The snarl in Schuldig's mind is projected outwards in a wide band, tributes clutching their heads as he passes. Good; that's what it's for. He's running, at a speed that's almost as dangerous as it is loud, crashing through the undergrowth without anything approaching caution. He's disabling tributes with concentrated rage as he passes because it's the only reason he's surviving blowing through the arena like this. He's bleeding in half a dozen places - fucking Alternian plants - but nothing worth paying attention to, nothing to slow him.
He's sure the gamemakers won't stop him, not like this. The drama's too delicious to interrupt. Any other day, he might appreciate that. There's so little he himself cares about, it's so easy to laugh at loss in others.
But this - this is his. Psiioniic is his. They took away his cigarettes, his caffeine, his sugar, his control, his fun, his freedom, left him a barely functional mess held together by hate and razor wire. Schuldig's never envisioned a good end or long life for himself, but this being whittled away to nothing...no, he was going to lose everything and die but it was going to be on his terms, letting himself fall alongside the only ones who deserved to be standing with him at the end. Most of his life has been living just for the sake of how he wants his death to be - namely, with his control over it absolute in ways his life has never been. They can't take that from him, he won't let them. And Psii is the only fragment of that left, the only thing worth enduring the head-shivering wreck his telepathy's become without the resources to manage it. And he's losing him.
And it's their fault! It's their fucking fault. He barely slept when he had his coffee. How many hours had he passed out for, while the poison worked? Almost all the ones that mattered, evidently. If he'd been awake -
{Don't you fucking dare!} It's been awhile since his telepathic voice was anything that could be called stable, but now it's a scream to shake the inside of a skull. Not even as the result of his emotional state, though that would be enough - but to reach. The bastard knew his range, why had he gone so far to the edge of it? It's too far.
Maybe he's hoping the sheer volume of it will jerk Psiioniic back, blast away the fog encroaching on the other's thoughts. All it sparks is a flicker of smugness, though. {2hee2h, 2hriiek a liittle louder, II don't thiink the entiire arena heard how de2perate you are over me.}
It's so weak. Thoughts are only weak on the verge of sleep and death. Schuldig knows it.
{You're mine!} There's no rebuttal from Schuldig, because he truly is desperate and it's too late to care who knows it. Crawford's been gone for over a week, fully half of what had been keeping Schuldig alive through these games. Feeling the other half being torn away, within his own head, not even close to being there, unable to even kill Psii himself and at least have the loss be on their terms - {If you die it's going to be with my hands around your throat, you pissblood fuck!}
{Poor grub. Look2 liike you don't get to call all the 2hots after all.} And the worst part is that Schuldig can feel how he's (figuratively) mouthing the words. Psii does want him there, would rather die at his hands than this pathetic wasting death from a poison dart half a day ago. Doesn't want to die alone. And Schuldig has most of a mile to cover in rough terrain, and less than two minutes to do it in. There's no chance.
{Watch me!} Schuldig stumbles hard, feels blood trickling from his knee even as he pours all his focus into his mind, head pounding like his own power is trying to jar his skull to pieces. He's distantly aware of something in his nose bursting, blood pattering on rock, and then he's pushing himself so insistently into Psii's thinkpan that it's easy to forget his own body exists at all.
He's tricked the eyes before, seeming to be where he's not, but that's more a fudging of signals than a wholesale illusion. Luckily, Psii is barely seeing at all anymore, so Schuldig doesn't have to go that far; he's able to simply implant images into the troll's mind to almost the same effect. Images of himself, right there instead of most of a mile away. Schuldig sets off nerve endings like fireworks, dips into psionics, and provides tactile sensations to match the pictures he paints. Lips pressing together - not as harsh as either of them want it, but the psionics are as weak as Psii is even with Schuldig's hand at the controls. The touch of a hand. And, finally, fingers around Psii's neck. The psionics aren't strong nearly enough to choke, sputter out entirely after a second or two, but just let him believe -
The relief Schuldig feels - Psii's? His own? - just before Psii's mind goes truly dark around him is like hell. Or heaven. A lie in the face of emptiness.
The scream that rips itself out of Schuldig at that point isn't because Psii is dead. It's one of pure agony as he pours himself into a dead battery, hammers against a closed door, tries to force himself into Psii's motor functions and start his heart beating again, make him breathe again, because Schuldig will break natural law to pieces before accepting that he's powerless and alone. Again. Before accepting that the world managed to find one last thing they could take away from him, and all he could do was let them.
But he's no Nagi. He still has no idea how Nagi did it, bringing someone back to life, but his telepathy finally seems to have met its match. Schuldig half kills himself in the attempt, then locks up in a seizure like he hasn't had since he was ten. He does kill the first tribute who comes across him afterwards; with Schuldig's power having broken loose to this extent, the area around him has become a telepathic kill zone. Schuldig himself doesn't respond, but the man approaching him goes down like he'd been shot in the head, brain-dead before his body hits the ground. The gamemasters send tracker jackers, in the end, after it becomes clear that Schuldig is semi-comatose at best, and the commentators gravely call it a mercy.
