Post by Sicko on Jun 16, 2024 12:53:40 GMT -5
"You think you're something special, don't you."
They had gathered at the entrance to his - let's not bullshit around the block and call it what it is; a cell. A white, omnipresent cell.
It's the beginning and ending of his world. An egg in which a slumbering beast is now curled in a fetal position, while the shut door to the outside world has its slot pushed back, and sets of eyes are peering through.
The voices are of Jason Twisted and Daniel Fehl, the two handlers of the Inner Circle prime, and they snicker and egg each other on as their cold, cruel eyes peer in at him.
He wouldn't be able to see anything of them but their eyes through the slit, but hearing those unmistakable voices, even if they were jeering raucously like the crows in Dumbo, was his clue. He's curled on his side, cringing and insensate, shivering.
"The monster Sicko!"
"The De-Mon Clown."
"Jessie Lee's right, he's nothing special. Makes him think he's worth more than The Green or Sitcom. He's nothing."
"Burned-up freak."
"Weirdo wearing kid's birthday party makeup."
"Only interesting thing he ever did was kill his wife and kid."
"That's right... you killed them. You killed them. You killed them." The taunt became a chant, a ritual, booming chorus from more than the two hecklers, and it drove into him with such grating, unreal insistence that now he did scream, contorting there on the floor.
This naked, bald, gestalt being born of the fire like the phoenix burst from it's egg, yet without plumage, feathers, reason.
He laid on his back, on the cracked-open pink blister-skin, and he placed his hands to his temples and screamed.
He screamed in denial. He screamed in rage. In vengeance. In rejection.
He projected his scream so loud he thought it would make his head explode, and then he projected it louder.
He flooded everything out with a torrent of sound. Until he felt it causing fissures in the walls of the cell itself, but he did not stop. He would never stop, even if he caused fissures that broke the world.
And then, the world went away, and he was cast into the void. Exhausted, spent, he closed his eyes and floated in the black inky darkness, dormant.
He just knew, in the shelled-up little nub that was at the very center of his mind, it may have spanned lifetimes, this torture, and he wouldn't know it.
Another turn to break at the wheel.
When he opened his eyes again, it was as if something had tried another tack; now he's a child huddling under covers, hearing a heavy, calloused hand beating on his door.
"Ephrain, open this door right now," Rafael Ruben Ortiz-Vega bellowed, "think you can hide from me, you little sneak? Think - " a battering at the door, "You can - " a battering at the door, "HIDE - "
With each successive thud, almost as if it was punching through the wood, tunnelling into his mind, he quailed in horror.
The shadow loomed against the wall, eyes glowing, it's Satanic smile widened; A shadow, cast long and with no visible source of light, by the clown doll sitting askew. "You see why you need to let me drive, Ephrain?"
"Why??" finding himself responding to the shadow-specter, "Why have you begun hurting me, this way? You tear yourself out of my body. You want to KILL me, to subsume me in the darkest corner of the Mind Palace, and take over the Outer Frame entire! WHY?
The shadow lets a small huff out, as if it's considering his vain pleas, ruminating on them almost in chagrin.
"Because... I love you, you stupid kid. All I want is to protect you."
"That's not love, Jester, that's - "
Masochism, was on the tip of his tongue; the only act of love being equated to pain as something you could learn, honestly, from the hands of Rafael Ortiz. (Happy Father's Day, right?)
A fist punches through the wood of the door; erupting through, like a piston; in the same instance, on the outside, he jerks upright, back arched behind the wheel of the ice-cream truck, as another painful, wracking transformation begins.
"I'm doing this because I need you to be stronger," The Jester Aspect says, his voice dropping to an apologetic register and sounding eerily similar to Rafael's when he was calm. "You'll thank me in time, Ephrain."
"I love you, kid. I'll always protect you. I promise you that."
Blood began to seep from his bulging eyes, and his voice, once more, stretched in a scream.
I couldn't be more disappointed with every single choice made in booking this match;
Pitting the brand new United States Champion, a weak little girl named Niobe who, coin-flip, is she going to show and give 1k gold worth of effort and surprise everyone, including the Big Titty Goth Dommy Mommy who's contented herself to recite the same insults by rote? Will she give half effort? Will she say nothing at all?
Pairing Niobe with Sicko, champions against nominal challengers, would seem inspired on the road to Evolution; buuut.
"Challengers" indicates that they do propose a challenge. They don't.
It's placidly obvious that Jody Madrox won't fight back. Disappointingly, you look at Jody now, this week, and he's retreated into his shell. Gone is that fire, that enraged spitting about how Harshly he was going to fuck someone soft like Muru up with his bare hands to win the Pure Cup.
Now that he's got the Pure Cup, he doesn't know a damn thing to do with it, other than pour bubbly out of it onto a stripper's titties.
Please, someone.
Hand me something blunt and heavy.
I'd rather beat my head in with a hammer than listen to this drivel from either of you one second longer.
But not to worry.
The sudden shift from inflicting pain on oneself to projecting it out onto others is the most satisfying switch.