[ the floor is cold and hard underneath his palm. it is the only thing that feels real — viktor watches as the man speaks to one of the robbers, the air around them thick with something like anticipation, like dread, mingling into tension so thick it would not be cut but with the sharpest of knives.
his crutch is more like a staff, now, elongated and ornate, and it lies next to him on the floor as he sits there; and as the barrel aims at them, he thinks, an ill man makes for an ill hostage, only the bullet doesn't connect with him but the man protecting him. he winces only slightly as altius falls on him.
he spares little thought to the gunshots going off around them, instead looking down at the man. ]
That was foolish, [ he says, a little sharp, made more so with worry, ] Are you — eh, I suppose alright is pushing it, isn't it?
[The scene almost blurs around them. The screaming, shots, crashing of glass and wood as bodies are struck and fall—all become unclear noise that's no less loud or distressing as they echo in Zekarion's memory.
His arm moves clumsily, reaching up briefly before the back of his hand thuds against Viktor's chest.]
Ghh down, [is the only thing he can manage to wheeze, slurred through the haze of shock and pain.
The warning comes from a combination of instinct and unfocused memory, knowing just how terribly this all ended. Someone collapses over the opposite side of the desk they're against, firearm clattering to the floor.]
[ for a moment, viktor wonders whether the blurring is his vision or the entire world around him — the sounds are almost uncomfortably loud, the kind of noise that makes his blood spike with anxiety, his very bones vibrate as panic grips his heart for a moment.
and so, the hand thudding against him is more than enough to make him crouch down, just in case, breaths sharp and controlled. and yet, he still manages to fiddle with his tie enough to loosen it, bundle it in his hand as he tries to hold it for the man still collapsed on him. ]
Press this against the wound, [ he says, because he may not be in any way proficient in medicine, but he does know basic first aid, at least. ]
[Altius is only vaguely following orders that barely reach his consciousness when he takes the cloth in hand, but he's not nearly coordinated enough to do anything with it. The shot went through his side completely and threatening to soak through his suit in moments, the jacket already sticky—so Viktor certainly isn't wrong to try to stop the bleeding as soon as possible.
But he knows, he knows in his soul that so many others are worse off than him, and that he has to do something. He can't lie here and wait for help. His pointless attempt to grasp at the wood behind them to pull himself up is aborted with a cry almost as soon as it begins, and he crumples as he's forcefully taught the effect of a shattered rib on his insides.
For however long the cacophony of gunfire may have seemed in his memory, the truth is it's only a few moments before there's hardly any shooting left—each one allowed to reverberate against the walls of the open space of the building.
The dream starts to solidify again. The sound of police boots and stifled sobbing of hostages are the more common sounds; a siren wails outside. Civilians, masked attackers—and just outside the broken glass of the front entrance—officers alike lie motionless among spatters of red.
The man's amber gaze finally settles on Viktor, his distressed confusion clear even past his grimace.]
[ oh, that is — hm, that is bad. he seems barely aware of what is happening, and certainly not able to try and stop the bleeding like this. so, viktor glances around; there's a scarf on the floor near him, whether his or not, it doesn't seem to matter in this moment.
as altius tries to struggle up and then crumples in a heap shortly after, viktor grabs the scarf and shuffles awkwardly until he can reach over and press that on the wound, mumbling out an apology as he does so. his hands are already bloody, but it doesn't really matter; he can barely feel it, with the way the dream is hazy at the edges... until it is that no longer, the sounds of the aftermath filling the air.
altius looks at viktor, then, and viktor meets his gaze evenly.
and says, quietly, ] I am sorry for whatever happened here. Now, don't die. [ if he dies in this dream, will he die in the simulation, too; who knows. best not try that. ]
[He hisses in response to the pressure, but doesn't try to fight the attempt to staunch the bleeding, too debilitated by stabbing throbs and the awareness slowly coming back to him.
The man's eyes move from Viktor as he takes in shallow breaths, color draining from his face as he catches the flashing lights of vehicles reflected on the ceiling, and so much red in his periphery. He wants to turn and look properly—to see the damage done, to count how many dead, to understand the depths of his failure, but in this moment he's being given another option.
Perhaps it's cowardly of him to look away now. Nevertheless, he returns his attention to the other dreamer.
[ not for the first time, viktor wonders what is truly going on here — why was the other here? to help save the hostages? if so, it's been a catastrophic failure; but even without that, the sight that greets him around them is a tragedy even without the personal stakes.
and so, if all he can do is provide a distraction... well. maybe that's a kindness, as little as it demands from him. ]
No, [ he says, and it's almost the truth, too; his leg is hurting, but that's no different from the usual. ]
The same can't be said about you. You need a hospital.
