Chapter Text
He was… Floating? Sinking? He couldn't tell. All he knew was that he was somewhere . Somewhere warm and cold at the same time, somehow. How was that possible? He didn't know. He didn't know anything at the moment, it seemed. All he could see was darkness. He couldn't feel anything but the cold warm feeling that was currently encasing him like a blanket, suffocating him, though still comfortable in a sense.
He couldn't breathe. His chest (one that he didn't have at the moment) wasn't moving, he was sure. Was he dead or something? Maybe. But he couldn't find it in himself to care. It was almost… peaceful, being in the dark, not feeling anything, not seeing anything. There was nothing for him to do but sit and do… Well, nothing.
There was nothing required of him, no missions, no curses, no anything …Wait, what? What the hell was he talking about? What “missions”? What “curses”? Why did it seem like he was forgetting something important? What was missing? He tried to think, but the thoughts he thought up slipped from his mind like water through a sieve. Or was it flower? Or flowers, plural? But that didn't make sense, why would someone put some flowers in a sieve? To try and get rid of the bugs?
He got carried away, thinking about flowers and sieves and other crazy, nonsensical things. What had he been thinking of again? Oh yeah, missing things. What was missing from him right now? Was it a person, maybe? A friend? A person with him in this place might not be so bad, but they might ruin the weird peacefulness that he was feeling, so maybe not so good.
Was he forgetting a pet? A cat or dog? At the mention of dogs, his brain provided him with the image of a small child, face blurred, petting a peculiar looking hound. A marking covered it’s forehead, he remembered, but what kind? Was it a triangle, a square? A mix of the two? No matter how hard he thought, he could not remember any of the finer details.
So he latched onto the next best thing. Who was the kid? The owner of the dog? A sibling? A friend? Maybe even his own child? Why was their face blurred, and why the hell couldn't he remember who they were? Surely if they were important enough to pop up in his head, he should remember them, right? But maybe not.
He felt a strange sense of apathy wash over him, and he began to think. Why should he care? What was it to him? Why did he even try thinking about it? It made his head hurt, all of this thinking and remembering. The thoughts were odd, unlike him in a sense that someone had implanted their own into his. But really, what thoughts really were his ?
What, who, even was he? He found that he couldn't even remember his own name. Was he even real? He nearly laughed at the thought. Okay, seriously, who was making him think these ridiculous thoughts??? He had to exist, because if he didnt, how the hell was he even here in the first place? He really didn't know, and there was no one else around to ask.
And then he was proven wrong by the sound of a voice echoing out across the black. It was faint at first, but even the quietest of noises seemed like shouts in the place he was in. “Satoru?” It was a questioning, hesitating voice, soft and one oh so familiar. He found himself thinking of a name, wanting to reply to the call. “Suguru?” He called out into the void. His voice rattled in his ears, leaving them ringing, and yet he still strained to listen for the voice. For a reply. There was none.
What was that ? Had that been his name? Satoru? It seemed almost right in a sense. But who the hell had been calling for him of all people? Was he truly not alone in this…Place? This void of an area, with not even himself inside? He wanted to call out again, to ask for this “Suguru” person to say something more than just his name. Hearing his voice made it easier to breathe, to feel and hear things.
He didn't want to be alone, it seemed. Suddenly, the silence was pierced again by the voice, louder this time, closer. “Satoru!” The voice called out, now more panicked than before, more fearful. But what was the voice afraid of? Why was he calling his name with such fear? He was fine, wasn't he? He was just… Here. Wherever “here” was.
There was, yet again, something sudden that shocked him out of thoughts, but this time, the voice wasn't to blame. Well, maybe it was, who knew. He was suddenly zapped (one less gruesome way to describe it) by one of the worst pains he had ever felt in his life . He was sure of it, even without remembering even a sliver of the time from before waking up here.
He wanted to scream until his throat came apart and his ears bled. He wanted to rip and tear at whatever was making him feel as if his body was on fire and covered in acid at the same time. He wanted to curl up into a ball on the floor and wither away until he felt nothing at all. He opened his mouth (one that he didn't have) to scream, but unlike earlier, when he had called out to the voice, nothing came out. His tongue was stuck in his throat, acting as a locked door to the yells and screams for it all to stop.
