Creator/Destroyer - Knives - PG
Title: Creator/Destroyer
Rating: PG
Fadom/Pairing: Trigun, Knives gen.
Summary: For the prompt "alone"
Warnings: Alcohol, weapons, a total mental breakdown. Spoiler warning for Trigun Maximum, if Tessla means nothing to you STAY AWAY.
Disclaimer: The true genius is Yasuhiro Nightow, I make no money off this. It is work of fiction.
The devil makes work for idle hands. - English Proverb
He started by rebuilding his own gun, the one his brother stole. But when he finishes, he can't stand to look at it, and he tears it apart to build a totally different one. A shotgun, because he put a shotgun blast of power in the originals.
Then he experiments with semi- and automatic weapons. Five into that, it just gets boring.
He makes a crossbow. He makes a crossbow big enough to shoot an industrial-sized steel pike. But after that, it's gotten old.
He makes some swords (a perfect steal katana longer than should be stable, an iron broad sword that he wants to smelt in the way the ancient Assyrians did, a wire thin Italian foil, a scimitar the width of both his hands and perfectly balanced), but that's dull, too.
Nothing distracts him, no matter how many books he reads or how long he cuts and burns his fingers raw making weapons. Nothing. Nothing.
He lives on liquor and works in a state of constant slight intoxication. He can't get drunk, but he wishes he could. He's getting a taste for red wine and can go on just Merlot for days, without even the thought of food consumption or waste removal.
He spends a whole day trying on different clothes, before he puts his head between his hands and works for the next three days totally nude. He can't think of a better way to get rid of all the feelings of fabric on his skin.
On one of those days, he finally breaks into the lab and has to put on his clothes in respect to his own childhood. Could it be called that? Should he spend a day reassessing how to refer to his own past? He thinks it would be a waste. He doesn't, in the end.
He breaks into every cabinet, every tiny drawer and file, studiously ignoring the tank at his back and any thoughts that might remind him of his brother. He fails quite abysmally and breaks down after a week of this and hides behind the tank, sobbing and chewing on his hand.
Humans call it a nervous or psychotic breakdown, but it is possible that he is not a normally healthy anything, much less a human. It is during this time that he learns how to make his scars disappear. It gives him the power to go back to work.
But it happens again, soon enough. He just can't be in the same room with her for very long. He is terrified of dying, and this is the only way he knows that he can. For the brief moments that he sleeps, he sees himself like that. He clutches his hands to his face and his skin falls away. His teeth are bloody sharps in his cupped palms. His skin blisters. Inside of him, he can feel his organs twist and swell around foreign masses. His eye falls from his skull, pushed out by some dark mass. He looks into his own dull eye.
Then he wakes up.
Ten days of that dream and he's looking lustfully at the shotgun he built, and of course when he realizes what he's really thinking, he just can't take it anymore. There is too much silence, too much dark, and there is no comforting reward waiting for him when he finishes this work of his.
He takes all the weapons and gets the hell out of there, starts walking towards the nearest populated area. He can feel it at the back of his mind, where he ought to just feel his brother if he wasn't hiding on the other side of the planet, where he might hear her if she wasn't an exploded corpse floating in cold-burning chemicals.
Sand crunches under his feet, the sun is blinding, but it's nothing at all when he has pale eyes to see it with. He wonders about the possibility of using some of the pathogens preserved so perfectly back in the ship. His own cells are immune to them, and it won't be long before these foul creatures have bred themselves into complacency about them. He cradles the submachine gun in his arms.
He's never really alone.
Rating: PG
Fadom/Pairing: Trigun, Knives gen.
Summary: For the prompt "alone"
Warnings: Alcohol, weapons, a total mental breakdown. Spoiler warning for Trigun Maximum, if Tessla means nothing to you STAY AWAY.
Disclaimer: The true genius is Yasuhiro Nightow, I make no money off this. It is work of fiction.
The devil makes work for idle hands. - English Proverb
He started by rebuilding his own gun, the one his brother stole. But when he finishes, he can't stand to look at it, and he tears it apart to build a totally different one. A shotgun, because he put a shotgun blast of power in the originals.
Then he experiments with semi- and automatic weapons. Five into that, it just gets boring.
He makes a crossbow. He makes a crossbow big enough to shoot an industrial-sized steel pike. But after that, it's gotten old.
He makes some swords (a perfect steal katana longer than should be stable, an iron broad sword that he wants to smelt in the way the ancient Assyrians did, a wire thin Italian foil, a scimitar the width of both his hands and perfectly balanced), but that's dull, too.
Nothing distracts him, no matter how many books he reads or how long he cuts and burns his fingers raw making weapons. Nothing. Nothing.
He lives on liquor and works in a state of constant slight intoxication. He can't get drunk, but he wishes he could. He's getting a taste for red wine and can go on just Merlot for days, without even the thought of food consumption or waste removal.
He spends a whole day trying on different clothes, before he puts his head between his hands and works for the next three days totally nude. He can't think of a better way to get rid of all the feelings of fabric on his skin.
On one of those days, he finally breaks into the lab and has to put on his clothes in respect to his own childhood. Could it be called that? Should he spend a day reassessing how to refer to his own past? He thinks it would be a waste. He doesn't, in the end.
He breaks into every cabinet, every tiny drawer and file, studiously ignoring the tank at his back and any thoughts that might remind him of his brother. He fails quite abysmally and breaks down after a week of this and hides behind the tank, sobbing and chewing on his hand.
Humans call it a nervous or psychotic breakdown, but it is possible that he is not a normally healthy anything, much less a human. It is during this time that he learns how to make his scars disappear. It gives him the power to go back to work.
But it happens again, soon enough. He just can't be in the same room with her for very long. He is terrified of dying, and this is the only way he knows that he can. For the brief moments that he sleeps, he sees himself like that. He clutches his hands to his face and his skin falls away. His teeth are bloody sharps in his cupped palms. His skin blisters. Inside of him, he can feel his organs twist and swell around foreign masses. His eye falls from his skull, pushed out by some dark mass. He looks into his own dull eye.
Then he wakes up.
Ten days of that dream and he's looking lustfully at the shotgun he built, and of course when he realizes what he's really thinking, he just can't take it anymore. There is too much silence, too much dark, and there is no comforting reward waiting for him when he finishes this work of his.
He takes all the weapons and gets the hell out of there, starts walking towards the nearest populated area. He can feel it at the back of his mind, where he ought to just feel his brother if he wasn't hiding on the other side of the planet, where he might hear her if she wasn't an exploded corpse floating in cold-burning chemicals.
Sand crunches under his feet, the sun is blinding, but it's nothing at all when he has pale eyes to see it with. He wonders about the possibility of using some of the pathogens preserved so perfectly back in the ship. His own cells are immune to them, and it won't be long before these foul creatures have bred themselves into complacency about them. He cradles the submachine gun in his arms.
He's never really alone.