polariity | No one asked for this shit

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No one asked for this shit

[Based off of this trainwreck]

It's some sort of poison, he thinks, as he pauses by the river to peel off his shirt and look at the blood soaked bits of Signless' cloak they'd used to wrap around his side.

Fucking stupid of him, honestly, and a breath rattles out between his fangs as he lightly touches the makeshift bandages. Still wet, and his gray fingers come away putrid yellow. It hasn't stopped bleeding even a little bit. No clotting, no closing up of the wound. Stupid fucking plants with their leaves like razors. Of course they would have brought Alternian flora here, and he curses himself for not being more careful. How long had he been traveling on his home planet? He should have been more prepared for this.

His body won't stop shaking as he sets himself down by the river, wondering if it's even worth it to clean the wound. Would more blood just pour out, a flood impossible to hide?

He needs supplies. Needs medicine, something to seal up the wound or force the blood to clot or stop whatever weird poison bullshit was on that stupid piece of shit plant. But first aid wasn't what he managed to grab when they were all released like wild animals. Does he know anyone else who does...?

Lyn. Lyn does, and for one low moment he thinks of hunting the kid down. It's gone in a second, and he rubs at his face. "Calm the fuck down, you tremendouth athole," he hisses to himself, voice unsteady. What the hell is he thinking? Lyn, scrawny and wide eyed and jumpier than a nutbeast, trooping with him through the shitty fucking forest and rambling to him about one of his dumb favorite movies like that could hide how he was ten seconds away from flipping his shit. He needed all he could get. He wasn't going to be the one to fuck him over.

For a moment, all he can do is space out, staring at his hand and noting blankly how its lost what meager color it used to have. "Tho what now?" he finds himself murmuring to thin air.

There's no way he can move himself to go and search for supplies himself. His body can't stand it- he's pushing it just moving as he is now. A long trip... Yeah, good fucking luck.

So.... This is it. The realization settles something in him, and he's not sure if the sudden onset of calm is because he's lost too much blood or if because... Well, he was always hoping for death one way or another, right? The calm carries him through, lets him pull his shirt back over his head again and he tiredly makes his way back to where he and Signless have made camp for the day. The other troll looks up to him, rattled and wild eyed- sleep hasn't come to him sweetly for ages. It's been rough for all of them, but his best beloved has had it hardest.

Detached and hurting for all the pity and love he has for this broken down troll, Psii gives him a smile like nothing's wrong. "Hey, relax- I came back, didn't I?" It hurts to breath, but he can hide it as he settles down besides him and wraps his arms tight around him. "C'mon... let'sh take a break. Jutht retht, okay, Eth?" He gives a snigger. "Fuck thith diurnal bullthit. I'll watch out for you, alright?"

When Signless finally falls asleep besides him, brow furrowed from all the daymares that wrap around his pan like thorns, Psii brushes his fingers along his jawline.

Who's going to look out for him when he's gone? Who's going to help him through this fucktacular shitshow, make him eat, keep him going?

Who's going to look out for Lyn? Little shit is good at surviving, he'll give him that, but there's some fucked up assholes around here he won't handle in a fight- he thinks of those creepy fuckers with the harnesses, of the asshole sharing his sign and horns, of Schuldig...

Ha. He actually gives a snort at that, fingers jerking somewhere near Signless' ear, and his side gives a dull throb of pain. Schuldig. What a piece of shit. He feels his heart give one weak throb, pitch right down to its core against all goddamn semblances of sense. The memory of that night, when a bunch of them huddled together to share a fire either because strength in numbers or just to keep an eye on the others, flashes through his mind. He'd looked like so much trash, a mess from not enough food and not enough caffeine, fingers jerking and eyes bloodshot. Psii had felt a surge of protective hatred as their shoulders had bumped near the fire, digging untrimmed claws into the back of his hand and hissing into his ear, "Don't fall apart yet, fucker".

Someone has to take care of the rotten bastard.

He guesses... it's just not going to be him.

Everything seems dim and colorless. God, he's so tired...

But there are worst ways to die, and worst places too, he thinks as he stares at Signless' face.

The Psiioniic lets himself go to sleep with a tired smile.

He doesn't wake up.

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WOW FUCK YOU

YOU ARE A MONSTER FULL OF SIN

It's hard to watch the difference, to see the way those pale eyes harden only to know that soon enough they'll be back to naive panic. How many times can an audience get off on one kid's trauma made anew?

Psii doesn't know; all he can do is hold Lyn close in the times inbetween with his fingers curled in his hair. Any promise he could make, they both know he couldn't keep here.

The taste of berries in their mouths, each other's fingers against their lips- it's genuine out there on the 'entertainment' floor.

Out of it, it's the feel of psi crackling dangerously in one mind threatening to overtake it in a blast, and a grip wrapped tight around his throat to take him.

They're separated before they can make the pact more permanent instead of just a single episode thrill.

He doesn't feel like himself, dolled up like this- all his obvious scars made all the more blatant with their stupid little gold makeup like he's some project and the jewelry they pretty him up in a mockery because he's more slave than royalty and they all know it. It's an indignity he could live with, however.

What actually grates him is how they doll up Schuldig. He'd never thought the idea of things matching would rile him so, never thought he'd give enough of a fuck of fashion to notice, but he does, now.

