Cheek guard sliding against the floor, Nihlus turns and watches as Rinzler steps closer, sinking quietly into numb, serene acceptance. The seething, wordless command just pulls him deeper and he shakes his head in silent denial. This was his choice. It was real this time and his mind is his and his body is his and he won't fight the program. Won't hurt him.
And maybe he won't come back but that's alright. There was nothing he could fix anymore, nothing he could do and he's so tired of failing everyone he cared about. He's so tired. So tired-
Rinzler's voice takes a moment to parse. The question, even longer. There's a wild, panicked moment where Nihlus thinks he might be hallucinating again- no nonono-
Auditory aberration or not, the question was written into every line on the enforcer's body, clear and sharp as day. It's still there when the rush of terror subsides. Rinzler's still there. Still dripping blood from a fight that was too real to have been a figment of his imagination.
It has to be real. It has to be. This recursive nightmare has to be over and this has to be real.
Nihlus has no answer for him either way.
'Indoctrinated' sounded like a lie and the word dries up on his tongue.
He remembers. He remembers everything. He remembers the choices he made, remembers the utter clarity with which every decision was reached. He remembers the completeness of the Voice's love and how its light had filled every hollowed out part of his shattered little soul that he'd never even known about.
It had been a religious bliss so terrifyingly, unspeakably perfect, it'd never once crossed his mind to question it. There hadn't been a single second where Nihlus remembers fighting it.
He doesn't want to remember.
The empty space where his arm had been burns dull static and Nihlus strains to curl against it, against the torrent of hot guilt twisting in his guts, helmet scraping against the rot darkened metal. He shuts his eyes hard enough to force painful blooms of color behind his lids and gasps, voice cracked and subvocals bleeding dissonance.
a culinary adventure!
And maybe he won't come back but that's alright. There was nothing he could fix anymore, nothing he could do and he's so tired of failing everyone he cared about. He's so tired. So tired-
Rinzler's voice takes a moment to parse. The question, even longer. There's a wild, panicked moment where Nihlus thinks he might be hallucinating again- no nonono-
Auditory aberration or not, the question was written into every line on the enforcer's body, clear and sharp as day. It's still there when the rush of terror subsides. Rinzler's still there. Still dripping blood from a fight that was too real to have been a figment of his imagination.
It has to be real. It has to be. This recursive nightmare has to be over and this has to be real.
Nihlus has no answer for him either way.
'Indoctrinated' sounded like a lie and the word dries up on his tongue.
He remembers. He remembers everything. He remembers the choices he made, remembers the utter clarity with which every decision was reached. He remembers the completeness of the Voice's love and how its light had filled every hollowed out part of his shattered little soul that he'd never even known about.
It had been a religious bliss so terrifyingly, unspeakably perfect, it'd never once crossed his mind to question it. There hadn't been a single second where Nihlus remembers fighting it.
He doesn't want to remember.
The empty space where his arm had been burns dull static and Nihlus strains to curl against it, against the torrent of hot guilt twisting in his guts, helmet scraping against the rot darkened metal. He shuts his eyes hard enough to force painful blooms of color behind his lids and gasps, voice cracked and subvocals bleeding dissonance.
"I'm so sorry."