standing at the edge of some gaping hole, haise looks down into the darkness at his feet and wonders what could be there: something so great that it swallows all of these silly little offerings, envelops them in shadows and then forces them to disappear, or perhaps it's that the ground beneath the hole is so far away that there's no sound, no indication of anything hitting rock or dirt or stone and shattering. it makes him feel uneasy to look into it--funny, given how easily he can look at other things, can see blood spattered across skin or flesh torn by mutated genes and not be troubled. this gives him a different feeling--that stomach twist of falling, but not really falling.
he doesn't have anything to throw into it. he feels like he should, for the sake of those around him, like the quiet will swallow him whole if he doesn't. but he can't lose his weapon, he can't bear to part with any bit of his uniform--what else does he have left? he could sacrifice his identification, but there's something about it, about his name printed there all neat and type-blocked, that makes his chest seize. he can't give up a piece of himself.
his eyes, round and worried, seek out a companion. anyone to help him. and then, in a soft, hesitant voice, he asks--)
What did you put in? Anything?
II. SILHOUETTE SECRETS.
( the wine doesn't feel right on his tongue, even if it does wonders to help still his nerves; the liquid, swallowed down, seems to take his heart back with it, nestling it down where it belongs. he's hungry: it's some odd, nauseous feeling he's had since arriving, and he can't quite puzzle out how one goes about getting food or why anything he's had so far hasn't made him feel any better.
alcohol is the next best guess. his lips close around the glass, another mouthful, and he doesn't realize he's got company until he sets back down again, folds his hands carefully in his lap and sits almost too politely, straight up on a bar stool that's meant for slouching. )
I thought I should die. ( the words come, oddly enough, from a voice that sounds cheery enough to share the secret--distant and strange, his gaze focuses on the white space behind the bar. ) If it was going to turn out this way, I should die and get it all over with.
III. CHASM SEEKER.
( no. no, no, no--but what if it's true? what if the rest of his squad is here, desperately searching for him, needing him, and he's nowhere to be found? what if giving up his weapon is the only real way to bring them back to him? shouldn't he be the leader he's supposed to be?
not that one, the sad voice had told him, when he'd brandished his sword in question. the one begging him to give something up. the one inside of you, of course.
there's a part of him that can't quite reconcile with that monstrous part of him: the one that bursts from his body in anger, all red tentacles and gripping hatred, seeking out blood or violence or to protect himself, he's never been sure. it's not something he wants to think about; the result of some faulty operation, but he's still human, isn't he? so why is he so reluctant to give it up?
on his hands and knees, he waits, rocks, a head of black and silver hair mourning the guilt that overtakes him--close to the edge of that giant hole in the middle of the place, he thinks all he would have to do is take a deep breath, throw himself over, and rid himself of all this suffering.
the squad would do better without him too, right? )
IV. NETWORK.
White roses. Nothing red. I don't like the way they look... Ah, there are so many beautiful flowers in the world, aren't there? No need for just red.
WILDCARD
( want to do something completely different? feel free to hit me with a starter, or send this journal a PM. tiny info on this guy: haise is a ghoul that doesn't know he's a ghoul... and as such is a member of the ghoul police, essentially. he's about 22 years old! )
sasaki haise | tokyo ghoul:re
( it doesn't seem right to do it.
standing at the edge of some gaping hole, haise looks down into the darkness at his feet and wonders what could be there: something so great that it swallows all of these silly little offerings, envelops them in shadows and then forces them to disappear, or perhaps it's that the ground beneath the hole is so far away that there's no sound, no indication of anything hitting rock or dirt or stone and shattering. it makes him feel uneasy to look into it--funny, given how easily he can look at other things, can see blood spattered across skin or flesh torn by mutated genes and not be troubled. this gives him a different feeling--that stomach twist of falling, but not really falling.
he doesn't have anything to throw into it. he feels like he should, for the sake of those around him, like the quiet will swallow him whole if he doesn't. but he can't lose his weapon, he can't bear to part with any bit of his uniform--what else does he have left? he could sacrifice his identification, but there's something about it, about his name printed there all neat and type-blocked, that makes his chest seize. he can't give up a piece of himself.
his eyes, round and worried, seek out a companion. anyone to help him. and then, in a soft, hesitant voice, he asks--)
What did you put in? Anything?
II. SILHOUETTE SECRETS.
( the wine doesn't feel right on his tongue, even if it does wonders to help still his nerves; the liquid, swallowed down, seems to take his heart back with it, nestling it down where it belongs. he's hungry: it's some odd, nauseous feeling he's had since arriving, and he can't quite puzzle out how one goes about getting food or why anything he's had so far hasn't made him feel any better.
alcohol is the next best guess. his lips close around the glass, another mouthful, and he doesn't realize he's got company until he sets back down again, folds his hands carefully in his lap and sits almost too politely, straight up on a bar stool that's meant for slouching. )
I thought I should die. ( the words come, oddly enough, from a voice that sounds cheery enough to share the secret--distant and strange, his gaze focuses on the white space behind the bar. ) If it was going to turn out this way, I should die and get it all over with.
III. CHASM SEEKER.
( no. no, no, no--but what if it's true? what if the rest of his squad is here, desperately searching for him, needing him, and he's nowhere to be found? what if giving up his weapon is the only real way to bring them back to him? shouldn't he be the leader he's supposed to be?
not that one, the sad voice had told him, when he'd brandished his sword in question. the one begging him to give something up. the one inside of you, of course.
there's a part of him that can't quite reconcile with that monstrous part of him: the one that bursts from his body in anger, all red tentacles and gripping hatred, seeking out blood or violence or to protect himself, he's never been sure. it's not something he wants to think about; the result of some faulty operation, but he's still human, isn't he? so why is he so reluctant to give it up?
on his hands and knees, he waits, rocks, a head of black and silver hair mourning the guilt that overtakes him--close to the edge of that giant hole in the middle of the place, he thinks all he would have to do is take a deep breath, throw himself over, and rid himself of all this suffering.
the squad would do better without him too, right? )
IV. NETWORK.
White roses. Nothing red. I don't like the way they look... Ah, there are so many beautiful flowers in the world, aren't there? No need for just red.
WILDCARD
( want to do something completely different? feel free to hit me with a starter, or send this journal a PM. tiny info on this guy: haise is a ghoul that doesn't know he's a ghoul... and as such is a member of the ghoul police, essentially. he's about 22 years old! )