10: My muse is having a vivid nightmare and is crying out in their sleep.
Strife is alone with the monster in his mind again.
He twists away to keep running but he feels his dagger-like nails dig into his left shoulder. He gasps as he drags him back, as easy as if he were a child, like all his strength and size means nothing. Hos talons dig deeper and twist, and he canât help but cry out in pain as he cuts deeper and deeper, blood running in rivulets over his skin and his fingers into the shadow, andâ
âand he watches the energy partition rise in front of him, opening the way into the arena. He stares at the now-familiar sand and metal pillars jutting out of the ground, and stares expectantly at the sentries on either side of him.
They donât give him a weapon, just shove him forward into the ring with the butts of their firearms. Theyâve never given him a weapon since he'd taken a gun and blown the last opponents brains out. He doesnât fight it, and just goes quietly into the ring, knowing better than to get antagonistic now. When thereâs no one to protect itâs not worth it; it usually just gives him an extra bruise or burn or gash to have to contend with in the fight itself.
He stumbles a little as his feet slide in the sand, and he winces as it jars his injuries. Two weeks later itâs no longer infected, but itâs still extremely sensitive, and the scar tissue hasnât had a chance to heal fully. The cloth chafes against his skin and weighs down his right side, and he knows itâs going to hurt like hell by the end of the fight, no matter what he does.
His stomach growls, and he winces. Heâs starving, so hungry he feels shaky and weak, and waves of exhaustion roll through him with every step. That hunger is always on his mind now, a gnawing void in his thoughts he canât ever seem to rid himself of. He hasnât eaten well recentlyâstandard rations in the ring just arenât enough when youâre constantly fighting for your life and trying to recover from injuries.
Winning rewards more food and water, and winning after a spectacular show rewards more still, but Strife hasnât behaved well for his past three fights. His opponents have all clearly been captured civilians and slaves, decked out in the same ragged black suit and over shirt as himself, all carrying weapons in unfamiliar hands and watching him like heâs the goddamned devil himself. It doesnât matter what they actually look like, vaguely humanoid or not at allâ
So he beats them, because if they win a match theyâll never survive against the next opponent, and many others in the arena arenât just winnersâtheyâre sadistic winners. He uses the same tactic he uses on the last, injuring them just enough that theyâre useless in fights but still viable as free labor, defeating them quickly and efficiently. They leave alive. He wins. In a personal sense just as, if not more than, a literal one.
But by the third bout and the third win, his victories start to feel more hollow. Hojo is not happy with his resistance, clearly, because he doesnât get the extra rations heâd normally be rewarded for defeating any opponent. His hunger starts to claw not just at his stomach, but at his mind, and he feels weaker and more exhausted the more time passes. Heâs spared those lives, and he should feel fulfilled because of it, feel a grim sort of pleasure at being able to disobey Hojo in any way, in making any kind of decision where they gave him no choice at all, for being able to retain his humanity in this hellhole.
But itâs hard to feel accomplished about anything when he feels like a wraith, withering away on the inside. Mostly he just feels tired. Like heâs accomplished nothing. Like his efforts are pointless. Like he canât be bothered to care.
Strife's frame twists in the plane of the living, gloves hands grip against the very cloth on him, deep gashes left in the cloth and the side of the wall, large dents from his thrashing in his sleep as he's breaking apart, mako drips down from his eyes, his own veins faintly glow as he mutters a single phrase over and over.
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