I kept forgetting to post my sticktober stuff before⌠but i post it now so uhhh yeah. Explanation for the first pic is showing how each victim reincarnated into sum1 (well except the 1st one just died and stayed a ghost).
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"May those who accept their fate be granted Happiness, may those who defy their fate be granted Glory."
-Edel, Princess Tutu
He is not meant to live.
Well, thatâs not the whole story. He is meant to live, for a short while.
Only for a short while.
He can feel it in his code, his obsolescence writ upon his form in black brushstrokes.
He is victim, and he has been born to die.
He frowns, as he contemplates this destiny, when his musings are interrupted by the first violation, and his small world spins.
This, then, is what he is meant for.
He is staggered, as he rights himself, sighting his foe and aiming complaint like a counterattack.
His vexation falls on deaf ears.
All is as it is meant to be.
He is not mighty. He is not heard.
He is victim.
He will die.
Disconcerted, he pushes, and the small world breaks, and he falls out into the beyond. His small world is gone, broken to pieces and crushed under weight.
He is victim. He will be assaulted and abused, and then he will be gone as well. This is his purpose, to be a device for the reception of harm.
He knows this. He knows he is meant to receive slight and mockery and brutality and aggression.
But.
The unbound stays of his collapsed world become weapons, as he takes them in hand to ward off his foe.
And the victim attacks.
He fails. The victim is not meant to be triumphant, and he is thrown off and knocked down.
But he does not hesitate, he is not broken yet. He stands, and turns, and proclaims his ire, and attacks again.
He knows his message will not be received. If he were to be heard, he would cease to be victim. And to be victim is his purpose.
His purpose is to die.
He will be harmed. He knows.
But if the victim is defined by the harm visited upon himâŚ
âŚthen does it matter, what the victim does?
As he is yanked about, he strikes, and momentarily he has freed himself.
It will not last, he acknowledges, as he snatches up tools. Tools meant for use by his foe, but they welcome his intent just as well. Wielding them is no great struggle.
As the wreckage from the explosion settles, he has a moment to breathe, and he realizes what heâs been doing.
He reacts. He responds. He counters.
He is victim. He cannot take charge of his foe. He cannot take charge of his fate.
But he has charge of himself.
He can do what he wants.
It doesnât matter what happens to him. It will happen to him, whether he wants it to or not.
But it doesnât matter what happens to him, because he can do what he wants.
A thrill of astonishment courses through him, his hands almost shaking with it as he readies the eraser. On a whim, he playfully tosses the paintbrush, and his giddiness is only spurred on as he marvels at his ability to do so, watching as it flips over in the air before catching it again in his hand.
He did that. He can do that.
A whoop of joy erupts from him.
Itâs so simple.
He brandishes his paintbrush, pointing it towards the cursor; a challenge aimed against his foe, a determined glint in his eyes.
He knows he will not win, in the end.
But this is not the end. Â
He will die. But now, he is alive, and now, he fights, he runs, he makes, he thwarts, he outwits, he is.
.
.
.
He is still laughing when everything stills, the smiles paused on his faces.
Oh.
Itâs over.
In the absence of motion, his split mind converges into one once more. One of him had a defensive hand held up, his face turned toward the Outside. Wait, it says. Hold on, just a moment, wait.
A plea, disregarded.
The victim was not heard.
As he had known he wouldnât be. Why, then?
âŚwell, why not? Better to try. To do all he can.
As he gazes wistfully across the expanse of the artboard, he wishes his timeline couldâve been a little longer.
A little more. Just a little more.
He wonders how much he couldâve done, with just a little more.
But he will not get more. He is victim. He will not be saved.
He has served his purpose. He is obsolete.
His life ends now.
He has done all he can, with what he was given.
The enormity of it strikes him.
He has done all.
Oh, how full, how full his life has been! And what fun he has known, what contention he has weathered, what discoveries he has found!
Short though it may have been, it was his, and no one elseâs.
He is victim, and he faces death, and knows that he has lived.
Guilt was what ravaged Kikuhito for asking such a request of Grace. He shouldâve known better, but he couldnât help himself. However, he felt less of that as he approached his other sibling. He wasnât even sure he could make the same plea. Well, if youâre going to hesitate, then I have something actually worth discussion. War transformed Kikuhitoâs meek gait into a stride of confidence. âFamine, a word.â There was no room for âpleaseâ when it came to this sibling; War knew better. âItâs been a while since Iâve gotten a new vessel, and this oneâs been... uncooperative to say the least. How have you gotten yours to shut the hell up?â As much as he enjoyed basking in Kikuhitoâs misery, even he had enough. But alas, resolving conflict was far, far out of his job description.
âExcuuuuuuuuuse me,â Liam spoke rather loudly, tapping on the pane of window glass next to Ava. He was never really one to stick to rules and of course the window he decided to tap was the one of the libraryâs. Technically it wasnât his fault. Ava was in the library so what else was he supposed to do? And if he didnât speak loudly, sheâd never hear him. He couldnât quite hear what was happening inside though. All Liam could see were eyes on him and the token old lady librarian holding a finger to her lips to signal that he be quiet. Of course he was quick to ignore it, and raised his voice louder. âAre you ready to go yet? Or are you gonna keep nerding away and actually try at that homework stuff? Câmon, chop chop. Places to go, people to prank,â.Â
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