“Well,” Jack Horner mused, as he opened his eyes, “The ground certainly got more comfortable overnight.” Glancing about, he was quick to realize this was not the hard, dusty terrain he had settled down upon the night before. Instead, he found himself in an generic institution room and in a rather unflattering outfit
( ... )
Only the strong would survive, that was the law of the nature. Not just that, the strong also had the ability to break the strings, would be able to play the puppeteer themselves. All his life, he had been a marionette, controlled by that foolish old man. He had sought power, the power to break the strings, to spread his wings and release himself from the ever restricting cage. To be in control of his own life
( ... )
When you're dead, you typically don't wake back up. Kimbley knew this - after all, if every person he killed came back, he would have died a lot sooner than he did. Hell, he probably wouldn't have gone to jail, he'd have been dead already. Death was final, a blow that collapsed the empty creation that was humanity.
And he'd expected to die, himself. After all, he was as human as everybody else. Sure, it had been a little unexpected when it came (a hand through his damn abdomen was always unexpected), but he'd gone out with a bang, even if he personally hadn't seen it. Ah, that had to have been one hell of an explosion ... shrapnel flying everywhere, sand burning, white-hot flames engulfing everything ...
The point was, Zolf J. Kimbley didn't expect to open his eyes and see a white ceiling. He was almost completely certain that he had died in Lior. Unless someone had performed emergency medical on the field (to do what? Replace his esophagus?), there was no way he could have survived that blow
( ... )
Allen gave a slow yawn and a stretch as he woke. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up in an unfamiliar room. His job, his duty was to eliminate the Akuma at any cost, including his own health and safety and he took it seriously. It was a nice bed at least
( ... )
There was a certain comfort Tatsumi felt by smashing his alarm clock into blissful silence each morning. As if it somehow let him start the day easier, that tiny bit of preemptive stress release, a moment to vent his frustration and think No, I won't kill them for spending THAT much money yesterday. I won't.So it was quite alarming--forgiveness, please--to wake up not only in silence, but with the lights already on. Why were his lights on? Did whatever idiot left them on realize how much money was being wasted, what Tatsumi's light bill would be like if he had to suffer from some phantom switch flipper every night
( ... )
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And he'd expected to die, himself. After all, he was as human as everybody else. Sure, it had been a little unexpected when it came (a hand through his damn abdomen was always unexpected), but he'd gone out with a bang, even if he personally hadn't seen it. Ah, that had to have been one hell of an explosion ... shrapnel flying everywhere, sand burning, white-hot flames engulfing everything ...
The point was, Zolf J. Kimbley didn't expect to open his eyes and see a white ceiling. He was almost completely certain that he had died in Lior. Unless someone had performed emergency medical on the field (to do what? Replace his esophagus?), there was no way he could have survived that blow ( ... )
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