note: Not Heirverse by design, but I included it anyway because I dont want to write the same thing twice for the sake of 3 sentences unless I did the voice pov of it - but my brain is dark enough without writing that. And i guess it fits in the series anyway even if not by design.
Wordcount: 3005
business: I own nothing. Well... maybe Voice if you wish it to be HV.
a/n: written back in april and forgotten about because I think somebody ordered some major depussification of this guy but I cant remember because my brain is a collander.
Genre: horror, psychological, dark. I'd say this is me being twisted but this DID happen in canon and there was too much blood in that scene to suggest he killed them all quietly so... But then this... reads pretty angry, dont remember much of april but it must have been a bad month. More so if not 'verse by design according to past me. Hm.
Inspired by: Jack the Ripper by xCepheid. Hedonism, Killlove fireproof, The Spirit Puppet, and Samurai Ghost girl, kill, kill! By Akatsuki records [put youtube english captions on for lyrics, esp for Samurai Ghost]. Scream Out by Akatsuki Records and A-ONE. Bloody Knife also by A-ONE. That one line from Tywin Lannister in GoT, another line about Littlefinger watching the world burn to be king of the ashes. Experiment by steampianist. One section from the terrifying Sleep experiment story [do NOT google if you dont want nightmare fuel and scare easily] bouncing around the internet. Various lines and sections from the Skulduggery Pleasant series [read it. Read it now]. And of course, canon events.
Notes/warnings: horror genre because its terrifying what human beings can do to each other. Blood. Gore. Lots of death. Graphic description of violence and murder. Depictions of manic symptoms and behaviour. Mentions of bipolar disorder and mania in extremis. If proceeding, please proceed with caution, an open mind, and a sofa to hide behind.
"Embrace your inner lunatic. Fun times guaranteed."
- Derek Landy [Skullduggery Pleasant: Death Bringer]
Maniac/Lunatic
Forty six.
He stood outside the doors, Kyouka Suigetsu weighty in his hand. It seemed that she, too, understood the gravity of what they were about to do. For the greater good, he told himself. As he told himself whenever his belief wavered. Whenever his resolve threatened to disintegrate. He took a deep breath and steeled himself, hardened himself to what must be done. These old men had been in power for far too long and had grown far too corrupt and indifferent to the lives and the humanity of those they were supposed to protect with their laws and their judgements. He supposed it was only a matter of time. Absolute power always corrupted those who held it. Always. He was doing everyone a favour by ending their existence.
He raised his hand and with a wave of kidou, shattered the barriers in place keeping him out, and walked right through the front door. Through the dark corridor. Down all those steps. Seriously, how long a staircase did they need? What was wrong with just having a room on the same level as everyone else?
Oh well. He supposed it didn't matter. They wouldn't be using those stairs again, after today.
He strode boldly into their meeting room, and was met with the expected derision. Yes, how dare he. How dare he come in here without permission or authority to interrupt such important discussions for no reason.
"Who are you?" one demanded. "Identify yourself!"
"State your purpose!"
There was a block of ice inside him, so cold it burned. And a voice inside him spoke: kill him.
He grinned at the fools. Oh, he'd state his purpose, alright. He stepped closer, but slowly. He wanted to make them wait. He moved slowly, quietly. Calm as still water. And stood before the one standing and demanding answers. He didn't utter a single word to them. Didn't even dignify them with a response. After all, the wolf didn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep.
Instead, quick as a snake, he sliced off the idiot's head. And watched, with more than a touch of joy, as it hit the floor with a sickening thud, and rolled on the floor at his feet. When he drew his eyes up to survey his appropriately stunned, shocked audience, a smile tugged his lips upwards into a smile.
Forty five.
He scanned their faces, all forty five of them, and took in the sight of horror and awe.
He only said two words.
"Who's next?"
And then he watched as true panic and pandemonium ensued.
The voice, excited, chanted. Kill them.
It took all of three seconds before they started running. And his grin widened. They didn't know he'd locked the door behind him.
Kill them, kill them, kill them.
He sliced the first one clean in half with a single stroke as he tried to run past. Not fast enough.
