[ You walk into a cramped, claustrophobic room. The walls are haphazardly papered in an overwhelming number of photos and notes, some of which are smudged with glossy, rusty brown smears.]
[ The yellow power cable winds around underfoot, over a floor that’s spattered with blood both new and old. At the far end of the room, it plugs into the base of a narrow pedestal with a single large, red button on top. The pedestal is labeled with a small, metal plaque that reads “SIMULATION”.]
[ There’s a yellow sticky note stuck to the button that says “DO NOT PRESS”.]
[ Despite the note, you can tell by the number of old, bloody handprints all over the button that it’s been pressed many, many times before. ]
[ Most of the wall is covered in photos, but there are some notes here and there. ]
[ There’s an official-looking page that’s been furiously scribbled out, and what little is visible has something about revival fees. ]
[ There’s a scrap of paper that says, in atrocious handwriting: ]
Don’t hurt anyone. Do the least harm. Compromise with the unit. Protect those who are important to you. Do what you can live with. Protect yourself at all costs for the sake of others. Do what you need to do for the sake of yourself. When you must hurt someone, try to minimize suffering. Protect the unit’s autonomy.
[There’s another note that says: ]
Killing loved ones means they are hurt but dying for loved ones means they are hurt more; is it kinder to take a hit for them or is it kinder to kill your loved ones even when it hurts you? If mental pain is worse than physical, then you can take the worst of the suffering on yourself it by killing them. Is the righteousness of victimhood easier to cope with than the pain of mourning and regret? People will be angry with you no matter what, so what is most kind?
[ Another that says: ]
IF YOUR PAIN IS NOT VISIBLE, IT DOESN’T EXIST. DO NOT TALK TO ANYONE OFF-UNIT* (*exceptions apply)
[ And more than a few large, angrily-written notes here and there that just say: ]
FUCK!!
[ The rest of the wall is covered in photos upon photos upon photos. They’re candid shots, their subjects too busy being upset—or angry, or maimed, or dead—to bother posing.
There’s Thorn, looking ready to punch you in the face. There’s King, cut into pieces, sewed back together, and so angry he can’t speak to you. There’s Leviathan grabbing you by the collar, his rage more blistering than the burns on either of you. There’s Amaranth, looking at you with narrowed eyes and a soured expression. There’s Pink, wheezing with constriction bruises around his throat. There’s Intensity, his torso full of enormous holes. There’s Hurricane, missing an eye, an arm, and most of his shoulder, what’s left of his body is riddled with smoking, cauterized holes. He shouldn’t be alive, but he’s smiling disingenuously and insisting he’s fine. There’s Shrike, Cardinal, Nemesis, Nero, and Kohime, all in a crumpled heap of broken bones. There’s Sunshine grieving by himself on a balcony. There’s Wednesday, who bled to death in your arms, limbs torn from her body. There’s Senpai, Pink, Ren, and Wednesday, all looking fried to crisps. All of them are crying, laughing hysterically, or both. There’s Glacies, scorched skin and smoking arm, bodily throwing Gladio at Absinthe. There’s Nychta, black blood spilling like an oil slick from the stab wound in her throat. There’s Moxie, sobbing after being mauled by several bears. Ren, Pink, and Glacies don’t look much better. There’s Izanagi, missing both hands, with bottlebrush branches growing from his skin. There’s Sabre, sobbing over the stumps where her hands used to be. There’s Amaranth, killing you with a spear. There’s Nemesis with a broken nose. There’s Nero with a spear through his chest. There’s Cardinal with a knife in their back. There’s Leviathan with no skin at all. There’s Yugi with both his eyes ripped out, gold blood sluicing down his cheeks. There’s Silver, looking drained and disappointed while holding a soccer ball. There’s Hurricane, smiling at you in a way that suggests he’d rather be anywhere else than here. There’s Dawn (pep!pep! edition), having an angry meltdown. There’s Requiem, looking mortified. There’s Wednesday and Yugi with arrow wounds. There’s Thorn, dead on the ground looking somewhat liquified. There’s Sunshine missing an eye, with a maimed leg dangling uselessly from his hip. There’s Amaranth, cut into pieces and sewed back together. There’s Thorn, dead on the ground with a bullet hole in his chest. There’s Pink and Wednesday with black, frostburned hands. There’s Thorn, body crushed into hamburger by stones. There’s a man with long hair who’s missing all his guts. There’s Persephone, his body held together with strings and glue.
...And on, and on, and on, and on. Hundreds upon hundreds of photos. ]
Oh he... genuinely dislikes this room. He wants to pull the pictures down. But he doesn't know what is right, here. Taking them down would mean pretending these events didn't happen.
And no matter how painful they all are, they have happened.
Is there a pen in the room, though? Something to write with? ]
No matter what we do there will always be tough decisions in games. Ones we regret, ones that we wish we could do over again, ones that will continue to haunt our memories because they tear at parts of our souls that should never be touched.
All of us on every single unit will make mistakes at times. And we will all of us be upset by negative outcomes in games. But as long as we keep loving others and trying our best, that is all that can ever be expected of us.
You are loved. You are cared for. You are infinitely deserving of happiness. And you are incredibly strong. Never give up, and know that your friends are always there for you no matter what.
He tapes the note to the wall in large writing. And then he writes another small note, placing it by the large button in the room.
[You pin the note to the wall, and it's hard to put your finger on, but the room feels a little warmer. It seems like it's trying to choke you a little bit less.]
[The black cord is just stuck to the wall with duct tape as if someone hastily tried to get it out of the way. It would be easy to tear it down, though.]
[There doesn't seem to be anything to plug it into except the yellow cable. The yellow cable comes in through the same door you did, winds around over the filthy floor, and is connected to the base of the podium.]
