got to see this through
I think my writing brain is coming back! After months of absolute creative drought, I'm getting ideas again and - more importantly - I have an idea of how to get them down on paper in a way that isn't cringeful. And I've found myself wanting to fic for manga I've read recently, which hasn't happened in way too long. It's something of a relief, really, because I've been secretly suspecting that I'd entirely lost my...well, not my interest, but my ability to write. So yeah, colour me a happy fangirl!
And on that note, I downloaded ten volumes of MPD Psycho last night. I read them today. I was both extremely confused and utterly intrigued, and while I have no idea who's who anymore, I can categorically say that I adore Tetora, scary little psychopath that he is. <3 I was also induced to write fic, inspired by the weekly prompt on Blug, the prompt in this case being "doubt".
Spoilerific up to volume 10 of MPD Psycho.
Purposeful Existence
It is a strange thing, discovering that your entire existence is a lie.
Kitou has never felt anything but real. He eats, he sleeps, he fucks; he has a rented apartment, and a scar on his leg from when he was nine and fell out of a tree; he still remembers the names of the friends he had as a kid. Once he might have been in love. (He thinks of Machi, wonders if she is who she thinks she is, when it seems that nobody is these days.) These things are real, tangible, things that he knows happened, things that make up the person that he is.
Except he isn't. He's a copy, a reproduction, a facsimile without even so much validity as a clone - no, he can't even claim the dubious distinction of "scientific curiosity", his purpose only to perpetuate the existence of another. A walking, breathing organ bank, and everything he knows, everything he is, is cast into doubt by this simple fact.
Did Amamiya feel this too? This uncertainty, helpless frustration against the bastard puppeteers who tugged at his strings, who made him less than human by treating him as such? Worse for him, even, since at least Kitou is only himself, not a mishmash of conflicting personalities struggling for control; at least Kitou doesn't have to worry about becoming someone else. How did the man live like that? The facts of his own existence have permeated Kitou's entire being so fast and so utterly that he's starting to question everything he's ever known or felt, the structure of his entire self crumbling away at the sick realisation of the truth.
Kitou Akira does not exist. He has lived on this earth for three decades, but he is not real. And now perhaps the only point of his continuing survival is to negate what they intended for him; to destroy rather than preserve.
Is it okay, the boy asked him, if I help you kill Onihigata? Then he smirked at Kitou from beneath his heavy cap, and Kitou wondered just how much this was Nishizono Tetora he was speaking to, and how much Amamiya Kazuhiko. He still doesn't know, and he doesn't think the boy does either. But he thinks he can trust Tetora, just this once; they have quite a lot in common, after all.
Tetora didn't say what he intended to do, and Kitou didn't ask. He has his own plan, lacking in subtlety as it is, and he will carry it out with or without help.
As Onihigata's car pulls up outside the theatre building, Kitou feels an odd sense of calm. The gun is a reassuring weight on his hip, the explosives fastened securely around his torso. He will not survive this - does not intend to - but neither will Onihigata.
Of that, at least, he's certain.
[/fic]
And on that note, I downloaded ten volumes of MPD Psycho last night. I read them today. I was both extremely confused and utterly intrigued, and while I have no idea who's who anymore, I can categorically say that I adore Tetora, scary little psychopath that he is. <3 I was also induced to write fic, inspired by the weekly prompt on Blug, the prompt in this case being "doubt".
Spoilerific up to volume 10 of MPD Psycho.
Purposeful Existence
It is a strange thing, discovering that your entire existence is a lie.
Kitou has never felt anything but real. He eats, he sleeps, he fucks; he has a rented apartment, and a scar on his leg from when he was nine and fell out of a tree; he still remembers the names of the friends he had as a kid. Once he might have been in love. (He thinks of Machi, wonders if she is who she thinks she is, when it seems that nobody is these days.) These things are real, tangible, things that he knows happened, things that make up the person that he is.
Except he isn't. He's a copy, a reproduction, a facsimile without even so much validity as a clone - no, he can't even claim the dubious distinction of "scientific curiosity", his purpose only to perpetuate the existence of another. A walking, breathing organ bank, and everything he knows, everything he is, is cast into doubt by this simple fact.
Did Amamiya feel this too? This uncertainty, helpless frustration against the bastard puppeteers who tugged at his strings, who made him less than human by treating him as such? Worse for him, even, since at least Kitou is only himself, not a mishmash of conflicting personalities struggling for control; at least Kitou doesn't have to worry about becoming someone else. How did the man live like that? The facts of his own existence have permeated Kitou's entire being so fast and so utterly that he's starting to question everything he's ever known or felt, the structure of his entire self crumbling away at the sick realisation of the truth.
Kitou Akira does not exist. He has lived on this earth for three decades, but he is not real. And now perhaps the only point of his continuing survival is to negate what they intended for him; to destroy rather than preserve.
Is it okay, the boy asked him, if I help you kill Onihigata? Then he smirked at Kitou from beneath his heavy cap, and Kitou wondered just how much this was Nishizono Tetora he was speaking to, and how much Amamiya Kazuhiko. He still doesn't know, and he doesn't think the boy does either. But he thinks he can trust Tetora, just this once; they have quite a lot in common, after all.
Tetora didn't say what he intended to do, and Kitou didn't ask. He has his own plan, lacking in subtlety as it is, and he will carry it out with or without help.
As Onihigata's car pulls up outside the theatre building, Kitou feels an odd sense of calm. The gun is a reassuring weight on his hip, the explosives fastened securely around his torso. He will not survive this - does not intend to - but neither will Onihigata.
Of that, at least, he's certain.
[/fic]