[ He doesn't know what hits him. Can't see Akechi pick up the rock. Can't see anything at all. Only feels the force come down against his neck and jolts with the new surge of pain, tries to block with the arm Akechi hasn't been clawing deep red trenches into–
But whatever it is hits again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again–
At some point, shock sets in and the pain stops registering at all. His vision stops fading from the glass dug into his eyes. His ears stop ringing from the echoes of his own shouting. He stops being able to shout. He stops being able to make any noise at all. Something in his throat cracks, snaps, collapses in on itself– he wants to scream, can't– wants to breathe, can't–
The volume of reality steadily turned down until it goes mute, his own labored half-breaths and his heart kicking into overtime the only sounds rattling around his emptied mind.
It doesn't look like Eden. It doesn't look like anything at all.
There are countless explanations of what happens to consciousness when death draws near. Spiritual explanations, religious ones. Psychological explanations, neurological ones. Maruki can't claim to be an expert in any of them. Has cognitive psience ever had anything to say on the matter? Likely not. It's research he could pioneer. It's research that could get him killed on a chilly winter's night in his tiny apartment kitchen– in an empty alley behind a trendy cafe or an udon restaurant or a jazz club– in a cognitive world whose shape he doesn't yet know– or here, on a grassy knoll behind a castle in the reality that delivered his life straight into the hands of the person who's meant to end it.
He can't fight anymore, but his synapses fire at a rapid pace, trying to stave off the heavy blanket of peace settling over his cognition, and–
Maruki draws a huge, gulping gasp of air as his eyes fly open. Throat structurally sound once more, eyes blurry with blood and tears but fully functional. He sees Akechi above him, the rock raised above his head, the blood coating his hands, the front of his shirt, his face, everywhere, everywhere.
A red-stained grin blooms across Maruki's face. A breathless laugh escapes.
It's over. ]
Azathoth.
[ The sky above them splits open as dark energy coalesces into a great glowing orb, and Maruki wrenches his arms free to grab Akechi around his knitted-together ribs and shove him sideways, down into the grass next to him, with every ounce of strength returned to him with that heal. He can't escape this blast, and he doesn't want to. He just needs to make sure it hits Akechi as hard as it hits him.
Tyrant Chaos aims inexorably at them both, and in the resulting explosion of blinding light, Maruki's only coherent thought is that if they kill each other like this, they'll deserve every second they spend in Inferna together. ]
cw graphic violence, eye trauma, near death experience
But whatever it is hits again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again–
At some point, shock sets in and the pain stops registering at all. His vision stops fading from the glass dug into his eyes. His ears stop ringing from the echoes of his own shouting. He stops being able to shout. He stops being able to make any noise at all. Something in his throat cracks, snaps, collapses in on itself– he wants to scream, can't– wants to breathe, can't–
The volume of reality steadily turned down until it goes mute, his own labored half-breaths and his heart kicking into overtime the only sounds rattling around his emptied mind.
It doesn't look like Eden. It doesn't look like anything at all.
There are countless explanations of what happens to consciousness when death draws near. Spiritual explanations, religious ones. Psychological explanations, neurological ones. Maruki can't claim to be an expert in any of them. Has cognitive psience ever had anything to say on the matter? Likely not. It's research he could pioneer. It's research that could get him killed on a chilly winter's night in his tiny apartment kitchen– in an empty alley behind a trendy cafe or an udon restaurant or a jazz club– in a cognitive world whose shape he doesn't yet know– or here, on a grassy knoll behind a castle in the reality that delivered his life straight into the hands of the person who's meant to end it.
He can't fight anymore, but his synapses fire at a rapid pace, trying to stave off the heavy blanket of peace settling over his cognition, and–
Maruki draws a huge, gulping gasp of air as his eyes fly open. Throat structurally sound once more, eyes blurry with blood and tears but fully functional. He sees Akechi above him, the rock raised above his head, the blood coating his hands, the front of his shirt, his face, everywhere, everywhere.
A red-stained grin blooms across Maruki's face. A breathless laugh escapes.
It's over. ]
Azathoth.
[ The sky above them splits open as dark energy coalesces into a great glowing orb, and Maruki wrenches his arms free to grab Akechi around his knitted-together ribs and shove him sideways, down into the grass next to him, with every ounce of strength returned to him with that heal. He can't escape this blast, and he doesn't want to. He just needs to make sure it hits Akechi as hard as it hits him.
Tyrant Chaos aims inexorably at them both, and in the resulting explosion of blinding light, Maruki's only coherent thought is that if they kill each other like this, they'll deserve every second they spend in Inferna together. ]