it's funny, in a way. he was created for the express purpose of being a perfect killing machine, and all of his skills are proof to the efforts. his mind-control abilities, the telepathy, even the regeneration that he inherited from his frequent abuser. every murder he's committed was equal parts training and paving the way for the intended new world order bullshit the gakuso motherfuckers loved to preach about.
tetora hates all of it, because hatred is the only thing he has left that they haven't carved out of him. anger is the one thing that's his - not even his name is his own, after all. he's a second-generation nishizono, a copy of a copy.
their whole lot deserves to burn in hell for simply existing. he just has to burn the rest of them first.
(he does take his hand off hotdog, but not before he catches glimpses of a man with a knife-slick smile, the inseparable oily aftertaste of disgust, the distinct imprint left behind by his type. it's like an ugly, mangled handprint on a jagged bit of rock.
there's only one way he knows to get his point across.) ]
I won't do it again. [ they're said so quietly he might as well not have said anything, but it rings out against the wind, and it's a risk he doesn't care about. tetora knows how to die; he's done it more times than he can count. ] I know what it's like to have someone in your head. I'm sorry.
no subject
it's funny, in a way. he was created for the express purpose of being a perfect killing machine, and all of his skills are proof to the efforts. his mind-control abilities, the telepathy, even the regeneration that he inherited from his frequent abuser. every murder he's committed was equal parts training and paving the way for the intended new world order bullshit the gakuso motherfuckers loved to preach about.
tetora hates all of it, because hatred is the only thing he has left that they haven't carved out of him. anger is the one thing that's his - not even his name is his own, after all. he's a second-generation nishizono, a copy of a copy.
their whole lot deserves to burn in hell for simply existing. he just has to burn the rest of them first.
(he does take his hand off hotdog, but not before he catches glimpses of a man with a knife-slick smile, the inseparable oily aftertaste of disgust, the distinct imprint left behind by his type. it's like an ugly, mangled handprint on a jagged bit of rock.
there's only one way he knows to get his point across.) ]
I won't do it again. [ they're said so quietly he might as well not have said anything, but it rings out against the wind, and it's a risk he doesn't care about. tetora knows how to die; he's done it more times than he can count. ] I know what it's like to have someone in your head. I'm sorry.
You should kill him.