Kurosaki Shun | 黒咲 隼 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raidraptors) wrote2016-02-18 10:11 pm
raidraptors) wrote2016-02-18 10:11 pm
Entry tags:
[FIC] On Monsters And Men
Who: Shun Kurosaki
What: Monsters aren't defined by sheer existence, they are made by their actions.
When: -
Where: -
Warnings: -
Shun doesn't remember humanity – or at least, he would tell himself so, if he ever were to think of it; the implication, the difference between human and monster seems foreign, was so even before he had lost all of his teeth in favor for a new sharper set the first time around.
(He's already learned that lesson long before ever stepping foot into Ryslig – there is not need for claws or teeth, for wings or hunger. Humans can be monsters too, if only given the slightest justification.)
Maybe he would think different, would fight the changes more if he hadn't been changed so quickly, if hunger hadn't demanded a sacrifice just a week after arriving, his mind like steel and heart like ice as he dragged that abusing bastard back into his own radio, let new gained power run its course and listened to the screams as he sucked his prey dry and silenced the demanding throb in his gut. The horror that followed had been dull compared to that after his very first kill anyway.
(Hands trembling faintly as he stares at collapsed concrete left in wake of duel, reddened by blood spilled, the crack of skull breaking still an echo in his ear while the blade of his disk hums and Rise Falcon soars above his head– he hadn't meant for it then, he hadn't meant to kill–)
There hadn't been time to linger then – not with Yuto hungry and suffering under the instincts, averse to put this curse to use, unwilling to hurt anybody anymore even to ensure his own survival – and regret is concept long left behinds in the ruins of a town Shun still calls home. In a sense, he thinks in hindsight, that week had been a lesson on the workings of this dimension – quick and brutal, but lesson nonetheless and even if he won't ever voice it, he's thankful to the Fourth.
Better to learn fast than to spend months dragging through changes, without a semblance of understanding what this kind of hunger means beyond the words of strangers.
He knows that others draw lines between themselves and "the monster" and he decidedly doesn't. He's been cursed with claws and teeth and fur, with height and a form that shifts with emergence and disappearance of the sun and there is no point in picking parts to like and parts to damn – it's either all or nothing, and ever practical he choses to take everything he's given and make it his own.
Monsters aren't defined by sheer existence, they are made by their actions.
He will kill to survive and he will kill to further his own goals – but neither of that is new, he's done it here and he's done it back home and in Standard. His hands are stained red no matter which dimension he turns to, everywhere a battlefield – war unseen by most, but clear to Shun's eyes and neither of that bothers him because it can't.
The only way to get anywhere is forward and hesitation means death.
There are still lines that he won't cross, set in iron and forged to steel – no matter how necessary, no matter how deserved; he doesn't enjoy his kills.
Shun doesn't stop to wonder if utter apathy makes him any better.
(He doesn't know if Ruri would recognize her brother anymore – now and before, and he doesn't stop to ask that either.)
What: Monsters aren't defined by sheer existence, they are made by their actions.
When: -
Where: -
Warnings: -
Shun doesn't remember humanity – or at least, he would tell himself so, if he ever were to think of it; the implication, the difference between human and monster seems foreign, was so even before he had lost all of his teeth in favor for a new sharper set the first time around.
(He's already learned that lesson long before ever stepping foot into Ryslig – there is not need for claws or teeth, for wings or hunger. Humans can be monsters too, if only given the slightest justification.)
Maybe he would think different, would fight the changes more if he hadn't been changed so quickly, if hunger hadn't demanded a sacrifice just a week after arriving, his mind like steel and heart like ice as he dragged that abusing bastard back into his own radio, let new gained power run its course and listened to the screams as he sucked his prey dry and silenced the demanding throb in his gut. The horror that followed had been dull compared to that after his very first kill anyway.
(Hands trembling faintly as he stares at collapsed concrete left in wake of duel, reddened by blood spilled, the crack of skull breaking still an echo in his ear while the blade of his disk hums and Rise Falcon soars above his head– he hadn't meant for it then, he hadn't meant to kill–)
There hadn't been time to linger then – not with Yuto hungry and suffering under the instincts, averse to put this curse to use, unwilling to hurt anybody anymore even to ensure his own survival – and regret is concept long left behinds in the ruins of a town Shun still calls home. In a sense, he thinks in hindsight, that week had been a lesson on the workings of this dimension – quick and brutal, but lesson nonetheless and even if he won't ever voice it, he's thankful to the Fourth.
Better to learn fast than to spend months dragging through changes, without a semblance of understanding what this kind of hunger means beyond the words of strangers.
He knows that others draw lines between themselves and "the monster" and he decidedly doesn't. He's been cursed with claws and teeth and fur, with height and a form that shifts with emergence and disappearance of the sun and there is no point in picking parts to like and parts to damn – it's either all or nothing, and ever practical he choses to take everything he's given and make it his own.
Monsters aren't defined by sheer existence, they are made by their actions.
He will kill to survive and he will kill to further his own goals – but neither of that is new, he's done it here and he's done it back home and in Standard. His hands are stained red no matter which dimension he turns to, everywhere a battlefield – war unseen by most, but clear to Shun's eyes and neither of that bothers him because it can't.
The only way to get anywhere is forward and hesitation means death.
There are still lines that he won't cross, set in iron and forged to steel – no matter how necessary, no matter how deserved; he doesn't enjoy his kills.
Shun doesn't stop to wonder if utter apathy makes him any better.
(He doesn't know if Ruri would recognize her brother anymore – now and before, and he doesn't stop to ask that either.)