It was suddenly so loud now, his heart and lungs and blood all suddenly in his ears, their noises almost deafening. The uneven and choppy breathing, the speeding up of rhythmic thumping, the gurgling slush of liquid spilling onto the ground and all over his body, it was all just way too much .
And then it stopped. It was quiet again, and he was fine. Perfectly fine. The quiet wasn't truly quiet, though. He could hear the voice again, the one that had called out to him not once, but twice, talking, but it was muffled and constant, as if the person was having a conversation. A phone call, maybe? He couldn't hear any new voices. He was saying something about someone being found, maybe bleeding out? He couldn't hear the voice well for some reason.
Eyes open. Unconscious. Bleeding from the mouth and eyes. Flyheads??? What was the voice talking about ? And to who? Suddenly (Jesus christ) his ears were filled with buzzing, loud and, personally, very obnoxious. Was this the flyhead the voice had spoken about? It sure sounded like it. The buzzing lowered in volume until it disappeared for good. The thing must have flown away.
It was quiet again. The voice had stopped talking to whoever was on the phone, presumably due to the call having ended. The warm feeling he had been feeling before was gone now, replaced with a burning sense of curiosity. Who had they been talking about, the voice with the person on the phone? Was someone hurt?
It sure sounded like it. Most people didn't normally bleed from their eyes and mouth and be okay at the same time. Was the person sick? Or maybe hurt? The curiosity burned brighter in his head. Bleeding from the mouth often meant stomach related injuries, through the eyes were a whole different story. That could be from a more varied selection, from just a cut to infection to even as far as ruptured blood vessels.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the sounds of talking. It was the voice again, but something new as well. A higher, feminine voice, along with a deep, serious voice filled his ears along with the voice he was used to. A conversation (in person thank god) was taking place nearby, it seemed. The voices greeted each other, then became louder as they seemed to get closer.
“What a hassle…” The feminine voice muttered under her breath. After a short second of rustling, he could hear her footsteps approach him.
“Hey.” She said, the greeting aimed at the familiar voice, it seemed. “How’s Satoru?” She questioned. It was silent for a second, and then the voice scoffed. “Are you not able to see the blood everywhere?” “Alright, alright. Move your prickly ass over so I can get an actual look at him.”
They stopped talking, and he was left in silence. It carried on for one, two minutes, and then-
“Fucking- agh, shit !”
The cursed words were his only warning before his body was drizzled in fire and acid once again, and all he could think was ‘Fuck’.
It hurt so bad, he was surprised with how he was still thinking somewhat straight. His nerves were currently under fire by an unknown force, seemingly getting torn to shreds under the pressure.
Melting. He was sure he was melting, flesh and bone turning into mush underneath the thin paper that was his skin. He couldn't move, couldn't speak or scream for it to stop. It was like before, but much, much worse. The pain stayed for longer than last time, buzzing in his veins and burning him from the inside out.
And just when he thought it was over, when the feeling returned to his ears and face and his body felt like it was normal, the feeling came back as a worse, more damning version of itself. It was so intense, he ended up blacking out, and by the time he woke up (if you could even call it that) The feeling had stopped entirely.
He felt different. He felt more… real. More like his own person than an untethered spirit. He could feel things he had only vague ideas about before, like how he was truly, actually breathing. He could feel his chest as it rose and fell. He could feel the sensation of something cold touching his face and hands, gently wiping away at what felt like a layer of thickened, dried paint stuck to his skin.
It felt nice, like he was getting cleaned. But the niceness was overpowered by the pain in his forehead, in his limbs and body. It was like he was being roasted over an oven and shoved in a freezer at the same time, though not as intense as the pain from before. What he was feeling at the moment was more… muffled. More of a throbbing than a burning sensation.
He could feel his face, how the cold thing left his cheeks stinging slightly and how whatever was getting cleaned off his face was making his eyelashes stick together uncomfortably. His lips felt chapped and gooey, even somewhat itchy for some reason. He wanted to move, to rub his eyes and lick his lips to get the itching to go away.
