[Because THIS IS THANCRED's life, that's why. Anyway, he's. Unfortunately at least familiar enough by Wednesday to know what's up with this whole "falling into a hole with someone" business, and not altogether pleased to be here with someone the age of Alphinaud and Alisaie. There are too many horrors lurking in his memories to be comfortable with that.
And maybe he shouldn't have entertained that thought at all, because who wants to bet he's just jinxed himself.]
I'm fine. [He sits up, grumbling and glaring at the blank screen because it's his new enemy.] Just real tired of this... "tee vee." And its underground prison.
[Hunter, boy, if you think you're real tired of this TV business, you've got nothing on how exhausted Thancred is going to be in about two and a half seconds, because —
|| There's nothing, strictly speaking, to see in this memory; there's likewise nothing to hear. Such are the hazards of having memories from a place where light doesn't reach, where sound makes no difference. And yet something of the emotion of it comes through nevertheless — a sense of pressure, purple-black, unrelenting in the way it bears down from all sides, seeking to suppress and crush and snuff out.
He's not struggling, because to struggle necessitates limbs, and he's long since lost control of those. He's not moving, because moving requires a form, and that's been overshadowed by the malevolence that seeks to dominate him. But it would have him fall silent, be eliminated once and for all, and he —
fights
fights to keep hold of his name, his being. Fights against the ego death that the monster smothering him would prefer, because there is nothing about him that matters — only his form, his face, and the convenience it offers, and the doors it unlocks.
In the nothingness he writhes against, a blinding red pattern of lines and angles burns to life. It's so bright by comparison that it's the only color he can perceive for a moment, glowing against the nothingness, the lack of light.
Your comrades are close, Lahabrea taunts him, gleeful and half-insane. Shall we show them our face? Do they not deserve the pleasure of knowing firsthand your betrayal, your weakness?
and there is
nothing
nothing of him, nothing to do, nothing to reach for, nothing to scream, as the Ascian takes his (their) (his!) arms and uses them to lift his hood. ||
[About ten seconds after the video has ended, and fewer still after Hunter turns to address him, it occurs to Thancred that he hasn't breathed in — that he can't remember the last time he drew breath, actually.
There are memories he's seen that have been nostalgic and ones that have been painful. There are ones that stirred up feelings of shame, of pride, of longing, of relief. He doesn't know why he ever thought that this one might be exempt. Why would he ever think that this one was dead and buried.
And now someone has seen it. And he'd thought his Bicker profile was bad enough.
Hell truly isn't pulling any punches this week, is it.]
[He's quiet a long time — or maybe it just seems long, to his own reckoning. The reassurance feels eerily like something Alphinaud would say; acknowledging something ugly while still seeking to smooth over it, offering condolences for things that warrant little more than scorn.
Maybe that's why his tongue loosens, in the end. Idle thoughts of Alphinaud.]
People died because of that. Comrades of mine. They didn't stand a chance.
[It had always seemed like such a cosmic joke, that they'd died and he'd endured to live with it. Well, maybe now it's finally caught up with him.]
Not exactly one of my prouder moments. But I suppose I should've expected it sooner or later, given this place.
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week three, wednesday.
hunter stays face down on the ground where he landed, too tired for this shit.]
Why.
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And maybe he shouldn't have entertained that thought at all, because who wants to bet he's just jinxed himself.]
Oof. Are you all right?
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He's not struggling, because to struggle necessitates limbs, and he's long since lost control of those. He's not moving, because moving requires a form, and that's been overshadowed by the malevolence that seeks to dominate him. But it would have him fall silent, be eliminated once and for all, and he —
fights
fights to keep hold of his name, his being. Fights against the ego death that the monster smothering him would prefer, because there is nothing about him that matters — only his form, his face, and the convenience it offers, and the doors it unlocks.
In the nothingness he writhes against, a blinding red pattern of lines and angles burns to life. It's so bright by comparison that it's the only color he can perceive for a moment, glowing against the nothingness, the lack of light.
Your comrades are close, Lahabrea taunts him, gleeful and half-insane. Shall we show them our face? Do they not deserve the pleasure of knowing firsthand your betrayal, your weakness?
and there is
nothing
nothing of him, nothing to do, nothing to reach for, nothing to scream, as the Ascian takes his (their) (his!) arms and uses them to lift his hood. ||
So, Hunter. That.
That sure did just happen, huh.]
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as the memory winds down, hunter stares at the screen for a moment longer — and the he turns to stare at him.]
... Titan, were you possessed?
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There are memories he's seen that have been nostalgic and ones that have been painful. There are ones that stirred up feelings of shame, of pride, of longing, of relief. He doesn't know why he ever thought that this one might be exempt. Why would he ever think that this one was dead and buried.
And now someone has seen it. And he'd thought his Bicker profile was bad enough.
Hell truly isn't pulling any punches this week, is it.]
...And if I was?
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[He wrings his hands, looking back at the blank screen with a small huff.]
I'm, uh, I'm sorry. That I saw that. These... contraptions... like to rub the worst part of our lives in our faces.
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Maybe that's why his tongue loosens, in the end. Idle thoughts of Alphinaud.]
People died because of that. Comrades of mine. They didn't stand a chance.
[It had always seemed like such a cosmic joke, that they'd died and he'd endured to live with it. Well, maybe now it's finally caught up with him.]
Not exactly one of my prouder moments. But I suppose I should've expected it sooner or later, given this place.
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[Tiredly. He sighs and glances back at him, concerned.]
... Did you manage to get rid of whatever took over your body, at least?