chroma | WEEK SIX: EXECUTION

Entry tags:

!execution

WEEK SIX: EXECUTION

EXECUTION: CLARTE

Sunday morning starts peacefully enough, until around noon, when alarms start going off on your phones. The dreadful noise is accompanied by a reminder of the execution taking place in the Central Node. You can snooze the alarms at first, but they begin to get a little more insistent. If you're being stubborn, you can probably hold out until exactly 1 PM, when an archway opens right in front of you and pulls you in.

Today the Central Node is eerily quiet and empty. There are a few blankets laid out on the grass for those of you who wish to sit instead of standing the whole time. No refreshments have been provided, but the Residents are already there waiting for you.

As the last person enters the node, an enormous archway suddenly opens. This archway once again leads to an area which is pitch black inside, with white and grey dust falling softly like snow. The chilly air feels even colder than before, and you instinctively know you must not approach it. If you try to push through anyway, something is blocking your way. Smaller tears to the same space open in the air, at the very least. You can see what's happening, even if you can't follow.

Because - once the archway is open, Clarte alone will begin to walk through as though drawn. All you can do now is watch and wait.

▵ FULL NAVIGATION ▵
🎨 locations 🎨 statuses 🎨 ic profiles 🎨 audiences
🎨 reporting 🎨 private conversations 🎨 murder proposals
🎨 colors 🎨 ???

(CODE)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[...

in a way, it's familiar; genuinely so, to their soul. it echoes to a memory past clarte's reach, that they only know of—being kept locked away, waiting for their disposal date. it's something the "past" clarte knew, but the chains of which the "current" them was free from.

well, at least they're not claustrophobic.

silently, they follow the command and exit. following the will of others', as is so ingrained in a part of them.]

[that's right. they know this - their existence was never meant for companionship. they were never meant to love or be loved, never meant to be anything other than a tool for someone to brandish. the smudge of color doesn't say a word of praise. why should it? you don't reward a machine for functioning as intended. the smudge shifts a little - becomes a little more familiar. the faintest hint of emperor schnaud is visible in the flecks of color here, but clarte gets the sense that it isn't really him, in the way faces in dreams tend to be.

the emperor lifts a hand and snaps. and clarte knows, immediately, that they have a task they must set off to do. in the middle of a forest, there is a girl, being protected by guards. they must get to her, and kill her. this is their purpose. they must. by whatever means necessary. your emotions in this don't matter, shouldn't matter - you have one final job. this is an order.

and as they know this, so does everybody watching.]

[somewhere deep inside of clarte they feel the need to kill this man

no. but also, kind of. they said it themself, after all: their hatred towards emperor schnaud is carved into their body.

but anyway. distantly, they recall what someone—who? their name escapes clarte right now—said. (... generally one would not keep a prototype after submission.) as someone with no meaning to their life beyond the act of being created, what else can they do but carry out the orders of their emperor? even as their heart already says that they have no desire to do this; they've never liked killing, let alone someone who poses no threat that they know of.

(and even further in the cloud of their mind, there's something else they try to hold onto.

"if they wanted a tool, they should've made a tool. not something with a heart."

but those words slip through their fingers and fade away.)

in the end, straightforward has always suited them better, as they lunge for the guards first.]

[the first of the guards doesn't seem like someone you might pick to be a guard. they're small, and armored - clarte can't see their face. but they can see the brilliant blue feathers that extend from their back. they're similar to clarte, even, the way the wings are shaped. these wings flutter nervously as the guard sees clarte approach, and there's a little gasp as clarte doesn't hesitate, lunging forward. the bright blue feathers flash bright as the guard panics, stumbling backward, and clarte will feel a jolt of pain as the echo of talons rake across their face. it does not deter them. they are made for this.

the blue feathers turn to grey as the guard falls to the ground, staring up at clarte, and for a moment, they can see the look of horror on her face.

but she's in the way. and they have their orders.

this concept isn't worth keeping, either.]

[and again, somewhere, they recall, like a blip that quickly disappears—a conversation about disposing of creations. how they had felt nothing for themself, but the only thought that horrified them was if such a thing would ever happen to -------.

they don't want to do this. something in their heart breaks.]

