003:☽ {night: accidental video/teneka}
[There's the sound of someone weeping. Faintly.
Anyone who may have met Yuri as a child might not recognize the small, quiet boy in this tall man in his middle age, but those who notice such things will see that his network ID is the same. He doesn't realize he is being recorded. He doesn't move. He kneels on the floor, his long hands, too, resting on the floor.
His hair is unbound. Bare of its usual makeup, it's clear that his face is badly scarred, more than half of it covered with darkened tissue in a shape reminiscent of a handprint. So recently, the skin there had been smooth, when he'd been a child.
Moments ago, but also many years ago.
The sudden shock of shifting from that youthful state back into this, his current self, has sent all the weight of the intervening years crashing down upon him at once. A burden too heavy.
He doesn't speak, but the teneka broadcasts. A garble of feeling: sorrow, rage, confusion, fear, despair, shot through with an odd, wistful longing. Everything transmitted from him is garbled, difficult to understand: a shadowed interior, sunshine streaming through an open door, then a blinding light, swallowing both shadow and sun. The color blue. A muffled voice, trying to speak. A dull blow. Someone screaming. The sound of fire, a quick, soft, yet hungry crackling. Then the night sky, rushing past. Speed turns the stars into ribbons. A bright, modern city, lit up beneath a red moon, as seen by a bird, flying far above.]
Anyone who may have met Yuri as a child might not recognize the small, quiet boy in this tall man in his middle age, but those who notice such things will see that his network ID is the same. He doesn't realize he is being recorded. He doesn't move. He kneels on the floor, his long hands, too, resting on the floor.
His hair is unbound. Bare of its usual makeup, it's clear that his face is badly scarred, more than half of it covered with darkened tissue in a shape reminiscent of a handprint. So recently, the skin there had been smooth, when he'd been a child.
Moments ago, but also many years ago.
The sudden shock of shifting from that youthful state back into this, his current self, has sent all the weight of the intervening years crashing down upon him at once. A burden too heavy.
He doesn't speak, but the teneka broadcasts. A garble of feeling: sorrow, rage, confusion, fear, despair, shot through with an odd, wistful longing. Everything transmitted from him is garbled, difficult to understand: a shadowed interior, sunshine streaming through an open door, then a blinding light, swallowing both shadow and sun. The color blue. A muffled voice, trying to speak. A dull blow. Someone screaming. The sound of fire, a quick, soft, yet hungry crackling. Then the night sky, rushing past. Speed turns the stars into ribbons. A bright, modern city, lit up beneath a red moon, as seen by a bird, flying far above.]