But he couldn't find it in himself to move his arms and lift his head with the headache that was currently residing in his head. All he could do was open his eyes. But he regretted it when he did so. He was immediately overwhelmed by all the lights and images around him, blinding him and sending stars running through his vision.
Where was he? He couldn't remember how or why he had ended up asleep. Had he been on a mission or something and gotten hurt? But no, that couldn't be the case, because he wasn't able to get hurt. But why was that? He could not remember, all he was sure about was that he could not get hurt, so why was he asleep? He didn't need it, didn't he?
His brain felt like a gloopy mess of random thoughts and memories. Over the weird buzzing in his head, he could hear someone gasp. He wasn't alone. His chest tightened at the thought, because really, who could it be with him if not for an enemy or fiend? He couldn't remember a single face, his brain only providing him with the fact that everyone was out to get him, to kill him for his eyes.
But what was so damn special about his eyes? He didn't know that either. What he did know was that he was most definitely in danger. Going against his body’s warnings, he moved to sit up, rubbing his eyes clean of crust. He stopped after a twinge of pain ran up his elbow. He froze, shocked, because hadn’t he just been thinking about how he couldn't get hurt?
He looked down to find a multitude of wires stuck into his elbow, held down by what looked like some kind of tape? He could understand. Was this some kind of poison or something? Whatever it was, he wanted nothing to do with it, and so with numb fingers, he grabbed the bundle of cords and yanked them out of his skin, ripping the tape off like a bandaid.
Someone gasped (again), and his wrist was suddenly grabbed in a firm, harsh grip. Someone, a different person, was yelling at him, saying something he couldn't decipher. Was he speaking in a different language or something? He tried to yank his hand away, because why was this person touching him and why was he mad, but the person held fast, nails digging into his skin.
Were these the people who put the wires in his arm, the ones who tried to poison him? It seemed so. He clawed at the hand holding his wrist, trying to peel their fingers back to get them to let go, and when they didn't, he did the next best thing. He pulled his arm back, coiling it, and punched the person holding his arm.
The hit connected, and he swore he could feel something crack underneath his fist. Was it one of his fingers or the person’s nose, he’d never know. There was a yell of pain, and the grip loosened a bit, but it was enough. He yanked his arm away and kicked the person in what was most likely the stomach, with how they coughed when he hit them.
The person fell to the floor, wheezing, as he made his getaway. Or at least tried to. The person who kept gasping was yelling now, most likely for backup. He didn't care. They could bring all the backup they wanted. Even then, they couldn't stop him. But really, was this even true? Something was missing, something he was sure he’d never gone even a day without.
But what was it? He couldn't bring the answer to mind, but that didn't matter. He was so close to the exit that he could take a few steps and be out and gone from this place. No doors, no locks, just a doorway barely a few meters away. He almost felt like laughing at how easy it was.
And then the doorway was suddenly filled with people. Three, to be exact. A broad man and two smaller but still broad figures. He recognized none of them. Well, the door was a no go then. Well, fine. Screw this. If they wanted a fight, they would get one. Fisting his hands, he fell into a fighting stance as the broad man approached him.
He couldn't hear what the man was saying over the weird buzzing noise in his head, so he just assumed that he was either talking about a.) how much his eyes would be on the black market, or b.) how they were going to kill him. Yeah, no. Fuck all of that shit.
He backed away as the man stepped forward, his foot catching on the sleeve of the person he had punched and causing him to nearly fall backwards onto the floor.
This couldn't be how he went down, right? He was the strongest after all. The thought made him laugh, because where had he heard the comment before? He could not recall who had told him it, nor why it had been said, but it felt true all the same. He was the strongest, alone and undefeated.
The idea made his chest ache for some reason, but he ignored the feeling in favor of getting the hell away from his kidnappers and out of wherever the hell he was. Ignoring the broad man’s moving lips, his eyes flickered around the room, searching for an exit he could use other than the door that was currently blocked.