The first interviewer who plays a clip of the moment for Schuldig after the games is also struck dead, as are two people working the control booth and a cameraman, and Schuldig spends three full days sedated. The original clip is mysteriously destroyed, and whispers spread that watching any copy of it will lead to your dying of an aneurism within the week.
no subject
He's sure the gamemakers won't stop him, not like this. The drama's too delicious to interrupt. Any other day, he might appreciate that. There's so little he himself cares about, it's so easy to laugh at loss in others.
But this - this is his. Psiioniic is his. They took away his cigarettes, his caffeine, his sugar, his control, his fun, his freedom, left him a barely functional mess held together by hate and razor wire. Schuldig's never envisioned a good end or long life for himself, but this being whittled away to nothing...no, he was going to lose everything and die but it was going to be on his terms, letting himself fall alongside the only ones who deserved to be standing with him at the end. Most of his life has been living just for the sake of how he wants his death to be - namely, with his control over it absolute in ways his life has never been. They can't take that from him, he won't let them. And Psii is the only fragment of that left, the only thing worth enduring the head-shivering wreck his telepathy's become without the resources to manage it. And he's losing him.
And it's their fault! It's their fucking fault. He barely slept when he had his coffee. How many hours had he passed out for, while the poison worked? Almost all the ones that mattered, evidently. If he'd been awake -
{Don't you fucking dare!} It's been awhile since his telepathic voice was anything that could be called stable, but now it's a scream to shake the inside of a skull. Not even as the result of his emotional state, though that would be enough - but to reach. The bastard knew his range, why had he gone so far to the edge of it? It's too far.
Maybe he's hoping the sheer volume of it will jerk Psiioniic back, blast away the fog encroaching on the other's thoughts. All it sparks is a flicker of smugness, though. {2hee2h, 2hriiek a liittle louder, II don't thiink the entiire arena heard how de2perate you are over me.}
It's so weak. Thoughts are only weak on the verge of sleep and death. Schuldig knows it.
{You're mine!} There's no rebuttal from Schuldig, because he truly is desperate and it's too late to care who knows it. Crawford's been gone for over a week, fully half of what had been keeping Schuldig alive through these games. Feeling the other half being torn away, within his own head, not even close to being there, unable to even kill Psii himself and at least have the loss be on their terms - {If you die it's going to be with my hands around your throat, you pissblood fuck!}
{Poor grub. Look2 liike you don't get to call all the 2hots after all.} And the worst part is that Schuldig can feel how he's (figuratively) mouthing the words. Psii does want him there, would rather die at his hands than this pathetic wasting death from a poison dart half a day ago. Doesn't want to die alone. And Schuldig has most of a mile to cover in rough terrain, and less than two minutes to do it in. There's no chance.
{Watch me!} Schuldig stumbles hard, feels blood trickling from his knee even as he pours all his focus into his mind, head pounding like his own power is trying to jar his skull to pieces. He's distantly aware of something in his nose bursting, blood pattering on rock, and then he's pushing himself so insistently into Psii's thinkpan that it's easy to forget his own body exists at all.
He's tricked the eyes before, seeming to be where he's not, but that's more a fudging of signals than a wholesale illusion. Luckily, Psii is barely seeing at all anymore, so Schuldig doesn't have to go that far; he's able to simply implant images into the troll's mind to almost the same effect. Images of himself, right there instead of most of a mile away. Schuldig sets off nerve endings like fireworks, dips into psionics, and provides tactile sensations to match the pictures he paints. Lips pressing together - not as harsh as either of them want it, but the psionics are as weak as Psii is even with Schuldig's hand at the controls. The touch of a hand. And, finally, fingers around Psii's neck. The psionics aren't strong nearly enough to choke, sputter out entirely after a second or two, but just let him believe -
The relief Schuldig feels - Psii's? His own? - just before Psii's mind goes truly dark around him is like hell. Or heaven. A lie in the face of emptiness.
The scream that rips itself out of Schuldig at that point isn't because Psii is dead. It's one of pure agony as he pours himself into a dead battery, hammers against a closed door, tries to force himself into Psii's motor functions and start his heart beating again, make him breathe again, because Schuldig will break natural law to pieces before accepting that he's powerless and alone. Again. Before accepting that the world managed to find one last thing they could take away from him, and all he could do was let them.
But he's no Nagi. He still has no idea how Nagi did it, bringing someone back to life, but his telepathy finally seems to have met its match. Schuldig half kills himself in the attempt, then locks up in a seizure like he hasn't had since he was ten. He does kill the first tribute who comes across him afterwards; with Schuldig's power having broken loose to this extent, the area around him has become a telepathic kill zone. Schuldig himself doesn't respond, but the man approaching him goes down like he'd been shot in the head, brain-dead before his body hits the ground. The gamemasters send tracker jackers, in the end, after it becomes clear that Schuldig is semi-comatose at best, and the commentators gravely call it a mercy.
The first interviewer who plays a clip of the moment for Schuldig after the games is also struck dead, as are two people working the control booth and a cameraman, and Schuldig spends three full days sedated. The original clip is mysteriously destroyed, and whispers spread that watching any copy of it will lead to your dying of an aneurism within the week.
Ratings soar.