Stop—

[who are they speaking to? a master who cannot hear them and never cared for their opinion, or their own person?

but like an imperial order, pain flashing across them, they cannot defy. (can't they?) they fire a blast of magic—]

... May your soul rest.

[that is the only apology they can offer right now.]

Edited 2022-04-03 17:45 (UTC)

[the magic strikes true - it pierces through the flimsy armor like nothing, and she screams, a short, terrified noise, before going silent. she crumples, and they watch for just a moment as she dissolves into color, brightest sunrise at first before turning muddy and rotted in the dirt. and then, they must move on. there is no time.

the second round is two guards, this time. a graceful one, with long, beautiful blonde hair, and a taller, taciturn one, holding a lance. both watch clarte approach, and as they do, the graceful guard waves a hand, a swirl of neon, multicolored butterflies shivering into existence, resting on their fingertips. they wait, both tense, ready to defend. they must.]

[that is a noise that will haunt them, they know. it's for the better. they hope they never get used to this.]

... Do not fear.

[but again, they don't know who they're talking to. their opponents or themself?

there's something familiar about facing these butterflies, as they conjure up flames and set the area where the guard stands alight. without waiting, they lunge for the guard holding the lance, aiming to a press a hand against his chest and blast him with magic.

("if there ever were an incident that I were to lose control—like what supposedly happened between the two deceased. i would ask that you stop me."

"i understand. then, I would ask the same of you in return, should that ever happen to me."

"you'll have my lance.")]

[they've done this before. it's easy. both of them fell to clarte before.

you may be one of the few who've seen a clearer image of me.

the words echo in their ears like a heartbeat, as the graceful guard steps back briskly and twists their hand. they gasp in pain as the flames lick at their skin, and cough, trying to move back even as the butterflies go on the offensive. iridescent wings burst and smoke as the fire overtakes them, but the butterflies multiply, and just enough of them get to clarte and manage to feast. they tear through clarte's wings, through their arms, leaving half-eaten wounds behind before perishing to the fire.

the guard with the lance leaps out of the way, a full fifteen feet backwards, but the magic clips them, making them stagger. they spit blood to the side, twirl their lance, and race for clarte, but clarte knows they're in better form. this is nothing. all it will take is one blast to erase them from existence.

i did tell you i'm also familiar with the notion of putting difficult decisions onto friends, did i not?

destroy. destroy. DESTROY.]

[they hiss in pain as the butterflies eat through them, but they ignore it. they have to keep going, even if their body breaks. that's how it is.

in the empire, each life has a value. if you're not needed, they get rid of you. and it may not be a mindset clarte ever ascribed to when it came to others, but what they believe has never mattered.

and as their heart shatters further, they can feel it—the monster that lurks in the recesses of their vessel. the empire chose to play with fire when they created something like clarte, and clarte has always wondered when the match will be struck. (... hasn't it already been?)

they send another blast of magic the guard's way. please let this be over soon.]

[the blast of magic does the trick. it pierces the guard through the stomach, and he drops to his knees, coughing blood and petals, shaking. and then he falls, his helmet dislodging just enough for long white-silver hair to spill across the muddy ground. he starts to dissolve, a deep, royal blue crawling out from his body, cracking and disintegrating, and then he too is mud and rot.

the fire consumes the graceful guard despite her attempt to get away - she won't scream, though. she chokes down the pain, and stares at clarte as the flames burn her to ash. she watches them, because she knows. they have never been kind, or strong. desperate, inhuman, lonely. she knows it better than anybody else, as she drops, and then she too is color, a tarnished gold.

they continue.

the final guard clenches their fists, watching as they approach. they too, have a helmet, but no weapon, and scarlet crackles at their fingertips. like it's torn from them, like they can't do anything but spit this out:

I don't want to kill you.]

["must be lonely," someone (who?) had once said. and clarte said that they'd never thought of it that way. because—why? (because they always had friends and companions in the life they could remember? —what life was that?) but truthfully, perhaps the loneliness had been painted in a colour they couldn't recognize.

