[ it’s a nightmare. no, not a. it’s one of his nightmares. most often, he’s caught up in a hellish sequence of poking, prodding, and experimentation gone wrong, but he does sit in the audience of the arena sometimes, looking down on matches he once fought through, but never consciously remembers. in those few seconds after he’s awoken, shaking and disorientated, he remembers the violence of watching himself kill something or someone else. in those moments before his mind forgets and the dream is altogether lost, he’s struck shamed and afraid, to the point that he feels he may become sick from it. this is so much worse. not just from the pain and terror of having weight bearing down on him, fists pummeling at him, but it’s the shape of those fists, the specific build of that body, the set of that jawline and those eyes. toe to toe with the champion, this is what it was like; this is what he once was.
– almost.
as champion, he’d been far more efficient. had to be. by now, the arm would have activated and neutralized the opponent. i would be dead, he thinks with a detached sort of confusion, mind still sluggish from both the onslaught of emotion and physical attack. he gasps, reeling, trying to get his bearings, still pinned under the weight on his back. the most he manages is getting his hands up, shielding his head. faintly, he recognizes the lack of force to his other self’s right hand. it isn’t weighty and solid as metal should be; it doesn’t crush his skull.
move. fight back.
there’s a voice in his head screaming at him, commanding him to do something. and he’s gaining, he’s pulling himself together, he’s fueling on renewed purpose, adrenaline filling in all the gaps –
shiro!
that does it. that’s the last push he needs. foregoing his defensive huddle, he slams his metal hand to the floor and then leverages off of it with a strength enhanced push. pitching his body, he bucks the weight off of him and further knocks it off with a rearing back of his metal arm, slamming the elbow into the wicked thing. champion, creature, whatever it is, goes rolling off and then shiro is scrambling after it.
neutralize the threat. kill it. kill it.
he’s beyond the steadiness needed to dial back the violence. learned survival tactics keep him moving, until he’s the one pinning the altered image of himself to the metal grating. together, between the two of them, there isn’t much humanity left; the shiro with yellow eyes is screeching and clawing, whereas the real shiro does just as he’s been conditioned to do. he activates his arm and runs in through the base of the thing’s neck. through his neck? it’s odd, watching oneself die. no irises and no pupils, but shiro sees the moment the life snuffs out of those eyes. just before that? the thing gurgles, blood bubbling up from its mouth. it doesn't from it's throat. it's cauterized; burned through skin and vessels, his hand leaves behind a gaping hole that's more sickening from its charred lines than a wet spill of blood would be.
he feels something – remorse? no. pity? no. sick. yes. fear. yes. still. the corpse loses his familiar shape and becomes something else entirely, but shiro is already in motion, not even bothering to wipe his hand clean as he works on getting his feet underneath himself to move. ]
i love how they just keep yelling each other's name
– almost.
as champion, he’d been far more efficient. had to be. by now, the arm would have activated and neutralized the opponent. i would be dead, he thinks with a detached sort of confusion, mind still sluggish from both the onslaught of emotion and physical attack. he gasps, reeling, trying to get his bearings, still pinned under the weight on his back. the most he manages is getting his hands up, shielding his head. faintly, he recognizes the lack of force to his other self’s right hand. it isn’t weighty and solid as metal should be; it doesn’t crush his skull.
move.
fight back.
there’s a voice in his head screaming at him, commanding him to do something. and he’s gaining, he’s pulling himself together, he’s fueling on renewed purpose, adrenaline filling in all the gaps –
shiro!
that does it. that’s the last push he needs. foregoing his defensive huddle, he slams his metal hand to the floor and then leverages off of it with a strength enhanced push. pitching his body, he bucks the weight off of him and further knocks it off with a rearing back of his metal arm, slamming the elbow into the wicked thing. champion, creature, whatever it is, goes rolling off and then shiro is scrambling after it.
neutralize the threat.
kill it.
kill it.
he’s beyond the steadiness needed to dial back the violence. learned survival tactics keep him moving, until he’s the one pinning the altered image of himself to the metal grating. together, between the two of them, there isn’t much humanity left; the shiro with yellow eyes is screeching and clawing, whereas the real shiro does just as he’s been conditioned to do. he activates his arm and runs in through the base of the thing’s neck. through his neck? it’s odd, watching oneself die. no irises and no pupils, but shiro sees the moment the life snuffs out of those eyes. just before that? the thing gurgles, blood bubbling up from its mouth. it doesn't from it's throat. it's cauterized; burned through skin and vessels, his hand leaves behind a gaping hole that's more sickening from its charred lines than a wet spill of blood would be.
he feels something – remorse? no. pity? no. sick. yes. fear. yes. still. the corpse loses his familiar shape and becomes something else entirely, but shiro is already in motion, not even bothering to wipe his hand clean as he works on getting his feet underneath himself to move. ]
Keith!