[It's not that he doesn't hear Viktor's concerns; anyone reasonable would see what an awful state he's in, and he'd be a fool to argue it. But the other, the singular word of an answer, is what takes over his thoughts as he stares at the other man.
A strange sensation comes over him. He knows, somehow, this isn't how it goes—but something sharp but warm at the same time pierces his chest, an invisible force pulling him in two directions. Even if it's incorrect, how could he see it as wrong?
He takes in a shaky breath and lets out a single laugh of desperate relief.]
This is the first time.
[The first time it's ever been different. The first time he's made a difference in a way that doesn't make it worse. Even in his waking moments he could never rewrite the memory into something better.
Ambulance sirens mark their approach, their lights soon to join the others dancing across the grim scene. He doesn't know how he knows, but he can say this, which may or may not be reassurance to Viktor:]
I... never die here.
cw: suicidality mentions, this is a cheerful thread,
[ oh. there's something in that stare, in that laugh — a kind of terrible relief, and viktor suddenly wonders how it had gone, if he is the only one to not be hurt, to have been saved by this man and his actions; how many times has he had this dream, no, memory, without ever once making a difference? how many times has he relived this, people dead all around him, over and over and over again, with only him there, alone, surviving?
how strange, he thinks, that for once he lives. how strange, that this is what matters, here.
and yet — there is a part of him that understands on a visceral level how it feels to live after something like this; not at this scale, no, but he thinks of the pulsing of the hexcore and ashes scattered on the floor and himself, looking down at the falling water from the dam and he thinks, yes, i understand.
[In reality he's always so quick to brush off others' concerns; he has worries and problems like anyone else, but he's handling them, really, he's doing what he needs to take care of himself—because anything less than that would invite curiosity into the dark places inside him that he can't let anyone see. It would spell the end of him.
But this is a dream. Here, with the metallic tang of blood and gunpowder in his nose, the facade is so far from his mind. He thinks he sees a reflection of himself in that gaunt face.]
Sometimes.
[Not always, no, even though he still seeks death, even though he's all but ensured his own end—even though he looks forward to the day he'll finally bring it upon himself. But not yet.]
But I— [he grits through his teeth, past a sharp throb of his side like something catching on the wound,] —have to make it... worth something.
[To prove that he can. To prove that it wasn't a mistake that he lived this day when so many others didn't.]
[ sometimes. it is that single word that makes viktor's chest constrict uncomfortably, in sympathy and understanding at once — as much as he is determined to beat death... yes, sometimes he wonders if he should. if he's worthy of it, if it hadn't been better for him to simply die there, instead of continuing to live (and live yet again, after the bombing that should have taken his life).
so... sometimes. ]
Yes, [ he says, hearing what remains unsaid so, so easily, because that is always in his mind, too, ] To justify it. That you live when they do not. [ yes, he can understand this, too, terrifyingly deeply. if he is to continue to live — well, then he must make it worth something, too. to make a difference, in some way, make sure sky's sacrifice means something. ]
If you die just like that, without achieving anything... it'll all have been for nothing.
[An acknowledgement, that this isn't the sort of burden only one of them carries. The words are practically pulled out of his own mind, and it's clear they've been considered more than a handful of times, perhaps even spoken aloud before now, whether alone or to another. Zekarion knows, of course, how common survivor's guilt is. He's seen enough, read about it specifically—
—created that feeling in others with his own actions, willfully. Used it for his own ends.
That sits more heavily in his chest than it has before. His gaze moves elsewhere momentarily, a furrow deepening in his brow, but his eyes turn Viktor's way once more when he continues a moment later.]
I'm sorry.
[For Viktor going through something similar, for him having to see this, for failing so terribly as to cause it in the first place—yes, all of it. And maybe... just maybe, he's sorry for something else he can't admit.
Nearby, officers proclaim the building clear of threats, and the doors that aren't already shattered burst open to let in the paramedics who'll mostly be taking stock of those bound for a morgue.]
[ he does — and there is something almost freeing in the thought that someone else truly understands how that feels, the deep-seated need to matter, to make sure your life means something, that you leave a mark on it, a good one, that you living above someone else is enough to make a difference.
he can only begin to guess at what the apology is for — not just him, that he knows for certain, but what else it is... well. looking around, he can guess at least a part of it. ]
Did you cause this situation? Did you force them to take those hostages?
[ slowly, he shakes his head. ] You don't need to apologise to me. I'm fine, no? Apologise to the lives you couldn't save, if you need to... and then live well. For them.
[Perhaps that statement itself will explain the shroud of guilt over his expression as Viktor continues. He can't afford to look any deeper into the feeling that he's gone so far from living well that he could barely be considered living at all.
Thankfully, his attention is diverted by the approach of the ambulance workers. They assure Viktor they can take it from here and ask if he needs any assistance, but ultimately they focus on the man who's been shot.