"i think there might be some things only they could understand... at least, to understand them easily."

a part of them had almost been envious to hear that, as an abnormal existence with no other metric to how they should view or relate to the world. (the closest thing to another model erased before they could even be activated.)

almost, though. in the end, what they needed from people wasn't to be understood. what they've wanted, what they clung to, what gave them a reason to live—it was something else. an emotion that they can't name right now.]

I don't want to kill you either.

[because they don't like taking others' lives. because of something they can't recall.

they smile, pained, even though nothing about this situation warrants it. somehow, something about the gesture feels familiar.

("why are you joking if you don't want to? scared to cry?

you just squint your eyes and make sad noises.

you look like you want to try.")

and yet—]

... But it is what it is.

[behind this guard is a girl. she's familiar, but not, made of a swirl of color that resembles the person they devoted themselves to. they know her name, but it doesn't matter. their task is to kill her, and so they will.

but first, they have to get through this. the guard makes an annoyed noise.

Yeah, that's what I thought you'd say.

and they rush clarte, because like hell are they taking this laying down.]

[fighting this guard is familiar. but before, they were always aiming to never hurt for real. except for that one time they might've sliced off his arm and gotten splattered in his blood and accidentally murdered him? honestly, very hard to remember right now. probably for the best because that was kind of traumatic.

anyhow.

this time, they don't have to fight on equal ground. (they know they're not a match for him in hand-to-hand combat.) it would be so easy to use what they have at their disposal to fight unfairly. to take to the air and rain magic from above.

but a part of them feels like they at least owe it to him to not make it so impersonal. they'll meet his attack head-on, as an almost formless blade of energy manifests in their hand. they move to counterattack, stabbing it into his chest.]

[they're not a match for him in hand-to-hand, but they have the element of surprise. and... well, it was never going to be a fair fight, this way. they summon a blade, and don't hesitate. the neat shink of metal sliding through flesh is loud, echoing across the field. and for a moment, the guard just gurgles, hand coming up to hold onto clarte's hand, settling fingers curled around the handle of the blade that has slide through his heart.

for a moment, the guard looks up at clarte, gasping. he pulls the helmet from his head, throwing it to the side. he looks clarte in the eye, and for a moment, it looks like he might say something. might lean close, might press their foreheads together.

instead, he spits blood in their face. and then he dissolves, a sludge of muddied red that drips off the edge of clarte's sword.

all that is left is the girl.]

[ah—

("i don't care if you're sad."

"i know, and i'm glad for that.")

for a moment, they lift a hand up, as to wipe the blood off. but then, they leave it be, letting it drip down their face. this much is what they deserve.

("i didn't know how to help you.

... i'm not a good friend. that's why."

they think they're probably a far worse friend.)

they take in a shuddering breath, before they let it out. slowly, they walk over to the girl, the sound of their own heart loud in their ears.]

[she isn't scared. she stares up at them. she is defenseless - and she is chained, with familiar blue power.

melina cannot escape. and you know, clarte, that she is your final target. this is the final stanza. it is your job to strike her down.]

[their hand, still gripping the sword, begins to shake. their whole body does, trembling in a whirlpool of emotion they can hardly decipher.

softly,]

... Don't make me do this.

[what god is there to pray to, when they effectively are the deity—and how useless they are, that they cannot create a miracle here? and yet, still, they beg to the air. perhaps, half-recognizing her and half-not, they aren't even sure of why this is the breaking point for them—why this goes every instinct of their soul.

"everything delicious about you has been wrung out by someone else. an empty vessel indeed." but ultimately, even they have things they can't bear to lose.

and again, more desperately,]

Don't make me do this!

[even so, against their will, they raise the sword.]

[you have to, you have to, you have to.

they raise the sword. and they bring it down.

and she lets out a little cry, as the sword sinks into her. tears, involuntary, slide down her cheeks, and her hands instinctively come to hold onto the sword, blood dripping from where the metal slices into her palms. she chokes, never looking away - and then horrifyingly, slowly, she dissolves into a mix of colors bright at first, and then rot. just like the others.

an empty vessel, indeed.

there's silence, for a long moment, as the color seeps into the dirt. and then, a whisper.

