Post by Knowledge on Nov 15, 2012 10:06:10 GMT -5
Participants
+ Kyousuke Tsukimiya
+ Gilgamesh
It was dark, as usual.
Not the absolute blackness of a moonless night in the countryside, but the softer, less intrusive kind of darkness. The kind that was the result of covered lanterns turned down low on the other side of a wall of thick steel bars.
The kind of darkness you would find in a dungeon.
And a dungeon it was, the kind of hole you threw the most undesirable of the undesirables in, a place where people forgot what your name was and referred to you only as "Prisoner". Or "Scum". This far down, Maggot's Nest inmates had no identities. They were simply mouths to feed sparingly.
Kyousuke Tsukimiya was nearing the half-way mark of his second year as an inmate, and by now the calls of "Scum" from his jailers were dying down. Even the simple-minded, brutishly large fellows that were tasked with keeping Kyousuke's wing locked down had become bored of being antagonistic; the easier, noncommittal "Prisoner" rolled off the tongue without effort. They hadn't even known why Kyousuke was here in the first place. They rarely did.
But Kyousuke knew. He had spent over a year sitting in his cell in quiet contemplation, waiting, always waiting for the moment he was so sure would come, and his mind had invariably been drawn toward his own life—his own history—in the meantime. The list of his transgressions was long, longer than most, and even then he wasn't sure if he remembered all of it. He was certain, however, that his captors did not—if he had told Saotome and Irie the entire truth during his interrogation, he would not be sitting here today. He would be dead. Or would he? There would surely have been a manhunt the likes of which had never been seen, but would they have caught him? Would they have been able to kill him?
He doubted it. Hazuki would not have let them. Kannaduki would not have let them. Kyousuke would not have let them. But they would have tried. For what Kyousuke had done, there was no pardon, no reduced sentence, no mercy. How many men had he killed? He had lost count long ago, but it was ironic how murder in the name of the Gotei 6—and make no mistake, a Second Division member's trade was murder and nothing else—wasn't even worth mentioning, whereas killing those same men and women years later was a crime. Murder wasn't even half of it though. He had actively plotted against his former allies, he had consorted with the enemy, he had deserted, and above all, he had committed the ultimate taboo.
But you're not ashamed of any of that, are you, Kyousuke? You don't regret any of it. Hazuki's voice, drifting out of the recesses of Kyousuke's mind as if on cue. It was only her now, only Hazuki to keep him company. Kannaduki was elsewhere. She was locked away tighter than Kyousuke was, and the risk of bringing her to him was too great. He would have to make do with just his murderous counterpart, although it had become significantly easier as time passed. Hazuki, it seemed, was warming up to him, if such a thing was even possible. Given the chance to speak to one another, to explore their complicated relationship, Kyousuke had found that her existence was perhaps not so abhorrent as one would expect from a being composed entirely of hatred, anger, bloodlust and insatiable hunger. Just like in Kannaduki, there were elements in her personality that were so frightfully familiar that it was almost like looking in a mirror.
But it had been difficult at first. Hazuki had been upon him almost as soon as the cell door had clanked shut, and the combined effort of keeping her subdued both in mind and body had left him too exhausted to move for a week. This continued almost on a monthly basis until it became clear to Hazuki that she was not making progress, at which point it instead became some sort of game, some sort of mental exercise that ended up having an effect on his body. He wasn't wasting away in his cell, that much was certain. If anything, he was becoming stronger. Faster. Deadlier. As his complexion grew paler, his hair longer and his stubble coarser, Kyousuke's muscles stayed firm and supple. The mind's power over the body of a spiritual being was almost absolute, and Kyousuke was rapidly learning just how far the phenomenon extended.
The monotony was painfully dull, however. There was only so much a Hollow could contribute to a discussion before it turned into a fistfight, and the one time he had been given the chance to socialize with someone that wasn't simply a shard of his shattered psyche, the meeting had been far shorter than Kyousuke would have liked. Isolation brought with it madness, and despite his detachment, despite his desire to remain distant, isolation like this was something he had never quite experienced. A few more years of this, and Kyousuke would surely go insane. If it wasn't the insanity that got him, it would undoubtedly be Hazuki.
The thought was chilling. He had lost control only once before, the first time he had met his inner Hollow, and from what Tova had described after Kyousuke had woken up from the nightmare didn't exactly inspire confidence. The Nest would be destroyed in an instant, its inhabitants incinerated, and then... Then Kyousuke would die. He had been a powerful Hollow, yes, but the combined might of Seireitei would have easily been able to bring an end to his life.
An involuntary shudder went down Kyousuke's spine as he sat against the far wall of his cell, and he brought his manacled hands up to scratch absent-mindedly at his beard, wishing for the world that he was clean-shaven once again. Sadly, personal grooming and comfort was not high up on the list of priorities for Nest detainees, a fact demonstrated in part by the rough white yukata he was wearing, and in part by the bowl of watery gruel that had just been pushed through the bars on the other side of his cell.
"Delicious," he muttered to himself as he got to his feet and stooped to pick it up. The wooden spoon was clumsy to eat with—exacerbated by the fact that his hands were shackled—but Kyousuke managed to get it all down without incident as he sat on his bunk, contemplating nothing in particular. He hadn't slept in a while, so he wondered if this was dinner, but his sleeping pattern and the passage of day and night didn't match up quite as well as he had hoped. Every eight hours a meal came, and it was always the same slop. There was no concept of time down here, and in all honesty Kyousuke's guess at how long he had been incarcerated was a rough estimate at best. Perhaps this particular bowl of slop was breakfast. Kyousuke vaguely wondered what the day would have in store for him if that was indeed the case.
Who am I kidding, he thought. It'll be the same as usual.