After they transfer him to the stretcher they've brought with them, he opens his eyes from his grimace and looks to the other dreamer again. There's determination in his gaze now; a part of him doesn't want Viktor to think he's refusing to listen.]
[ and oh, if that too isn't something he can acutely feel the pain of, a stab between his ribs, a cold squeeze around his heart; should have done more. yes, he can relate, all too well, to that feeling of inadequacy, of not having reached the heights you should have done, of leaving others (and most of all, yourself) disappointed.
he shakes his head as the medics ask him if he needs help; no, not him, he's not the one in danger of dying, here.
and as zekarion is lifted onto the stretcher, viktor pushes himself up with the help of his crutch, looks at those eyes full of a steely kind of resolve. ]
... Yes. I believe you.
[ and he does, he does; whether he will do more in a way that is good or not... that remains to be seen. just as the case is for him, too. ]
[Despite the way this scene is burned into his memory as sharply as his injuries could allow, or perhaps because of that, his focus remains on the single aspect of change in all of it, the man who somehow still feels more real to him than the rest of it despite being a piece of an entirely different puzzle.
Perhaps, if someone like this had truly been there—but there's no point in what ifs.
Before he's rolled away to the ambulance, to the hospital and his horrible future, he has one last thing to say.]
Thank you.
[The memory will fade not long after this; what followed for Zekarion was a series of semi-lucid moments through a recovery he could very well have shortened but decided not to—and then, a decision whose ramifications he can never truly recover from... or make up for.]
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expiationlogs2025-01-13 12:39 pm
hostages;
his crutch is more like a staff, now, elongated and ornate, and it lies next to him on the floor as he sits there; and as the barrel aims at them, he thinks, an ill man makes for an ill hostage, only the bullet doesn't connect with him but the man protecting him. he winces only slightly as altius falls on him.
he spares little thought to the gunshots going off around them, instead looking down at the man. ]
That was foolish, [ he says, a little sharp, made more so with worry, ] Are you — eh, I suppose alright is pushing it, isn't it?
no subject
His arm moves clumsily, reaching up briefly before the back of his hand thuds against Viktor's chest.]
Ghh down, [is the only thing he can manage to wheeze, slurred through the haze of shock and pain.
The warning comes from a combination of instinct and unfocused memory, knowing just how terribly this all ended. Someone collapses over the opposite side of the desk they're against, firearm clattering to the floor.]
no subject
and so, the hand thudding against him is more than enough to make him crouch down, just in case, breaths sharp and controlled. and yet, he still manages to fiddle with his tie enough to loosen it, bundle it in his hand as he tries to hold it for the man still collapsed on him. ]
Press this against the wound, [ he says, because he may not be in any way proficient in medicine, but he does know basic first aid, at least. ]
no subject
But he knows, he knows in his soul that so many others are worse off than him, and that he has to do something. He can't lie here and wait for help. His pointless attempt to grasp at the wood behind them to pull himself up is aborted with a cry almost as soon as it begins, and he crumples as he's forcefully taught the effect of a shattered rib on his insides.
For however long the cacophony of gunfire may have seemed in his memory, the truth is it's only a few moments before there's hardly any shooting left—each one allowed to reverberate against the walls of the open space of the building.
The dream starts to solidify again. The sound of police boots and stifled sobbing of hostages are the more common sounds; a siren wails outside. Civilians, masked attackers—and just outside the broken glass of the front entrance—officers alike lie motionless among spatters of red.
The man's amber gaze finally settles on Viktor, his distressed confusion clear even past his grimace.]
no subject
as altius tries to struggle up and then crumples in a heap shortly after, viktor grabs the scarf and shuffles awkwardly until he can reach over and press that on the wound, mumbling out an apology as he does so. his hands are already bloody, but it doesn't really matter; he can barely feel it, with the way the dream is hazy at the edges... until it is that no longer, the sounds of the aftermath filling the air.
altius looks at viktor, then, and viktor meets his gaze evenly.
and says, quietly, ] I am sorry for whatever happened here. Now, don't die. [ if he dies in this dream, will he die in the simulation, too; who knows. best not try that. ]
no subject
The man's eyes move from Viktor as he takes in shallow breaths, color draining from his face as he catches the flashing lights of vehicles reflected on the ceiling, and so much red in his periphery. He wants to turn and look properly—to see the damage done, to count how many dead, to understand the depths of his failure, but in this moment he's being given another option.
Perhaps it's cowardly of him to look away now. Nevertheless, he returns his attention to the other dreamer.