It's such a stupid thing to pay attention to, here in a cushy seat that feels like salt in the wound after they've had to survive in caves and plains and so many other things. He should be paying attention to the questions the interviewer is asking them in a tone so fake and excited. For once, they're allowed on stage together, him and Schuldig, all so that their kismesisistude can be prodded and peered at like it's some exotic animal.

His patience holds out until Question #6, and he feels it snap so cleanly. They want a fuckiing 2how, II'll giive them a fuckiing 2how and he's not sure if Schuldig is listening to that particular thought or if they're just on the same train when he twists in his seat to grab the telepath's hair only to find fingers going for one of his horns.

In the background noise of this stupid set, he can hear the interviewer laugh- a quip on how they can't keep their hands off one another, maybe, he thinks, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is how Schuldig's mouth feels like acid, scorching away all his spines and harshness away so that something more polished like a blade is left. It's sweet in the most horrible of ways, sweet berries that poison you and leave you for dead. He finds comfort in it.

The fact that at some point he's found himself on Schuldig's chair with a knee against his crotch in front of a camera on live television to millions of viewers is not something he's particularly concerned with.

...Or maybe something he should be concerned with but in a far different way, he thinks as he ignores the laughter that's become pointedly awkward behind him while he notes the firmness his knee is now pressing up against.

When his hands tear off Schuldig's belt, they both smile against one another as the interviewer yells for a commercial break at the top of his lungs.

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.

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.

Ratings soar.

beep beep

"Wow, every day I think your idea of clothing can't get anymore fucked, and every night you thtrive to prove me wrong."

There are a dozen different retorts he could shoot off, but instead, Schuldig is perfectly petty enough to speak through the nose as he says, "Every day you tthhhhhtrive to prove me wrong." It's juvenile. Extremely so. However, his favorite hatefuck has pulled his hair outside the bedroom and drawn a dick on his face, so he's in good company. It's worth it to see that smug fangy smirk flip into a scowl. Before the troll can decide to jerk him around psionically, Schuldig half drapes across him in an effort to peer around the dark street. "Anything interesting happen yet, or has it been just another lonely night of you playing with yourself thinking of me?" He smirks up at Psii from the side, nearly able to see himself in that quiet heterochromic glow.

Psii's lip curls up over one protruding fang. "At leatht then I would know I'd get a fuckin' orgathm. Anyway." His head jerks in the direction of the latest club they've been told to keep an eye on in the past week. "Quiet tho far."

"Thurprithe thurprithe, fuckface," is the only warning he gets before that fucking blindfold suddenly slips over his eyes from behind and his world goes silent.

Most people wouldn't think so- not with the sounds of nightlife and the buzzing city and Psiioniic's sniggering right in front of him. Most people are also worth less than cheap candy.

Yet instead of reaching up to tear the blindfold off or, for anyone else, tear out the offender's eyes, Schuldig just twitches. For all that he might not like it, this is actually for his benefit. As incredibly common as psychic ability might be in trolls, he's also learned (mostly from poking Psii's own brain) that they run the gamut from expected to complete extraordinary bullshit. Seers' minds are insane enough- they have to be in order to handle the sheer amount of future bullshit that they have to sort out. Psiioniic's version of seeing the future is even worse than that, on account of relying on the dead and dying... who, to Schuldig's complete unsurprise, make the already present clusterfuck worse than it already is.

In the self-taught way of so many other psychics, Psii has learned how to mostly block the chatter so that he doesn't lose his own god damn mind. Probably why he'd adjusted so quickly to providing a white noise barrier against Schuldig's own abilities, easy to break through it as it is. But when he really concentrates... Schuldig thinks he'd rather have his head smashed into concrete than be anywhere near him.

Still. It doesn't mean he has to like it. It doesn't mean he can't reach back and hold the blindfold himself. Psii doesn't object. In fact, to Schuldig's surprise... As his hands hold the blindfold in place, he feels a burning hot hand slide over them, claws lightly pricking at his skin.

Only a minute is needed- probably less- before the crackle of psionics around the blindfold vanishes. Schuldig is taking off the blindfold before he's even given the go-ahead. Psii is quiet, opaque gaze elsewhere, and his thoughts are among the steady buzz which washes into Schuldig's mind once again. Even a self proclaimed 'genius' needs a second to sort through so much information and pluck out the right parts.

So out of it at times like this, Schuldig had once suckerpunched him, just because he thought it'd be funny, and Psii's indignant startled outrage had been so funny that he'd laughed so hard he'd almost missed the chair that had come for his ankles.

Fun stuff like that can wait for another time. They have work to do.

Inevitably, they bleed in each other's company.

Sometimes, it's because of each other- punches and scratches and bites that they revel in.

Sometimes, it's because of their line of work. You don't work with a mafia boss and a fight-happy yakuza heir without getting shot at or stabbed a few times.

Psii's mocking had always been expected from the start. That's the entire essence of their relationship. What had been new was the way he had stuck around, talking shit even as he dug out a first aid kit. His fingers were careful as he cleaned up Schuldig's injuries, every scrape or press of his claws purposeful, and his psionics hadn't hurt when he'd used them in place of a third or fourth arm. They'd been uncomfortably warm, sure, but they'd never burned.

In the quiet of the room, they'd bled together.

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No one asked for this shit

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This is Callie's Fault

Hold

Pact

Commercial Break

Ace

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whatever other shit I got

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