Quote:
TW: suicidal thoughts
For the past six months, whenever Janggunite had looked in the mirror, he didn’t appreciate what he saw there. It should be a tall, grown adult man, broad-shouldered and well-taken care of, and even if not naturally confident, very successful at pretending. Maybe a saucy little playful smirk. The vibrant attire he’d designed for himself. Smooth, flawless skin. Shiny, styled white curls. A hint of concealer (enough to cover the bags), a stroke of mascara, a shimmer of gold over his eyelids.
He’d been pretty. Countless people in his profession had said as much. A hard worker, put together, meeting deadlines, exceeding expectations. His name wasn’t unheard of: a feat in the fashion industry. January had been doing well for himself. He’d worked so hard tending to his piles of younger siblings, putting himself through college with a shitty job, toughing it out when he had no contacts and making himself something.
It was just to the point where he was ready to settle in. He didn’t have to break himself clawing his way up because he was where he wanted to be. He could relax. He could be happy…
All that gone in a blink.
Unbelievable. It was still somehow a shock to wake up every morning and see- whatever this was. A grimy and uncared-for river algae goblin.
Janggunite had not been shy about making his dissatisfaction with the management known. This was not permanent and could not happen to him, and someone would <******** find whatever the cure was, and it wouldn’t involve just forgetting who he was and turning into someone else and still losing everything he’d worked for. He would not live like this- he was not a child begging for freedom and waiting for someone to bring him home and drop him off, and this would be ******** fixed immediately.
It became obvious quickly that no, he wasn’t special. Others had been living this way for years, and if they hadn’t uncovered the “cure” in a decade of service, Janggunite should not expect any new developments after his scattering of months.
He’d slipped into something quieter after that, with the complaints being more softly-spoken venom than burning ire.
They were still met with a scattering of responses: some apologetic sympathy, some uncomfortable pity, a bit of tempered hope, and a little callous disinterest.
Then do something about it.
Janggunite never had to ask to know what the implication was. It teetered ever-present on the edge of his mind. Do something about it. Do something. It was hardly the first time he’d wanted to do something... When he was eight and pressed to the brick of his elementary school building, breathing heavily and heart racing and unable to suck in enough air and mind frazzled with panic because he didn’t even know why, and thinking it would surely be the end of him there. It would be easiest if it was the end of him there.
Or when he was seventeen and struggling with a basic fast-food job on top of his dual-enrollment exams and it took one deluded customer who couldn’t decide if he was trying to get January back to his place to do trashy s**t to him, or berating him for poor, slow service. And as January had walked home from work that night, he’d hoped, hoped, hoped that he’d be shot, or eaten by a monster, or hit by a car, or literally anything that would just end his existence.
But he’d only ever thought of how much easier it would be and prayed that some force of nature would act upon him. He’d never ’done something,’ himself.
Coward.
He wouldn’t deny it.
But it seemed… he thought it would be messy to be active in his own end. Not a perfect example for his younger siblings. Not an image of him he wanted to leave behind with his peers. Inconvenient and ugly, if it mattered at all. Ideally, he wouldn’t be a participant. It would just be something inflicted on him, and hopefully it wouldn’t be a drawn out affair.
...Those were thoughts for someone who had a job, and a family, and friends, people who relied on him and who he had to tend to, people who might find him and blame themselves or feel traumatized. He’d never really known how to just “disappear” like so many people in Destiny City did.
But he wasn’t in Destiny City. To anyone that had known “January,” he was already gone. That mess was made. How many people would even blink if they found a body in Negaspace. How many of these people were murderers already and wouldn’t be bothered by the sight of one mangled half-youma. If anyone even found him. Any of Chaos’ monsters could easily take that possibility right off the table. He was pretty sure the youma he was familiar with, Maikoh, just straight ate people when it was convenient for her.
No one he loved would have to deal with the aftermath.
That made it more convenient.
He could look more at his personal preferences when planning how it would go.
Quickly, preferably. Janggunite didn’t have any affinity for pain, and he didn’t want to suffer needlessly (he’d done plenty of that, already). The go-tos seemed to be shooting himself or aggressively wrecking his car into a brick building or drugging himself. All things less available in Negaspace. Obtainable, certainly, but only with work. He didn’t think he’d have the wherewithal to put in a lot of effort.
He could hang himself, starve himself, drown himself… Those all seemed more painful and less tempting by virtue of that.
He could let the Rift take him. He’d seen a dozen agents die in the Rift on his last assignment. Stolen by shadows or crushed by rocks or starseeds ripped. He had been mesmerizingly close, himself. How much longer would it have been taken to just be done? A little more unpredictable variety with the end than he was comfortable with, but they’d at least all seemed quick.
Janggunite stood in the castle, at the entrance to the hall of shadows, peering past phantoms of creatures that threatened to pluck up anyone who passed. He was a lieutenant. It wasn’t recommended that he journey here alone- because of the death. But if that was his goal...
The threat was steps away, and beyond that, any number of horrific possibilities.
Well, “possibilities” was not a reassuring term.
What happened to the senshi snatched in the Hall of Shadows? What had become of the missing bodies that had been left behind? They were gone, certainly. But were they dead, or was it a worse alternative? A zombie-esque shadow creature? A thinking and feeling mind trapped in a body controlled by Chaos? Youmafied by some freak Rift accident?
The thoughtful and controlled sway that undulated down Janggunite’s tail stilled. His claws fidgeted in a little rhythm, pads of his fingers drumming softly against his leg.
Did he want to risk any number of uncertain possibilities when he didn’t know what the outcome would be? Maikoh was a youma, once human, dragged deeper into the chaos and mind warped farther even than his was. She did not seem depressed. But there were so many unlike her, who acted like a set of teeth and claws and little else.
If “the worst” were to happen, maybe he wouldn’t remember his human experiences. Maybe he would feel nothing for the life he’d lived. Given enough time, it would fade. A decade- or two, or three- under Chaos’ influence would mitigate the thirty years he’d spent as a human, probably... But maybe he would remember. Maybe he would know exactly these feelings he had now. Maybe he would still have them- worse, even because he would be completely trapped in a body not his own, crammed with chaos exacerbating every single sense he’d ever felt, and he could not escape. There was no peaceful death for a full youma.
A risk worse even than being stuck like this...
Janggunite left, turned and slunk away back toward the barracks, long tail dragging along behind ******** coward.