The first thing he asks in a pained whisper is:]
Are you hurt?
no subject
and so, if all he can do is provide a distraction... well. maybe that's a kindness, as little as it demands from him. ]
No, [ he says, and it's almost the truth, too; his leg is hurting, but that's no different from the usual. ]
The same can't be said about you. You need a hospital.
no subject
A strange sensation comes over him. He knows, somehow, this isn't how it goes—but something sharp but warm at the same time pierces his chest, an invisible force pulling him in two directions. Even if it's incorrect, how could he see it as wrong?
He takes in a shaky breath and lets out a single laugh of desperate relief.]
This is the first time.
[The first time it's ever been different. The first time he's made a difference in a way that doesn't make it worse. Even in his waking moments he could never rewrite the memory into something better.
Ambulance sirens mark their approach, their lights soon to join the others dancing across the grim scene. He doesn't know how he knows, but he can say this, which may or may not be reassurance to Viktor:]
I... never die here.
cw: suicidality mentions, this is a cheerful thread,
how strange, he thinks, that for once he lives. how strange, that this is what matters, here.
and yet — there is a part of him that understands on a visceral level how it feels to live after something like this; not at this scale, no, but he thinks of the pulsing of the hexcore and ashes scattered on the floor and himself, looking down at the falling water from the dam and he thinks, yes, i understand.
and so he says, ] Do you wish you had?
it sure is! that cw will remain relevant.
But this is a dream. Here, with the metallic tang of blood and gunpowder in his nose, the facade is so far from his mind. He thinks he sees a reflection of himself in that gaunt face.]
Sometimes.
[Not always, no, even though he still seeks death, even though he's all but ensured his own end—even though he looks forward to the day he'll finally bring it upon himself. But not yet.]
But I— [he grits through his teeth, past a sharp throb of his side like something catching on the wound,] —have to make it... worth something.
[To prove that he can. To prove that it wasn't a mistake that he lived this day when so many others didn't.]
yep yep yep
so... sometimes. ]
Yes, [ he says, hearing what remains unsaid so, so easily, because that is always in his mind, too, ] To justify it. That you live when they do not. [ yes, he can understand this, too, terrifyingly deeply. if he is to continue to live — well, then he must make it worth something, too. to make a difference, in some way, make sure sky's sacrifice means something. ]
If you die just like that, without achieving anything... it'll all have been for nothing.
no subject
[An acknowledgement, that this isn't the sort of burden only one of them carries. The words are practically pulled out of his own mind, and it's clear they've been considered more than a handful of times, perhaps even spoken aloud before now, whether alone or to another. Zekarion knows, of course, how common survivor's guilt is. He's seen enough, read about it specifically—
—created that feeling in others with his own actions, willfully. Used it for his own ends.
That sits more heavily in his chest than it has before. His gaze moves elsewhere momentarily, a furrow deepening in his brow, but his eyes turn Viktor's way once more when he continues a moment later.]
I'm sorry.
[For Viktor going through something similar, for him having to see this, for failing so terribly as to cause it in the first place—yes, all of it. And maybe... just maybe, he's sorry for something else he can't admit.
Nearby, officers proclaim the building clear of threats, and the doors that aren't already shattered burst open to let in the paramedics who'll mostly be taking stock of those bound for a morgue.]
no subject
he can only begin to guess at what the apology is for — not just him, that he knows for certain, but what else it is... well. looking around, he can guess at least a part of it. ]
Did you cause this situation? Did you force them to take those hostages?
[ slowly, he shakes his head. ] You don't need to apologise to me. I'm fine, no? Apologise to the lives you couldn't save, if you need to... and then live well. For them.
no subject
[Perhaps that statement itself will explain the shroud of guilt over his expression as Viktor continues. He can't afford to look any deeper into the feeling that he's gone so far from living well that he could barely be considered living at all.
Thankfully, his attention is diverted by the approach of the ambulance workers. They assure Viktor they can take it from here and ask if he needs any assistance, but ultimately they focus on the man who's been shot.
After they transfer him to the stretcher they've brought with them, he opens his eyes from his grimace and looks to the other dreamer again. There's determination in his gaze now; a part of him doesn't want Viktor to think he's refusing to listen.]
I will do more.
no subject
he shakes his head as the medics ask him if he needs help; no, not him, he's not the one in danger of dying, here.
and as zekarion is lifted onto the stretcher, viktor pushes himself up with the help of his crutch, looks at those eyes full of a steely kind of resolve. ]
... Yes. I believe you.
[ and he does, he does; whether he will do more in a way that is good or not... that remains to be seen. just as the case is for him, too. ]
no subject
Perhaps, if someone like this had truly been there—but there's no point in what ifs.
Before he's rolled away to the ambulance, to the hospital and his horrible future, he has one last thing to say.]
Thank you.
[The memory will fade not long after this; what followed for Zekarion was a series of semi-lucid moments through a recovery he could very well have shortened but decided not to—and then, a decision whose ramifications he can never truly recover from... or make up for.]