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does the television make you feel the pills you ate?
It isn't like somebody else couldn't have taken the job. They could've. Someone could've taken the opportunity, someone other than Ghoul.
But those somebodies don't have the same knowledge as he does, and they don't know the layout, either. Ghoul knows the layout of the main headquarters of BL/industries like the back of his hand. He can walk through the building blindfolded and still get to where he needs to go in minutes flat. Ghoul's the one with the memories, the access codes, the passwords and the frequencies. Every morning for years (he can't even remember how many, everything from then is so hazy) he woke up at the crack of dawn and ignored the sunset rising over the desert to walk to work. That's why they need him to go.
Death Defying gives him a bundle of clothes, a date, and a warning. Jet Star gives him a worried look. He takes both with a flat expression.
The morning of, he can barely force himself to touch the fucking things. They're bland and white, pristine and dry cleaned. Recycled, like the air Battery City breathes, like the thoughts the citizens think. There's no indication of sweat or blood or tears in the fabric, no signs of life, unnatural and processed and Ghoul takes a long minute to just stare, to look over the outfit lying on his mattress. This is a life he left behind a long time ago and the fact that it's sitting here, staring him in the face, is like being hit by a car.
It shouldn't fuck him over this badly, because it's not like he's taking up the gun anymore; it's not his actual job, he's still a Killjoy and there's nothing in the fucking world that can take that from him, not Korse, not the Dracs, not the little blue mind-wipe pills. Nothing. He'll always find his way home.
But it does. It does screw with him, because he reaches to grab the shirt so he can pull it on and the flash of the woman's face behind the mask hits him so hard that he drops the garment like it's on fire. This is fucking stupid, Ghoul growls to himself, he's killed people since then, it's not a big deal.
He tries again, slowly, and this time, the woman's face stays out of his thoughts. Good. On goes the jacket, the pants; he holsters the gun, grabs the mask.
He's always wondered what her name was.
He leaves before the rest of the family is awake, and wipes the slate clean.
But those somebodies don't have the same knowledge as he does, and they don't know the layout, either. Ghoul knows the layout of the main headquarters of BL/industries like the back of his hand. He can walk through the building blindfolded and still get to where he needs to go in minutes flat. Ghoul's the one with the memories, the access codes, the passwords and the frequencies. Every morning for years (he can't even remember how many, everything from then is so hazy) he woke up at the crack of dawn and ignored the sunset rising over the desert to walk to work. That's why they need him to go.
Death Defying gives him a bundle of clothes, a date, and a warning. Jet Star gives him a worried look. He takes both with a flat expression.
The morning of, he can barely force himself to touch the fucking things. They're bland and white, pristine and dry cleaned. Recycled, like the air Battery City breathes, like the thoughts the citizens think. There's no indication of sweat or blood or tears in the fabric, no signs of life, unnatural and processed and Ghoul takes a long minute to just stare, to look over the outfit lying on his mattress. This is a life he left behind a long time ago and the fact that it's sitting here, staring him in the face, is like being hit by a car.
It shouldn't fuck him over this badly, because it's not like he's taking up the gun anymore; it's not his actual job, he's still a Killjoy and there's nothing in the fucking world that can take that from him, not Korse, not the Dracs, not the little blue mind-wipe pills. Nothing. He'll always find his way home.
But it does. It does screw with him, because he reaches to grab the shirt so he can pull it on and the flash of the woman's face behind the mask hits him so hard that he drops the garment like it's on fire. This is fucking stupid, Ghoul growls to himself, he's killed people since then, it's not a big deal.
He tries again, slowly, and this time, the woman's face stays out of his thoughts. Good. On goes the jacket, the pants; he holsters the gun, grabs the mask.
He's always wondered what her name was.
He leaves before the rest of the family is awake, and wipes the slate clean.