Signless leaves him first, throat slit from jagged rocks, and Psii spends the entire day holed away from the rest of the arena staring at the red on his hands that doesn't seem to fade even slightly.
Lyn's the next, although at least his passing does not come for some days and it is for all of those days that Psii searches for him desperately. Team up might be the tactical answer, but it's desperate worry that's the emotional one. He's not entirely sure how close he is to the young troll's body when the cannon sounds off. When he stares up into the sky and sees the boy's grimace of a portrait and his name plastered up there.
He's strong, he'd fight anyone who'd say he isn't, but his mind only takes so much. Can only hold so much before the delicate balance tips and leaves him feeling empty. Too empty to move, too empty to mourn.
It's those poisonous words slinking through his mind that make him move again, lacing him with hatred that's nearly a relief because god knows anything would be worse than suffocating apathy. He lets that pure pitch feeling guide him, steadies his hands and firms his resolve, and his reward for living is that mental voice which pricks at his weaknesses and which he strives to beat. Which he aches to see, because it's the only that keeps him going anymore.
It takes more than a little traveling. Eventually, however, they find one another. There's blood beneath his claws, and a hollowness to Schuldig's face, but neither of them cares- not right then at any rate. There's just the clash of their reunion, all need and possession and hatred sweeter than any gift the sponsors could give.
Cameras probably don't show what inevitably comes after. They both know Schuldig finds it a shame.
After that, they don't cling because it's in neither their natures, but they don't stray either. Not tactics there, either, just pure need at its base form as Schuldig traces something in German along his spine and Psii matches him with his claws drifting against his skin.
Maybe two losses are enough, two would be fitting, he thinks bitterly, but fate has never been kind to him, and he comes back to their camp of the day to find Schuldig with a spear protruding from his chest and a stranger's corpse with the head decapitated because of a trap. It's something Psii knows he should admire- at least he took the fucker out with him as is befitting.
Yet all he can think is... nothing at all.
Numbness sweeps over his pan like a cold wind, and he makes his way through the camp automatically. There's no voice mocking or needling him in his head. No reaction comes when he digs his claws against Schuldig's cheek. He wants admonishment for ruining with the vanity that his kismesis so foolishly keeps against all common sense. None comes.
There might be tears. He's not sure. He feels so detached from everything. Not even his voice sounds like his. "You told me you'd be the one to kill me." It'd been a comfort.
He's definitely crying, but there's no rage or brilliant burning misery that has him fall apart at the seams all at once. It's quiet save for the ragged wetness of his breath as he gets to moving, spreading the brush around as wide an area as he can while there's still daylight. No, no falling apart at the seams. Instead, they pluck apart one by one, slowly, until nightfall finds him watching the campfire eat up and swell to the feast he's provided it while he keeps Schuldig's corpse in his arms, his front to the other's back.
They took Signless and Lyn's bodies away from him.
But not this one. Not Schuldig.
He keeps his grip solid as the flames grow bright and claims them both.
Ace
Lyn's the next, although at least his passing does not come for some days and it is for all of those days that Psii searches for him desperately. Team up might be the tactical answer, but it's desperate worry that's the emotional one. He's not entirely sure how close he is to the young troll's body when the cannon sounds off. When he stares up into the sky and sees the boy's grimace of a portrait and his name plastered up there.
He's strong, he'd fight anyone who'd say he isn't, but his mind only takes so much. Can only hold so much before the delicate balance tips and leaves him feeling empty. Too empty to move, too empty to mourn.
It's those poisonous words slinking through his mind that make him move again, lacing him with hatred that's nearly a relief because god knows anything would be worse than suffocating apathy. He lets that pure pitch feeling guide him, steadies his hands and firms his resolve, and his reward for living is that mental voice which pricks at his weaknesses and which he strives to beat. Which he aches to see, because it's the only that keeps him going anymore.
It takes more than a little traveling. Eventually, however, they find one another. There's blood beneath his claws, and a hollowness to Schuldig's face, but neither of them cares- not right then at any rate. There's just the clash of their reunion, all need and possession and hatred sweeter than any gift the sponsors could give.
Cameras probably don't show what inevitably comes after. They both know Schuldig finds it a shame.
After that, they don't cling because it's in neither their natures, but they don't stray either. Not tactics there, either, just pure need at its base form as Schuldig traces something in German along his spine and Psii matches him with his claws drifting against his skin.
Maybe two losses are enough, two would be fitting, he thinks bitterly, but fate has never been kind to him, and he comes back to their camp of the day to find Schuldig with a spear protruding from his chest and a stranger's corpse with the head decapitated because of a trap. It's something Psii knows he should admire- at least he took the fucker out with him as is befitting.
Yet all he can think is... nothing at all.
Numbness sweeps over his pan like a cold wind, and he makes his way through the camp automatically. There's no voice mocking or needling him in his head. No reaction comes when he digs his claws against Schuldig's cheek. He wants admonishment for ruining with the vanity that his kismesis so foolishly keeps against all common sense. None comes.
There might be tears. He's not sure. He feels so detached from everything. Not even his voice sounds like his. "You told me you'd be the one to kill me." It'd been a comfort.
He's definitely crying, but there's no rage or brilliant burning misery that has him fall apart at the seams all at once. It's quiet save for the ragged wetness of his breath as he gets to moving, spreading the brush around as wide an area as he can while there's still daylight. No, no falling apart at the seams. Instead, they pluck apart one by one, slowly, until nightfall finds him watching the campfire eat up and swell to the feast he's provided it while he keeps Schuldig's corpse in his arms, his front to the other's back.
They took Signless and Lyn's bodies away from him.
But not this one. Not Schuldig.
He keeps his grip solid as the flames grow bright and claims them both.