Unfortunately, he found nothing. There were no windows and no other doors other than the one that was, at this point, no longer an option for him. Or was it? The broad man was still talking, seeming to have gotten the idea that he was listening from the lack of action being displayed. His shoulders were lax, and he seemed almost… relaxed. The two other figures behind him, smaller and seemingly weaker, seemed more at ease than before.
Their guards were down, weren't they? A part of him was almost insulted with how carfree his captors were acting, because seriously, how did you find it in yourself to relax after the person you kidnapped tried to make a getaway? Though, he couldn’t say he was complaining. It helped him much in his plan for escaping. He pretended to relax, willing his shoulders to untense themselves and for his face to soften into a less imposing expression, which he was sure he had been making before by the tenseness in his forehead and cheeks.
Or was that just the headache talking? He could not think straight at all , only hazily following directions given to him by a part of his brain he could not recognize, a part so fogged up that it was a wonder how he was even doing anything at all. All he knew was that the part of his brain that was talking knew it’s shit, and so it was better to listen to it than do nothing, especially in the situation he was in now.
He still could not hear the broad man, but he was sure that his deceit was working, even if by a small margin. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the man he had punched get up from his spot on the ground, slightly limping over to where the person who had yelled for backup was. They too were talking, not to him but to themselves.
He turned his attention back to the broad man, who, somehow, was still talking. Was this guy a paid yapper or what? Maybe a teacher or something? He would (hopefully) never know, as he wanted to never see these people ever again.
He waited. He waited for someone to leave an opening, to lower their guard just enough that he could surprise them. But they never did. Curse his currently bad vision (which was kind of weird to think about for some reason), but no matter how much time passed, he saw nobody in the room lower their guard enough for him to feel safe to attack.
He was left standing, waiting, for what felt like hours, Mr. Yapper still yapping, the two small guys in the back still unmoving, and the two off to the side still chatting to each other like it was lunchtime and they had all the good tea to spill. It pissed him off to no end, with his head pounding with the headache of the century and his eyes burning and stinging for no apparent reason, the pain never listening no matter how much he rubbed them.
He was almost tempted to just try and run with hopes that luck was on his side when he passed the yapper, but the smart yet foggy part of his brain told him that if he tried that, he’d be dead before he was even a foot away from the man, and personally, he liked living, thanks.
He was getting close to disregarding the smart thoughts, though. Very close. He was slowly but surely reaching a breaking point with the pain in his… uh, everywhere. The more the yapper talked, the more the buzzing noise in his head increased. The longer he stood there, waiting for something that he slowly realized was never coming, the more his eyes burned and his throat began to itch.
Even his skin was starting to hurt (more than it usually did anyways), a dull, throbbing pain pulsating through his flesh, slowly growing in him like a maggot blooming into a full grown fly. The idea made him feel sick to his stomach, and once he recognized the pain, it was suddenly there too, as if brought to life from his mind.
He wanted the yapper to shut the hell up, and as if god had answered his calls, he did. There was a loud shriek, sounding more cursed than human (what the hell was he talking about?), and suddenly, the pain was back. He recognised this feeling. He nearly fell to his knees from the sensation, his skin and innards and every part of him feeling as if they were getting slowly pulled apart.
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit . He groaned, the noise muffled and faint in his ears. The yapper man had finally taken his attention off of him, turning to talk (more like yell) at the guy he’d beaten up. Clearly, something bad had happened, if it wasn’t clear from the man’s expression. It seemed like it was the perfect time to run. It took him only a second to do… something, blinking and finding himself outside of the room he had been confided in.
The two scrawny kids that had been standing behind the yapper flinched in surprise, barely able to catch a glimpse of him as he broke out into a run, going as fast as his throbbing body could take him. The walls and windows and doors all became one muddled blur as he half stumbled, half limped through the halls, letting his instinct lead him.
There were footsteps behind him, muffled calls echoing out but landing on deaf ears. The pain worsened as he continued on, one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, his vision blacking out with every other step only to flicker back one at the last second, visions of fields and trees and people flasking through his head.
It soon became a considerably hard task to not vomit, stomach gurgling and sloshing in a nauseating way, only provoked by his running. Damn it, where the hell was the exit in this stupid, godforsaken place?!