Look what you've done. This is all your fault. I never knew that you could be so selfish. the color breathes against their ear. You cannot be allowed to do this again.

Kill yourself. Now. That's an order.]

["i didn't take you for someone who could be that selfish."

"selfish is all that i am, garou."

"i didn't realize you were capable of loving so deeply either."

in a way, this order comes at a good time. had it not, clarte might've ended up screaming in pain, in anguish. but even now, a part of them reminds themself of why they cannot afford that luxury.

(this hurt is their punishment, for a crime—for a multitude of them, really—that they can't recall right now.)

but because this voice speaks, clarte trembles once more; this time, however, for very different reasons. whether this is teyul schnaud's voice or another's, they don't know, but it doesn't matter.

everyone here wanted to see them yell so badly? they're getting it now.]

Silence!

[and with that comes all of their rare fury, their hatred.]

You're lucky I can't kill you here and now.

[for putting them in this position, for giving them orders they never wanted to follow when clarte does have their own will and this was never it at all. for getting others involved, because clarte can accept their own suffering, take it and make it something stronger, but how dare they harm everyone else for it. their grip tightens, as if they wished they could strike out at any other enemy. in the end, though, robbed of their true power—their defiance is pointless.

their hands adjust their position to hold onto the blade, slashing open their palms once more, so that they can point the sword at themself. and then—

they plunge the sword into their heart.]

[or - they try. the sword goes for the heart, and as the tip of it hits their chest - it stops.

Y'know, you're still an idiot. a gold voice says, annoyed, as flowers start to bloom around their feet. I wasn't mad just 'cuz we're losing what you could do for us. I'm mad 'cuz we're losing you.

they struggle, though. there are orders they must carry out. another voice chimes in, just as annoyed - purple, jagged at the edges, pushing them away from their weapon.

I know there's things you want, and I know you're not a total doormat, so why do you gotta act like it all the time? Even when you're going to die.

they want to die, they've been waiting all this time. they've been told to die, it's necessary, they're supposed to. they've hurt so many people, but... they can't bring themselves to do it. the flowers at their feet burst into a vibrant bloom, an echo of green coming off each one like snow.

... To me, you're not some grand being, or an angel, or some invincible being. You're just you. And you're wonderful for it. the green murmurs, and another burst of purple twines around their shoulders. You can keep your heart where it is. You'll still feel as much as we do, in the end. and then amber, shining bright: You matter, even if you do not think you do.

the flowers curl up and up, winding around their feet, their legs, soothing the wounds they've received. the holes in their wings mend, the marks along their arms turn to faded scars.

I love you, Clarity... you've always been a light for others. a soft yellow voice whispers, taking their hands. they pull those hands away from clarte, and for a moment, their hands are warm, like the sun shining through a window. a royal blue voice chimes in, agreeing: People care for you, Clarte. Many.

but maybe they were starting to realize that, weren't they? they feel - forgiveness, perhaps. love. and as they stand there, trembling, the colors swirl brightly and press close, like a hug. the kind you give a person, with a soul, and a purpose past simply to serve others.

well, until a wave of scarlet frees itself from the swirl. clarte will feel the sensation of being punched in the chest.

You're so stupid! Everyone's life is important, dumbass. Vessel, clone or what the fuck ever. Quit making me say dumb afterschool special shit!

and then - the color gently pushes them towards the archway. go. to your friends. to people who love you, and people who believe in you, and people who are better off with you in their lives.

clarte is alive.

the question echoes in their head even as they move: This is not about what I want. What do you want?]

[

cool! well, clarte will unpack this later, because as they rush out their gaze is just desperately scanning the rest of the crowd in case someone is about to turn into a monster right now BECAUSE WHAT THEY WANT IS FOR SOMEONE ELSE TO NOT DIE RIGHT NOW aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah]

Edited 2022-04-03 20:10 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

WEEK SIX: EXECUTION

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: suicide

no subject

no subject

no subject