Forty four.
He had to admit it felt good to kill again. To feel the adrenaline surge through his veins and give himself over to his more base instincts. He was the Bringer of Death. The one to change the world, purge all the evil from the land.
It didn't matter if he became a monster in the process.
Forty three.
Forty two.
This was living. This was fun. To spear and hack through flesh of his enemies. Hack. Hack. Hack through blood and flesh and bones, spilling out guts and organs. Severing limbs and heads. Laughing.
Embracing his inner lunatic. Finally cutting loose and shaking his true self free from those godawful constraints. That other personality. The role.
The mask.
Forty one.
The voice laughed with him. Kill them all!
He allowed a grin to pass his lips. Yes, he'd kill them. He'd kill them all. He'd always enjoyed killing. To watch that pretty red blood flow and stain everything a deep crimson red. There were few things in life that gave him joy, and killing was one of them. He enjoyed that rush of adrenaline, the endorphins that came with it. And gods, he wanted to ride that wave of euphoria and kill, kill kill. To listen to the voice in his head he'd always suppressed. Awash in the blood of said enemies as they lost arms, legs, heads. He was a painter who only used red. The deepest red. The darkest red. The brightest red, though the dim lighting didn't allow him to fully appreciate it.
The voice sang. Behead, behead, behead!
So he did.
Forty.
Thirty nine.
Thirty eight.
And oh, there was just so much blood! So much lovely blood!
It splattered in his hands, on his clothes, on his face. And god it felt so good. So damn good to just let go and stop pretending for just a few hours. It didn't matter that he hadn't slept in the last forty hours, possibly more, that he was running on pure adrenaline and fumes. For the moment, he was untouchable. He was a god among men, a giant among ants. He was reshaping the world the way it should be reshaped. No, remaking the world the way it should have been made from the very start.
Thirty seven.
The enjoyment was just a bonus. And he had to admit, it felt good to laugh and let loose. For once. He'd spent far too long trying to cram himself into a mould that he just wasn't going to fit into, no matter how much he tried. And honestly, he'd been playing the role of the good captain for far too long. It felt liberating to embrace his true self, at least once before the grand reveal, when he finally got to see the looks on everyone's dumb faces for believing what they saw. For believing his lie.
The Central... however many left of them there were now... would have to suffice for now. Bless them, they were all trying to run away, poor little lost lambs in an abbatoir seeking an exit. Little did they know there was no exit. He made sure of that. He may have made some mistakes in the past, but he wasn't that stupid. He cut them down one by one. Letting them have some time between his kills to give them a modicum of hope.
Hack. Hack. Hack. Hack them all to bits!
They had to have their illusion of hope, after all.
Thirty six.
Thirty five.
Thirty four.
Pitiful. Oh well. Fools did need their illusions, after all.
Hack. Hack. Hack. Carve up bones to make some bread!
He cut the feet off one so he couldn't run away, then finished him off with a sword through the eye. And by proxy, his brain.
Another tried to beg for his life. But Aizen was completely deaf to his pleas for mercy.
Thirty three.
He took an arm off another, then took advantage of the man's distraction – revelling in his ungodly scream at the loss of his writing hand, of course – was his name Wilhelm? Because it sounded like it – to cut his head clean off. Blind to his suffering
Thirty two.
He didn't know why they were complaining. He was doing them all a favour. He was doing the world a favour. The world was a corrupt, vile evil place. A stinking place, too. It needed to be destroyed. Burnt to the ground and rebuilt. Reduced to ashes. And if he could be king of those ashes, all the better. Because then he could rebuild.
And besides, And they were old anyway. Old and pathetic and weak.
Vile and corrupt and bloodthirsty.
They had to go.
The voice again: Kill, kill, kill!
They all had to go.
Thirty one.
Thirty.
Twenty nine.
The voice again, laughing: faster, faster, kill kill!
Kill them all!
Yes, yes, my grudge will be rewarded tonight!
He skewered and slashed and hacked. Limbs fell off, heads separated from bodies. It was glorious, and red, and everything. It was everything.
