MPC-52C: The Taste of Rust
Jul 30, 2018 15:57:50 GMT
Post by Cross on Jul 30, 2018 15:57:50 GMT
She wakes with the taste of blood in her mouth. The flavor of crimson ichor so heavy she wonders if all she’ll ever know is the bite of iron on her tongue. Like the rust of some fallen city ruined beyond repair as she struggles her way out of the darkness her memories shattered and disjointed as she tries to make sense of where she is, who she is, how she came to be here. Here it turns out, as she slowly opens her eyes her eyelashes decorated with frost, to be a cell of some sort. A metallic unmarked ceiling meeting her gaze hung with florescent lights that sting her sensitive eyes. She would hiss in pain, but pain is so ingrained into every inch of her being in that moment that she struggles to remember a time without it. A time before every breath came in a shallow labored rasp. Before it felt as though her heart had been ripped from her chest and shoved rapidly back into place. What it was like when she didn't feel as though every inch of every bone in her body had been broken and reset, her nerves singing as though she was bathed in unending acid.
Morbidly the Doctor wonders if this is hell and if so which of her particular sins has earned her this fate. Only to startle as she spies movement out of the corner of her eye as a dark and familiar figure looms over her lifting a cup of water and straw to her lips. She struggles to remember his name even as she struggles to draw water her throat feeling as though she has gargled glass. She knows he’s speaking to her, but the loud near constant high pitched tone in her ears drowns out what little she can hear most of which is muffled, disjointed, and disconnected. All she knows is he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here with her in hell. He didn’t deserve eternal damnation as the preachers used to threaten her with as a little girl no matter what he might have done. Distantly she hopes, as exhaustion drags her down into the darkness once more, that he isn’t suffering as badly as she. He doesn’t deserve this. She’s not even certain why she deserves this, but why else would she be in hell if she didn’t?
There is a blanket heavy against her skin, its weight both comfort and agony as every nerve in her body screams as Cas awakens. Her name is Doctor Cassandra Cross, she thinks to herself. She is twenty-six years old, she was born in Chattanooga Tennessee, moved to Shibuya around five or so years go, and she has no idea how she got here.
Her name is Doctor Cassandra Cross and everything hurts. Her world is agony as she tries to move, tries to shift, but her wrists and ankles are pinned down the skin there rough with scabs from her prior mad struggles which soon break as she tries to move and the restraints grow wet with her blood once more.
Her name is Doctor Cassandra Cross and she clings to this information through the pain like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood as the memories slowly come filtering back as she attempts to curl her fingers and toes slowly putting together a damage assessment of herself like she knows she should. However her digits only spasm and twitch as her muscles seize up with agony, fear clawing at the rawness of the woman’s throat as she desperately pleads with heaven and hell alike hoping the static she feels in her limbs and their lack of full response is just from exhaustion and limited movement rather than…rather than nerve damage and loss. She doesn’t even realize she’s crying till there’s a gentle hand dabbing away lightly with a cloth at her face the fabric stained black from her tears.
Cloak… She thinks numbly as her vision begins to tunnel her thoughts turning cold as she realizes she’s going into shock.
Next time she awakens it’s to bandaged wrists, unwanted memories, and the knowledge like ice in her gut that she is broken. There are fingers threading through the long blonde mats of her hair, but she cannot feel them. There are arms holding her against an armored chest, but the only sensation is pressure against her blistering aching skin. There is the face of one of her partners peering down at her with hope, love, and fear in equal parts in his gaze and the only emotion that blooms through her chest is cold recognition.
“Hime…” He murmurs breathing out that age old title he’d laid at her feet all that time ago like a prayer. His fingers stilling and eyes searching for something in Cassandras face she fears he cannot find. For there is nothing there. Nothing, but ice and metal and the cold hard weight of steel. Nothing to feel. Nothing to want to feel. The D-reaper had given her her fill of feeling till only emptiness and spite remained.
“I shouldn’t have survived.” Cas rasps her voice as shattered and rough as broken glass. Damaged. Damaged as the rest of her and Cloak fears even with time it may never fully repair. That his Tamer will never sing again even if she healed enough to feel the need to. Those future moments of music robbed from her like a thief in the night.
“But you did.” Cloak speaks tone firm, but gentle. Desperate. Desperate for her to heal.
“But I did.” She agrees her voice like the rattle of death as she coughs. The motion wracking her body with pain as the Dark Knightmont scrambles to reach for the glass of water bringing it to his Tamer’s lips as she drinks. He concentrates on such a task. Must concentrate on it lest his grip tighten with anger and fury shake his limbs.
