[INCOMPLETE]
Who: Aya, Schuldig.
When: not long after Aya arrives.
Where: around Sunde.
Rating: PGish, atm.
Warnings: none yet.
Summary: Schuldig pretty much gives Aya an open invitation to come see him, so lol. He does.
He was harder to find than Aya would have liked.
In all respects, he shouldn't have been -- yet for whatever reason, the city was impossibly difficult to navigate through. Too many twists and turns and jammed door locks and strange people crossing his path with a strange gleam in their eyes. Something that set him off and unsettled him, and nothing was the way it should have been. But, really, he never wanted it to be, and he never, ever thought it should have been. So, he pressed forward, drifting past the crumbling bricks of buildings that were seconds away from collapsing, until he was within meters of his destination. Of the building he had been looking for, finally, and as his footsteps echoed into the frozen air, he willed his mind to quiet.
It would never be enough, of course. Too many flicking memories all shifting along and twisting in the back of his head, and no matter how much Schuldig had forgotten, there were some things that would never change. The way his gloved fingers wrapped around the hilt of his katana, for one, and the way the black leather of his coat billowed out behind him as he moved swiftly through alleyways and barren streets. They were small little details that he committed to memory; they weren't going anywhere, and they never would. Schwarz. Any mention of the name had his arms and legs tensing, and his fingers curling into his palm to tighten into a clenched fist. Schwarz. He shouldn't have been surprised. He didn't know why he was.
Schuldig had been right: the dragon wasn't hard to miss. Not even close. He came to a slow stop a few feet away from the entrance to the building, casting a long look over his shoulder at the monster sleeping not far from where he stood. Everything seemed a little bit off. It was off, because Schuldig didn't remember, and Schuldig had forgotten, and there was something about that small little fact that only served to stoke the angry fire all the more. His first thought was, how he could he not remember, and his second thought was, it was just a game, and his third thought was, how did it matter either way? He had the advantage. He should have had the advantage. Maybe he didn't. He didn't really know, and he was entering into the situation completely blind.
But it didn't slow him down. Angry kitten with his claws extended, and it was much more than a job. It was much more than a duty. It was much more than something that was merely expected of him. No. It was more of an obsession. An addiction or habit he couldn't ever break, and he had no intentions to. Not until he was finished with whatever it was that needed to be completed. Not until he decided it was good enough. Not until he could burn the memories of the past into a cycle that would be everlasting, and not until he remembered that, oh, he was still dying, and oh, he had become the murderer, and oh, he had gotten his hands dirty before, and oh, it never, ever had him thinking twice about anything he had ever done or anything he would ever do.
Games. Aya could play games.
Maybe they stifled and suffocated him, but he could definitely play games. If that's what they wanted, then fine. Fine. It didn't matter to him. It didn't. And they could forget whatever memories they wanted to. It didn't mean it'd last forever, and it didn't mean he was comfortable or satisfied with that piece of knowledge. Far from, in fact. He couldn't concentrate with the pounding in his chest, behind bones of ivory and coiled muscle, and he couldn't think with the steady sound of the dragon breathing, with each and every breath it released out into the cool air. He couldn't remember where he was, even, but that didn't stop his hand from falling away from his katana, and that didn't stop his knuckles from rapping lightly on the door to Sunde.
He could play games.
He could memorize games -- remember their flaws and their weak points and their caved-in walls of silent sacrifices. He knew the layout of the board, and the measure of every square, and the distance it was from a completely different square. He carved the marble of the queen, and he perfected the oak of the pawns, until everything glittered with righteous betrayal. He backed the king into a corner, into one solitary square, until everything off the board had been cleared, and until everything was gone except for that one last thing, and then--
Checkmate.
He could play games, but.
It didn't mean that he was good at them.
When: not long after Aya arrives.
Where: around Sunde.
Rating: PGish, atm.
Warnings: none yet.
Summary: Schuldig pretty much gives Aya an open invitation to come see him, so lol. He does.
He was harder to find than Aya would have liked.
In all respects, he shouldn't have been -- yet for whatever reason, the city was impossibly difficult to navigate through. Too many twists and turns and jammed door locks and strange people crossing his path with a strange gleam in their eyes. Something that set him off and unsettled him, and nothing was the way it should have been. But, really, he never wanted it to be, and he never, ever thought it should have been. So, he pressed forward, drifting past the crumbling bricks of buildings that were seconds away from collapsing, until he was within meters of his destination. Of the building he had been looking for, finally, and as his footsteps echoed into the frozen air, he willed his mind to quiet.
It would never be enough, of course. Too many flicking memories all shifting along and twisting in the back of his head, and no matter how much Schuldig had forgotten, there were some things that would never change. The way his gloved fingers wrapped around the hilt of his katana, for one, and the way the black leather of his coat billowed out behind him as he moved swiftly through alleyways and barren streets. They were small little details that he committed to memory; they weren't going anywhere, and they never would. Schwarz. Any mention of the name had his arms and legs tensing, and his fingers curling into his palm to tighten into a clenched fist. Schwarz. He shouldn't have been surprised. He didn't know why he was.
Schuldig had been right: the dragon wasn't hard to miss. Not even close. He came to a slow stop a few feet away from the entrance to the building, casting a long look over his shoulder at the monster sleeping not far from where he stood. Everything seemed a little bit off. It was off, because Schuldig didn't remember, and Schuldig had forgotten, and there was something about that small little fact that only served to stoke the angry fire all the more. His first thought was, how he could he not remember, and his second thought was, it was just a game, and his third thought was, how did it matter either way? He had the advantage. He should have had the advantage. Maybe he didn't. He didn't really know, and he was entering into the situation completely blind.
But it didn't slow him down. Angry kitten with his claws extended, and it was much more than a job. It was much more than a duty. It was much more than something that was merely expected of him. No. It was more of an obsession. An addiction or habit he couldn't ever break, and he had no intentions to. Not until he was finished with whatever it was that needed to be completed. Not until he decided it was good enough. Not until he could burn the memories of the past into a cycle that would be everlasting, and not until he remembered that, oh, he was still dying, and oh, he had become the murderer, and oh, he had gotten his hands dirty before, and oh, it never, ever had him thinking twice about anything he had ever done or anything he would ever do.
Games. Aya could play games.
Maybe they stifled and suffocated him, but he could definitely play games. If that's what they wanted, then fine. Fine. It didn't matter to him. It didn't. And they could forget whatever memories they wanted to. It didn't mean it'd last forever, and it didn't mean he was comfortable or satisfied with that piece of knowledge. Far from, in fact. He couldn't concentrate with the pounding in his chest, behind bones of ivory and coiled muscle, and he couldn't think with the steady sound of the dragon breathing, with each and every breath it released out into the cool air. He couldn't remember where he was, even, but that didn't stop his hand from falling away from his katana, and that didn't stop his knuckles from rapping lightly on the door to Sunde.
He could play games.
He could memorize games -- remember their flaws and their weak points and their caved-in walls of silent sacrifices. He knew the layout of the board, and the measure of every square, and the distance it was from a completely different square. He carved the marble of the queen, and he perfected the oak of the pawns, until everything glittered with righteous betrayal. He backed the king into a corner, into one solitary square, until everything off the board had been cleared, and until everything was gone except for that one last thing, and then--
Checkmate.
He could play games, but.
It didn't mean that he was good at them.