Twenty eight.
Twenty seven.
Twenty six.
He grinned maniacally. They hated him, of course. Called him a sadist. Perhaps he was. Perhas he always was and was just good at hiding it.
Twenty five.
Twenty four.
One even tried to fight. It was pathetic. Of course he was cut down. But not before some bones were broken, and an arm twisted.
He killed the fighter quickly and moved onto the next. Calm as still water, quick as a deer, he danced around them. Quick as a whip. Catch me if you can, he smirked.
Twenty three.
Twenty two.
Half of them gone. Was it half? Oh who cared? He didn't have time to do the math. He hated math. He preferred killing. It was justice really. A mercy.
They were going to die soon anyway. They were old.
Twenty one.
Twenty.
More limbs. More dead bodies.
He was racing up to a clifftop, running to catch the breathtaking view from the top. And for a few wonderful moments, he didn't care that after this – at some point, he wasn't sure when, he was never sure – he'd end up diving headfirst into a chasm. Because at the moment he'd ingested stars, was glowing from within. Right now he could do anything, everything, if only he set his mind to it. End the world, or change it. Break the wheel and invent a new one. Put a sun in the sky or destroy the moon. Travel into space, have wonderful adventures. Time had slowed down for him. He didn't need sleep to function anymore, sleep for the weaker humans. Not him. He was strong. He was untouchable. He was a god among men.
Nineteen.
All things in this world were transitory. These men. Life. Death. Everything.
He was simply cutting away the old so new things could grow. New flowers he could shape and mould and manipulate.
Eighteen.
He was in control. He was the one wielding the power here. The world would be changed. It would. And for starters, he was going to change this world. Beginning with the Central Forty Six. The so called 'Judicial system' of the Soul Society.
The most unjust group of people he'd ever encountered in his life.
Killing them was a mercy for the world and a punishment for them. The wrongdoers. The evildoers.
Seventeen.
Sixteen.
He wasn't doing anything wrong. He was invoking kirisutgomen. The privilege of a samurai to kill commoners for affronts – even perceived ones. Although those were most certainly not 'perceived' affronts.
Their corruption was very real. And a stain upon this world.
A stain that had to be wiped clean.
Fifteen.
Fourteen.
Thirteen.
It was all about reward and punishment.
Reward the innocent. Punish the guilty.
The fun was just a nice bonus.
Twelve.
Eleven.
Their screams were the sweetest music as he proceeded to slaughter them all. He spun, cut, hacked, slashed, dismembered, gored, broke bones – and laughed. Cackled as they fell like files. One by one they dropped. Bodies hitting the floor like rocks only landing with much softer thuds than bricks.
He wanted to laugh at how easy it was to sneak in. All those shocked faces because he'd surprised them. They were such easy prey. It wasn't a fight. It was butchery. The room was an abattoir and he was the slaughterman without a license.
Ten.
Cut off limbs. A spray of blood. Splatters and screams in the soundproof room. Ah the joy of kidou spells.
Nine.
Nobody would hear them scream. Or beg for mercy. for their lives. Throwing their so called comrades under the bus and his blade if there was a slim possibly they could get off Scot free.
None except him.
Eight.
They made him sick. They were a disease on the earth.
Seven.
He was an artist that only used red.
Six.
Blood red. Everywhere. On everything. Still hot, wet and warm. Metallic on his tongue as he licked his lips. It tasted good. So good he didn't want to leave. Didn't want to go outside and have to put the mask back on again.
Five.
Soon, he soothed himself. Soon he would be free of this place. The lies the pretence he had to put on that made him sick to his stomach.
Four.
He enjoyed their pain. Absolutely relished it. He'd savour the sound forever. Even if it was nightmare fuel. Even if the screams would haunt him. It was worth it.
Three.
It would all be worth it.
Two.
All of it.
And he cackled. Loud. Triumphant. Maniacal.
The voice in his head given sound. Repressed desires finally being expressed. He lopped off another head and watched it roll towards him. He kicked it away. It left a nice trail of blood.
One.