“You survived.” He whispers soft and low as if hearing it would confirm only further she had done so. As if repeating such knowledge would make the nightmares cease. Would allow him to sleep in peace without awakening every hour or so shaking with fear the vision of his Tamer dead in the snow still lingering upon the backs of his eyelids.
Yet staring up at the flashing emotions in her partner’s eyes with empty curiosity Cassandra could not be entirely certain she had truly survived. That she had not died. However the dead did not feel pain, something the Doctor envied of them yet she knew…knew more than a small part of herself had perished in the D-reapers fire. Burning away like impurities before the flame. Leaving something new in it's place. What it was however, even Cassandra couldn't be certain.
Morbidly the Doctor wonders if this is hell and if so which of her particular sins has earned her this fate. Only to startle as she spies movement out of the corner of her eye as a dark and familiar figure looms over her lifting a cup of water and straw to her lips. She struggles to remember his name even as she struggles to draw water her throat feeling as though she has gargled glass. She knows he’s speaking to her, but the loud near constant high pitched tone in her ears drowns out what little she can hear most of which is muffled, disjointed, and disconnected. All she knows is he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here with her in hell. He didn’t deserve eternal damnation as the preachers used to threaten her with as a little girl no matter what he might have done. Distantly she hopes, as exhaustion drags her down into the darkness once more, that he isn’t suffering as badly as she. He doesn’t deserve this. She’s not even certain why she deserves this, but why else would she be in hell if she didn’t?
There is a blanket heavy against her skin, its weight both comfort and agony as every nerve in her body screams as Cas awakens. Her name is Doctor Cassandra Cross, she thinks to herself. She is twenty-six years old, she was born in Chattanooga Tennessee, moved to Shibuya around five or so years go, and she has no idea how she got here.
Her name is Doctor Cassandra Cross and everything hurts. Her world is agony as she tries to move, tries to shift, but her wrists and ankles are pinned down the skin there rough with scabs from her prior mad struggles which soon break as she tries to move and the restraints grow wet with her blood once more.
Her name is Doctor Cassandra Cross and she clings to this information through the pain like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood as the memories slowly come filtering back as she attempts to curl her fingers and toes slowly putting together a damage assessment of herself like she knows she should. However her digits only spasm and twitch as her muscles seize up with agony, fear clawing at the rawness of the woman’s throat as she desperately pleads with heaven and hell alike hoping the static she feels in her limbs and their lack of full response is just from exhaustion and limited movement rather than…rather than nerve damage and loss. She doesn’t even realize she’s crying till there’s a gentle hand dabbing away lightly with a cloth at her face the fabric stained black from her tears.
Cloak… She thinks numbly as her vision begins to tunnel her thoughts turning cold as she realizes she’s going into shock.
Next time she awakens it’s to bandaged wrists, unwanted memories, and the knowledge like ice in her gut that she is broken. There are fingers threading through the long blonde mats of her hair, but she cannot feel them. There are arms holding her against an armored chest, but the only sensation is pressure against her blistering aching skin. There is the face of one of her partners peering down at her with hope, love, and fear in equal parts in his gaze and the only emotion that blooms through her chest is cold recognition.
“Hime…” He murmurs breathing out that age old title he’d laid at her feet all that time ago like a prayer. His fingers stilling and eyes searching for something in Cassandras face she fears he cannot find. For there is nothing there. Nothing, but ice and metal and the cold hard weight of steel. Nothing to feel. Nothing to want to feel. The D-reaper had given her her fill of feeling till only emptiness and spite remained.
“I shouldn’t have survived.” Cas rasps her voice as shattered and rough as broken glass. Damaged. Damaged as the rest of her and Cloak fears even with time it may never fully repair. That his Tamer will never sing again even if she healed enough to feel the need to. Those future moments of music robbed from her like a thief in the night.
“But you did.” Cloak speaks tone firm, but gentle. Desperate. Desperate for her to heal.
“But I did.” She agrees her voice like the rattle of death as she coughs. The motion wracking her body with pain as the Dark Knightmont scrambles to reach for the glass of water bringing it to his Tamer’s lips as she drinks. He concentrates on such a task. Must concentrate on it lest his grip tighten with anger and fury shake his limbs.
“You survived.” He whispers soft and low as if hearing it would confirm only further she had done so. As if repeating such knowledge would make the nightmares cease. Would allow him to sleep in peace without awakening every hour or so shaking with fear the vision of his Tamer dead in the snow still lingering upon the backs of his eyelids.
Yet staring up at the flashing emotions in her partner’s eyes with empty curiosity Cassandra could not be entirely certain she had truly survived. That she had not died. However the dead did not feel pain, something the Doctor envied of them yet she knew…knew more than a small part of herself had perished in the D-reapers fire. Burning away like impurities before the flame. Leaving something new in it's place. What it was however, even Cassandra couldn't be certain.
