpet, alter splattered with her ichor. What would life have been like then? (Anything would have been an improvement. Anything but that horrible hospital with its canvas-blank walls reflected in his own canvas-blank stare.)[break][break]
But that begged another question in itself: What had ultimately put him there in the first place? The death of the sweet Sister Mary? Or the betrayal of the man he had once revered as a god?[break][break]
Nikki hadn't thought much of it – of him – since the breakout that had very well saved his life, but he found the question, and much, much worse flooding back to him in a single moment. Memories, hopes, hallucination, the feeling of a throat beneath his crushing, crushing hands. He could almost feel the flesh beneath his fingers, the offending digits twitching at the sensation. But for once, the morbid fantasy doesn't seem so far away. The victim just so. Doctor X, handsome as ever, a man taller than life and bigger than the world and wealthier than any man has any right to be – walking in opposition, an unstoppable force closing in on you, an immovable object. He's just as beautiful as he remembered him. In that moment, just as in every moment that came before, he wished he was dead.[break][break]
(The hitman had hoped for, dreamed of this very instance, of finding this man in a world outside the ward, of being close enough to touch and taste and break, break, break – but the sight before him was too real, too tangible. In his head, he had ran, jumped, pulled out a gun, a knife, a bomb, ripped flesh apart with his own bare hands, no witnesses, a thousand witnesses, screaming his voice raw, “Liar, liar, liar! I would have done anything for you!” but not that, and that was all that had been asked of him. Corruption could only be defeated entirely by killing the corrupt. It didn't matter what X had meant to him three years ago. It didn't matter if his heart was tearing itself into pieces faster than the image of the man before him was ripped asunder just the same at the thought of it. Nikki murdered evil; X was as evil as they came.[break][break]
(But it's so, so easy to dream. To act – to act is another thing entirely.)[break][break]
“So you're still alive,” came the words – his voice, but not his brain, pushed past his lips like venom ejected from a wound. The distance had been crossed, now, his footfalls falling too a stop. Part of him wondered vaguely if his idol would keep going, pretend he'd never even seen him. The imagine in his mind was too crisp, too real (X, slipping right past him, uncaring as he must have been from the very beginning, for what man of wealth would care for junkie he'd picked up off the street only to throw away to a gutter even worse?), and, ignorant of whether or not the other had stopped or not, his arm shot out to grab a fistfull of collar, to restrain him just long enough to finish in hushed intensity: “Let's fix that.”
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ALL THINGS COME AROUND AGAIN, & THIS TIME I'LL BE READY & WAITING
ALL THINGS COME AROUND AGAIN, & THIS TIME I'LL BE READY & WAITING
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