He looked up from the blood on the floor. One. One left. The lone survivor. Aizen had to admit, the old fool had done well to last this long, he really had.
But his time was up now.
And Aizen Sousuke had somewhere else to be quite soon.
He stepped towards him, and the old man stumbled, then crawled backwards. All the time looking at him like he'd grown a second head. Like he was some form of inhuman monster. As if one of his eyes was askew. Like there was something wrong with him. Like he'd seen a terrifying vision. A nightmare. A creature from the depths of hell.
Funny. You'd have thought by that reaction he was possessed by a Hollow or something.
He was Aizen Sousuke. Nobody, and nothing else.
The maniac.
A lunatic.
Stark raving mad.
Finally being himself.
He stared down at the terrified old man, shaking and trembling at his feet, backed against the wall. "Wh- what are you?" he asked. Even his voice was shaking. "I must know!"
Aizen Sousuke just grinned down at him, no doubt a horrific vision, all splattered with blood. Smirking maniacally. Sadistically.
"Have you forgotten so easily?" he smiled. "I am you."
Yes, the voice inside him hissed its agreement. We are you.
We are the madness that lurks within you.
We are the animal instinct of greed and hunger for power.
We will witness when the day breaks anew and change the fucking world.
The man cowered before him, and he wanted to laugh again. At the whole thing. At how he sounded. He knew it was his voice speaking, yet it sounded... off. It had an edge of duality to it. It sounded like him, and yet it did not. No, it definitely didn't sound like him anymore. But then, he supposed he'd been pretending for so long his true voice would sound a bit odd to his ears. After all, wear a mask for so long, and it becomes a part of your face.
He could see the terror in the old man's eyes. And he knew he should feel... regret. Pity for this pathetic creature before him.
He felt nothing.
Instead he just advanced and closed the gap between them. Enjoying the way the pitiful wretch cowered and tried to claw backwards... only to find his back against the wall. Step by step by step.
"Have mercy." the old man croaked.
He didn't even hesitate. "No."
Because they had shown no mercy for anyone else. Especially not him.
Instead he just raised his sword. And stabbed the man through the neck. Watched him gurgle and choke on his own blood. Coughing. Spluttering.
He gazed upon his work. 46 dead bodies. Too many severed limbs to even count. And red. Red everywhere. Still warm. Still wet. It was a masterpiece if he didn't say so himself.
He watched the body fall and counted the last.
None. He breathed heavily. His foray into blood and horror and fun having taken his breath away.
And then there were none.
He stood catching his breath, breathing heavy and hard, and when he was suitably calm and his heart had stopped hammering against his ribcage like a wild beast, he left the room and headed back outside. He was just in time to watch the sun rise.
He breathed in the cool dawn air. A smile on his lips. Still warm blood dripping slowly down his skin. Witnessing the day breaking anew.
He was keenly aware of how he must look. Blood drenched. Monstrous. A maniac.
Lunatic.
Deluded.
Mad.
Insane.
A walking nightmare. He certainly had been for the 46 men he'd killed. Butchered like lambs.
With no forgiveness. No mercy. No remorse.
He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes in the early dawnlight. Pleased. His bloodlust sated. He knew he should move, lest he risk being seen like this, but he wanted just a few more moments to enjoy this new day, this sunrise. Because who knew how many of them he had left?
Soon he would be free of this wretched hole. This life. This lie.
Soon he would go home. He was nearly there. So close he could taste it. He was almost there. He was so... nearly... free...
Soon there would be no more sunrises. No more days. No more daylight to speak of. He would make the most of them while he still could.
Eventually though, he had to move, and so he cloaked himself with an illusion and made his way home again. Where he stripped off his bloody clothes, showered and washed the horror off his body. Watched the blood go down the drain like in that film.
He dressed and burned his clothes in the garden. Better there was no evidence.
He went back inside and closed the door, glancing up at the clock. It was 5am. Time to get up soon. Make breakfast. Go to work. He hunted around for his Captain's haori, wiped the blood off his glasses, and got on with his day. Starting with a nice cup of tea. Making sure to leave one out for Gin for when he woke up.