"Whoever invented the pain system needs to be shot" A rather distinctive violet creature mutters in distain. Right now he is forced to walk; his foot paws flooding with pain with each step and muscles constantly having to be broken out of a cycle of seizure and movement. The grass scuff no longer seems innocent, the pads of his feet touching them feel as though tiny blades are stabbing them trying to pull him down and follow his body's demands.
The clone lurches onwards with his back making notable noises of its own annoyances, hating to be hunched over like a low life form of a past age. Much to both the owner and the spine's delight, the filtering energy from both blood and body wouldn't even allow him to stand tall, as he should. He wanders exhausted, starved with almost every bone of his frail body in clear view for any public watcher who seems to find idle pleasure in seeing the helpless or dying struggle.
The whole thing is a paradox; he should be strong, not dragging a tail without life in the dirt like a mongrel. Then again, he shouldn't be wandering around in a field in such an exhausted figurement either.
Life sure deals harsh blows and seems uncaring for those it injuries with limp, life, existence.
He has nothing, not strength, emotion or even his sight due to the lack of immune system his nearly lifeless body processed. It just let cataract come and claim his vision leaving his faint amber behind milky gloss. On reflex they still gaze about amongst soiled and ragged fur and limb but see no more than a blind man without aid.
Is it not ironic? A titan fused with abilities humans crave is left with nothing but an automatic need to press on like a soulless machine. No thoughts concoct in his brain anymore, it is just a mangled mess of fate acceptance, unaware and as blind as his eyes. It is dead as his barely scraping breath, which has turned so faded that it barely sates parched lips let alone craving lungs nestled beneath revealed bone.
A leg buckles, refusing this time to resettle causing him to tumble to the dirt and bruising his fragile body. It remains locked in position, half curled with ankle trailing below if supreme stiffness in the worn ligaments. He coughs lightly, barely able to lift his skull even a fraction or a paw that in both cases have been left nearer his tail than his head.
The dust swirls at the faint, barely notable breath and performs a short dance of enchantment before the blinded eyes caring not of the predicament like a true idle eye of common human. His voice is croaky, barely pushing its way out into the enslaved world of command.
"This suuucks"
There's nothing to aid his plight now, whatever his body kept holding for now can only look at its self in utter failure and the sentence it thrust upon its self in attempting. If he could see himself now, Chiakarma would scowl himself without question, he was just pitiful, useless and worthless in life's pages.
"So this… this is what it was like for them to die…? I'd rather have just got it over with like I did to them," he whispers in choked breath, his lungs gradually failing with the rest of his body. His body is failing entering the last stages despite prolonging his pain over months and weeks on end. Each heartbeat becomes more muted to the ground, barely registering as chill starts to envelope the fading body.
The original's eyes darken even behind their masks to become misty as though they are projections of a morning cold. And as the body continues to still, the pains and spasms in string meat backs off like cub from infuriated adult.
Ironic again, the pain taking the form of life's own growth at his dying moments.
His eyelids instantly fall heavy and close without question like a stage's final curtain. With that final comes that last breath, that last trickle of blood from a dying heart.
And within seconds, he is lost, free from the pain he has endured for so long, taken to the next side with scars of past and present and a wry smile.
Free.