Fifth Floor Common Room, Saturday Morning
Squall had come into the common room to grab a snack, sit on the couch, and stare at the floor. He was buttering a slice of toast when the gaggle of onions arrived to harass him.
"You don't really like being alone." "You're always alone because you don't know how to relate to other people." "You lie to yourself constantly." "You hate yourself." "You're going to drive Rinoa away." "Your father left you before you were even born." "You killed your mother when you were born." "Your sister was taken from you." "Your friends forgot who you were." "Everyone leaves. Everyone." "You're rude." "You're pretentious." "You're a hypocrite." "You're not even a good soldier." ... On and on and over and over and over. There must have been at least a hundred of them, all crowding around him and all talking at once.
With a roar of pain and tears in his eyes he spun around, wielding the butter knife. Within this span of a few seconds he lashed out at them again and again, cris-crossing the room many times over in the longest Renzokuken he had ever executed. The string of attacks didn't have a finishing move, this time -- he just sort of stopped and surveyed his handiwork. The silence of the no-longer speaking onions was deafening.
He breathed heavily, drawing in air in deep, painful gulps. The butter knife slipped from his suddenly limp fingers. Every single onion slowly slid apart into several pieces.
So did the table, and one of the chairs. Oops.
[Open common room is open, if you want to risk it.]
"You don't really like being alone." "You're always alone because you don't know how to relate to other people." "You lie to yourself constantly." "You hate yourself." "You're going to drive Rinoa away." "Your father left you before you were even born." "You killed your mother when you were born." "Your sister was taken from you." "Your friends forgot who you were." "Everyone leaves. Everyone." "You're rude." "You're pretentious." "You're a hypocrite." "You're not even a good soldier." ... On and on and over and over and over. There must have been at least a hundred of them, all crowding around him and all talking at once.
With a roar of pain and tears in his eyes he spun around, wielding the butter knife. Within this span of a few seconds he lashed out at them again and again, cris-crossing the room many times over in the longest Renzokuken he had ever executed. The string of attacks didn't have a finishing move, this time -- he just sort of stopped and surveyed his handiwork. The silence of the no-longer speaking onions was deafening.
He breathed heavily, drawing in air in deep, painful gulps. The butter knife slipped from his suddenly limp fingers. Every single onion slowly slid apart into several pieces.
So did the table, and one of the chairs. Oops.
[Open common room is open, if you want to risk it.]