Nothing.
°1,207
+ Kyousuke Tsukimiya
+ Gilgamesh
It was dark, as usual.
Not the absolute blackness of a moonless night in the countryside, but the softer, less intrusive kind of darkness. The kind that was the result of covered lanterns turned down low on the other side of a wall of thick steel bars.
The kind of darkness you would find in a dungeon.
And a dungeon it was, the kind of hole you threw the most undesirable of the undesirables in, a place where people forgot what your name was and referred to you only as "Prisoner". Or "Scum". This far down, Maggot's Nest inmates had no identities. They were simply mouths to feed sparingly.
Kyousuke Tsukimiya was nearing the half-way mark of his second year as an inmate, and by now the calls of "Scum" from his jailers were dying down. Even the simple-minded, brutishly large fellows that were tasked with keeping Kyousuke's wing locked down had become bored of being antagonistic; the easier, noncommittal "Prisoner" rolled off the tongue without effort. They hadn't even known why Kyousuke was here in the first place. They rarely did.
But Kyousuke knew. He had spent over a year sitting in his cell in quiet contemplation, waiting, always waiting for the moment he was so sure would come, and his mind had invariably been drawn toward his own life—his own history—in the meantime. The list of his transgressions was long, longer than most, and even then he wasn't sure if he remembered all of it. He was certain, however, that his captors did not—if he had told Saotome and Irie the entire truth during his interrogation, he would not be sitting here today. He would be dead. Or would he? There would surely have been a manhunt the likes of which had never been seen, but would they have caught him? Would they have been able to kill him?
He doubted it. Hazuki would not have let them. Kannaduki would not have let them. Kyousuke would not have let them. But they would have tried. For what Kyousuke had done, there was no pardon, no reduced sentence, no mercy. How many men had he killed? He had lost count long ago, but it was ironic how murder in the name of the Gotei 6—and make no mistake, a Second Division member's trade was murder and nothing else—wasn't even worth mentioning, whereas killing those same men and women years later was a crime. Murder wasn't even half of it though. He had actively plotted against his former allies, he had consorted with the enemy, he had deserted, and above all, he had committed the ultimate taboo.
But you're not ashamed of any of that, are you, Kyousuke? You don't regret any of it. Hazuki's voice, drifting out of the recesses of Kyousuke's mind as if on cue. It was only her now, only Hazuki to keep him company. Kannaduki was elsewhere. She was locked away tighter than Kyousuke was, and the risk of bringing her to him was too great. He would have to make do with just his murderous counterpart, although it had become significantly easier as time passed. Hazuki, it seemed, was warming up to him, if such a thing was even possible. Given the chance to speak to one another, to explore their complicated relationship, Kyousuke had found that her existence was perhaps not so abhorrent as one would expect from a being composed entirely of hatred, anger, bloodlust and insatiable hunger. Just like in Kannaduki, there were elements in her personality that were so frightfully familiar that it was almost like looking in a mirror.
But it had been difficult at first. Hazuki had been upon him almost as soon as the cell door had clanked shut, and the combined effort of keeping her subdued both in mind and body had left him too exhausted to move for a week. This continued almost on a monthly basis until it became clear to Hazuki that she was not making progress, at which point it instead became some sort of game, some sort of mental exercise that ended up having an effect on his body. He wasn't wasting away in his cell, that much was certain. If anything, he was becoming stronger. Faster. Deadlier. As his complexion grew paler, his hair longer and his stubble coarser, Kyousuke's muscles stayed firm and supple. The mind's power over the body of a spiritual being was almost absolute, and Kyousuke was rapidly learning just how far the phenomenon extended.
The monotony was painfully dull, however. There was only so much a Hollow could contribute to a discussion before it turned into a fistfight, and the one time he had been given the chance to socialize with someone that wasn't simply a shard of his shattered psyche, the meeting had been far shorter than Kyousuke would have liked. Isolation brought with it madness, and despite his detachment, despite his desire to remain distant, isolation like this was something he had never quite experienced. A few more years of this, and Kyousuke would surely go insane. If it wasn't the insanity that got him, it would undoubtedly be Hazuki.
The thought was chilling. He had lost control only once before, the first time he had met his inner Hollow, and from what Tova had described after Kyousuke had woken up from the nightmare didn't exactly inspire confidence. The Nest would be destroyed in an instant, its inhabitants incinerated, and then... Then Kyousuke would die. He had been a powerful Hollow, yes, but the combined might of Seireitei would have easily been able to bring an end to his life.
An involuntary shudder went down Kyousuke's spine as he sat against the far wall of his cell, and he brought his manacled hands up to scratch absent-mindedly at his beard, wishing for the world that he was clean-shaven once again. Sadly, personal grooming and comfort was not high up on the list of priorities for Nest detainees, a fact demonstrated in part by the rough white yukata he was wearing, and in part by the bowl of watery gruel that had just been pushed through the bars on the other side of his cell.
"Delicious," he muttered to himself as he got to his feet and stooped to pick it up. The wooden spoon was clumsy to eat with—exacerbated by the fact that his hands were shackled—but Kyousuke managed to get it all down without incident as he sat on his bunk, contemplating nothing in particular. He hadn't slept in a while, so he wondered if this was dinner, but his sleeping pattern and the passage of day and night didn't match up quite as well as he had hoped. Every eight hours a meal came, and it was always the same slop. There was no concept of time down here, and in all honesty Kyousuke's guess at how long he had been incarcerated was a rough estimate at best. Perhaps this particular bowl of slop was breakfast. Kyousuke vaguely wondered what the day would have in store for him if that was indeed the case.
Who am I kidding, he thought. It'll be the same as usual.
Nothing.
°1,207