[It seems like only one of these things can be plugged in at a time.]
[There's a humming sound like something powering up.]
[The room seems to grow brighter and less claustrophobic. It feels like taking a deep, steadying breath, like suddenly you have a little more space to think. Things don't feel nearly so dire. They even feel a little... hopeful, perhaps.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Culpa
[ You walk into a cramped, claustrophobic room. The walls are haphazardly papered in an overwhelming number of photos and notes, some of which are smudged with glossy, rusty brown smears.]
[ The yellow power cable winds around underfoot, over a floor that’s spattered with blood both new and old. At the far end of the room, it plugs into the base of a narrow pedestal with a single large, red button on top. The pedestal is labeled with a small, metal plaque that reads “SIMULATION”.]
[ There’s a yellow sticky note stuck to the button that says “DO NOT PRESS”.]
[ Despite the note, you can tell by the number of old, bloody handprints all over the button that it’s been pressed many, many times before. ]
Re: Culpa
. . . . . . . . Staring . . .
He will first see if there is something in here other than the button to focus on though. Like anything important on the notes on the walls. ]
Re: Culpa
[ There’s an official-looking page that’s been furiously scribbled out, and what little is visible has something about revival fees. ]
[ There’s a scrap of paper that says, in atrocious handwriting: ]
[There’s another note that says: ]
[ Another that says: ]
[ And more than a few large, angrily-written notes here and there that just say: ]
FUCK!!
[ The rest of the wall is covered in photos upon photos upon photos. They’re candid shots, their subjects too busy being upset—or angry, or maimed, or dead—to bother posing.
There’s Thorn, looking ready to punch you in the face.
There’s King, cut into pieces, sewed back together, and so angry he can’t speak to you.
There’s Leviathan grabbing you by the collar, his rage more blistering than the burns on either of you.
There’s Amaranth, looking at you with narrowed eyes and a soured expression.
There’s Pink, wheezing with constriction bruises around his throat.
There’s Intensity, his torso full of enormous holes.
There’s Hurricane, missing an eye, an arm, and most of his shoulder, what’s left of his body is riddled with smoking, cauterized holes. He shouldn’t be alive, but he’s smiling disingenuously and insisting he’s fine.
There’s Shrike, Cardinal, Nemesis, Nero, and Kohime, all in a crumpled heap of broken bones.
There’s Sunshine grieving by himself on a balcony.
There’s Wednesday, who bled to death in your arms, limbs torn from her body.
There’s Senpai, Pink, Ren, and Wednesday, all looking fried to crisps. All of them are crying, laughing hysterically, or both.
There’s Glacies, scorched skin and smoking arm, bodily throwing Gladio at Absinthe.
There’s Nychta, black blood spilling like an oil slick from the stab wound in her throat.
There’s Moxie, sobbing after being mauled by several bears. Ren, Pink, and Glacies don’t look much better.
There’s Izanagi, missing both hands, with bottlebrush branches growing from his skin.
There’s Sabre, sobbing over the stumps where her hands used to be.
There’s Amaranth, killing you with a spear.
There’s Nemesis with a broken nose.
There’s Nero with a spear through his chest.
There’s Cardinal with a knife in their back.
There’s Leviathan with no skin at all.
There’s Yugi with both his eyes ripped out, gold blood sluicing down his cheeks.
There’s Silver, looking drained and disappointed while holding a soccer ball.
There’s Hurricane, smiling at you in a way that suggests he’d rather be anywhere else than here.
There’s Dawn (pep!pep! edition), having an angry meltdown.
There’s Requiem, looking mortified.
There’s Wednesday and Yugi with arrow wounds.
There’s Thorn, dead on the ground looking somewhat liquified.
There’s Sunshine missing an eye, with a maimed leg dangling uselessly from his hip.
There’s Amaranth, cut into pieces and sewed back together.
There’s Thorn, dead on the ground with a bullet hole in his chest.
There’s Pink and Wednesday with black, frostburned hands.
There’s Thorn, body crushed into hamburger by stones.
There’s a man with long hair who’s missing all his guts.
There’s Persephone, his body held together with strings and glue.
...And on, and on, and on, and on. Hundreds upon hundreds of photos. ]
Re: Culpa
Oh he... genuinely dislikes this room. He wants to pull the pictures down. But he doesn't know what is right, here. Taking them down would mean pretending these events didn't happen.
And no matter how painful they all are, they have happened.
Is there a pen in the room, though? Something to write with? ]
Re: Culpa
[Next to those, an unplugged black cord is taped to the wall for some reason, mixed in with all the photos. You almost didn't notice it.]
Re: Culpa
All of us on every single unit will make mistakes at times. And we will all of us be upset by negative outcomes in games. But as long as we keep loving others and trying our best, that is all that can ever be expected of us.
You are loved. You are cared for. You are infinitely deserving of happiness. And you are incredibly strong. Never give up, and know that your friends are always there for you no matter what.
He tapes the note to the wall in large writing. And then he writes another small note, placing it by the large button in the room.
' Button game ' --
It's what he assumes it has to be.
Lastly, he will inspect the black cord ]
Re: Culpa
[The black cord is just stuck to the wall with duct tape as if someone hastily tried to get it out of the way. It would be easy to tear it down, though.]
[There doesn't seem to be anything to plug it into except the yellow cable. The yellow cable comes in through the same door you did, winds around over the filthy floor, and is connected to the base of the podium.]
[It seems like only one of these things can be plugged in at a time.]
Re: Culpa
Re: Culpa
[The room seems to grow brighter and less claustrophobic. It feels like taking a deep, steadying breath, like suddenly you have a little more space to think. Things don't feel nearly so dire. They even feel a little... hopeful, perhaps.]
[The light has been restored.]
Re: Culpa
Re: Culpa