He walked the dark and narrow path with nothing really on his mind.
Condensation dripped warm and rancid from the ceiling onto his face, but
he did not blink. He tread a path, he suspected, that no human had ever
tread before. But then, he was not really human, just another monster
walking the path that monster trail. He remembered so little, seemed to
fall asleep while he was walking and would wake up crumpled in an exhausted
heap, smelling vaguely of blood and lifesteam. And he would get up,
pressed by the voice screaming inside his head. And he headed north and
north and north, stopping at intervals, never to rest, always some blood
that needed to be spilled or minds that needed to be broken. Never rest .
. . not even now when he was so tired. He never remembered being this
tired, and his body seemed to move of its own accord, or perhaps someone
else's will entirely. Would it be so much to ask really, just to sit down
for a moment and close his tired eyes and lay his weary head across his
arms? And he was thirsty . . . never hungry though he didn't recall ever
eating. But his throat was parched and his mouth was dry, his lips stuck
to his gums when he grimaced at the heat or sneered at some sordid beast.
In his head he realized a vague emotional pressure, as he was attacked yet
again by a tonberry king. This surely must have been the hundredth but
they would not stop coming. He just wanted to sleep, just for a while, he
was going to need so much energy soon... he just wanted to get to the
bottom and sleep, but he was being attacked from all sides so frequently.
He felt angry and impatient . . . frustrated.
Suffice to say his childhood was indeed horrific in all aspects, yet it was not quite as bad as some might speculate. The experiments had lasted well into his teens, and caused him no end of anguish, physically and mentally. He never had friends, anyone to really take care of him. He began his training very young, before he could remember. But he always recalled a certain taboo against emotions. He was never to appear angry and never to be sad or frightened. And he had little cause to be happy, and never smiled. So he never knew emotion, only how to quickly suppress, squelch, or otherwise kill his feelings. People feared him for it . . . for being so cold and stiff, never raising his voice in anger never turning his face to the sky in desperation, never plagued by worry, never giddy with victory. He never let his guard down and never displayed any emotion, indeed he never really felt it, and only now did he realize there may have been a reason.
He made a small impatient noise at the tonberry that waddled vacantly before him. He slashed it, and then again. They took so long to kill, it was grating on him, like nothing else ever had. Perhaps since it didn't matter . . . since no one was watching, he could afford to be angry. His anger grew and grew until the beast finally died, but seconds later he was attacked again by a skeletal dragon and he felt something permanent in his mind slip. And he felt pain.
He could remember dimly some hidden shape in a very dark room. Black crumpled wings against burgundy fabric. And if he had the presence of mind to try and remember his childhood, he may have recalled Professor Hojo rambling about transmutation. He may have at last understood the reason why he was allowed no emotion. If he ever became angry . . .
He was used to pain, but had not braced himself properly for this new rending of flesh and sinew, this excruciating stretching of bone . . . and even when he sensed it was over it still hurt. There was a great weight on his shoulders that had not been there before. And he felt /powerful/. Never before had such bloodlust crept through his veins, such manic viciousness. The feral grin that graced his lips surely could not have been his own. And he looked behind him as the dragon halted. And he had /wings/. Massive billowing white wings, like an angel. Long white feathers dragged to the floor. And he had the energy now to contract his muscles and beat his wings, he did not rise off the ground, but sent such a torrent of dust and wind at the dragon that the monster stepped backward and shook its mighty head and roared. And he ran towards it, thrashing feathers against the ground, and then against air as he /flew/. Now he knew . . . why he was not allowed to show emotion, what would happen when his limits broke. Everyone would see, everyone would know he was not human.
He rose into the air, with some small effort and angled his mighty sword and dove at the dragon. He made short work of it, killing it with that single thrust. But he found when the dragon lowered its mighty head to the ground and breathed its last breath, that he became weary and had not the energy to take flight again . . . but his wings remained. And he dragged them in the dirt and became more and more tired . . . winding his way slowly to the bottom to finally fulfill his destiny.
He wondered distantly what else he might have become, if he had been given the chance.
Suffice to say his childhood was indeed horrific in all aspects, yet it was not quite as bad as some might speculate. The experiments had lasted well into his teens, and caused him no end of anguish, physically and mentally. He never had friends, anyone to really take care of him. He began his training very young, before he could remember. But he always recalled a certain taboo against emotions. He was never to appear angry and never to be sad or frightened. And he had little cause to be happy, and never smiled. So he never knew emotion, only how to quickly suppress, squelch, or otherwise kill his feelings. People feared him for it . . . for being so cold and stiff, never raising his voice in anger never turning his face to the sky in desperation, never plagued by worry, never giddy with victory. He never let his guard down and never displayed any emotion, indeed he never really felt it, and only now did he realize there may have been a reason.
He made a small impatient noise at the tonberry that waddled vacantly before him. He slashed it, and then again. They took so long to kill, it was grating on him, like nothing else ever had. Perhaps since it didn't matter . . . since no one was watching, he could afford to be angry. His anger grew and grew until the beast finally died, but seconds later he was attacked again by a skeletal dragon and he felt something permanent in his mind slip. And he felt pain.
He could remember dimly some hidden shape in a very dark room. Black crumpled wings against burgundy fabric. And if he had the presence of mind to try and remember his childhood, he may have recalled Professor Hojo rambling about transmutation. He may have at last understood the reason why he was allowed no emotion. If he ever became angry . . .
He was used to pain, but had not braced himself properly for this new rending of flesh and sinew, this excruciating stretching of bone . . . and even when he sensed it was over it still hurt. There was a great weight on his shoulders that had not been there before. And he felt /powerful/. Never before had such bloodlust crept through his veins, such manic viciousness. The feral grin that graced his lips surely could not have been his own. And he looked behind him as the dragon halted. And he had /wings/. Massive billowing white wings, like an angel. Long white feathers dragged to the floor. And he had the energy now to contract his muscles and beat his wings, he did not rise off the ground, but sent such a torrent of dust and wind at the dragon that the monster stepped backward and shook its mighty head and roared. And he ran towards it, thrashing feathers against the ground, and then against air as he /flew/. Now he knew . . . why he was not allowed to show emotion, what would happen when his limits broke. Everyone would see, everyone would know he was not human.
He rose into the air, with some small effort and angled his mighty sword and dove at the dragon. He made short work of it, killing it with that single thrust. But he found when the dragon lowered its mighty head to the ground and breathed its last breath, that he became weary and had not the energy to take flight again . . . but his wings remained. And he dragged them in the dirt and became more and more tired . . . winding his way slowly to the bottom to finally fulfill his destiny.
He wondered distantly what else he might have become, if he had been given the chance.