I've always wanted to time myself and do a fic…
This was supposed to be less than 30 minutes.
I managed to write this entire thing in 17 minutes and… -looks at timer- …37 seconds.
I think it came out nicely. It's kind of supposed to be cute. You have to wonder how intricately Seishirou must have thought up that alter personality for the bet.
DEVOID
By: 0ri
Really, the idea of changing himself for a single person was some what ludicrous.
But this was for the bet, after all… This was his test.
His test at apathy, at his own personality, a prodding at his mind to see if he truly was a sociopath…
He certainly couldn't begin the bet if he didn't alter himself a little bit.
Sakurazuka Seishirou peered into the mirror of his bathroom, examing his own face, from the tip of his chin to the stands of his silken black hair. All across the sinks dry basin were magazines, spilled out, from pictures of civilians to pop stars in booming, screaming colors, brilliant, happy, playing the allure out for society's hungry eyes.
Seishirou plucked a magazine from the sink, and flipped through it, leaning against the opposite wall of the mirror, skimming through the thin pages.
Flip, a woman singing on stage, flip, words, words, flip, another picture, this time of a man, smiling sexily, giving a sidelong glance, flip, more pictures, a group of girls, cheery, their pants sliding down their slender hips –
Seishirou shook his head, sighing, and rubbed his temples. This was annoying.
He looked back at himself in the mirror, and then back down at the picture. With some effort, he tried to imitate the open mouth grin one girl in particular was giving. His teeth were as flawless as hers, yet he couldn't imitate the gesture at all… There was some thing…
Missing…
Sakurazuka stared intently at her face, tracing the outline of her jaw on the sleek paper, the bob-cut hair that looked in a mid-bounce as she moved, the slender form, the ample breasts.
No, it was definitely some thing in her expression.
It was needed.
Practically required.
Seishirou flipped a few pages, then, aggregated by the magazine, folded it up and tossed it on the sinks counter. He moved for another, his hand snatching at one, and then stood back, muttering some thing, as he opened it up and gazed at more pictures, examing them in much the same manner a scientist would examine a dissected animal.
Calculating, musing, his stupor starved for an answer…
Seishirou picked up another magazine, tucking the other in his arm. This one was different – not so happy-go-lucky, not so bright with tacky colors and grinning celebrities. No. This was a war magazine, and old one he had found lying around, that contained pictures from the United States war with Korea…
He skimmed around for a picture, pausing at one of a corpse. It was a man, Korean, his body crumpled like a broken doll, spread out over a grassy patch of earth, staring aside, non-seeing, his eyes bereft and void of any life. That… That…
That was it.
Seishirou jerked his head up, approaching the mirror, and placed the magazines down. He swiftly looked at his own eyes, his own amber gaze, and then returned down at the black and white face. Once again, he looked, double checking and making sure. He then laughed outright.
"…So, that was it, all along."
He shook his head, scolding his own, rare foolishness. It was –so- simple.
His eyes were dead, like the rest of him. Completely devoid, empty, like the eyes of the corpse in the picture—that was what Seishirou couldn't mimic, for all his marvelous acting skills, he could not capture that one trait – that trait that he was alive, that he felt, that was reflected in every other persons eyes but his own because he was… empty.
Well. If I can't mimic it, he thought, shrugging, I'll just cover it up.
A trip to an eye-doctor was in order.