Info for mongling

[struckmatch]

REGRETS: Not being able to kill himself, generally being alive. Not being able to kill Pride/the Fuhrer. He should probably regret prostituting himself to the brass. Murdering a bunch of people during the war.
MISTAKES: Murdering a bunch of innocent people in a war, Hughes's death (though he was not actually responsible for that). Prostituting himself to the brass, probably again...
CIRCUMSTANCES OF THEIR DEATH: Stabbed through the eye by a sword wielded by a homunculus. After seeing the homunculus break a small child's neck.

Comments

Vial 5

[struckmatch]

TW for attempted suicide.
LINK to 11:00

Your body doesn't feel like your body in any meaningful way anymore. All sensation, hot or cold or sharp has been reduced to a kind of dull pressure. Every visual seems to bypass your mind and plug straight into the nerves telling you to walk forward, lift your hand, snap your fingers.

Pull the trigger.

You know this is you, this is your fault, your body, your will. But you don't know how: where is the logic to all of this? Blood spreading against the floor. Far away you can hear the rapport ringing in your ears. You're shaking so badly you think you must be cold.

You don't remember leaving and you don't remember where you got the gin. The image of the doctors' bodies won't leave your head, like it's burned onto the outside of your retinas. It's everything you see. This is what it took? Because they were there, in front of you, rather than distant targets...? Disgusting. How many people had you killed before this?

How many?

Hundreds.

With the snap of your fingers. In the blink of an eye.

It's not a conscious decision that leads you back to where their bodies had been. It's just where your feet went as you sucked down the rest of the gin. At least the heavy unreality of it all made sense now, though you idly wonder why you don't just wander into a conflict zone and get shot. But the sight of the blood, with the bodies gone, does something to you, lances straight through the shell of your body.

You're a murderer.

A mass murderer.

How many people? It's all abstract numbers except for these two. The weight of those untold numbers crushes down on your chest, your eyes go tunnel vision, you can't, you can't, you can't possibly live with this—with the admission comes a sense of relief, and you grab for your gun, press the cold muzzle under your chin. You're scared to die and you're so guilty you're so relieved, so close, you don't deserve it, but you can't possibly live with this weight, you can't, the absolutely least you can do to atone for this is to take another weapon off the field—

Marco stops you.

You're helpless to stop him from leaving even if you could, even if you wanted to. You envy him, you admire him, for having the strength to walk away. As for yourself, you can feel the moment when you could have pulled to trigger slipping away, and that horrible dead weight building in your chest.