Whether you recruited him or he asked to join, there is now one (1) Ren Amamiya in your scavenging party, headed for the bizarro hospital. He doesn’t look like much - a quiet teenager with glasses and unkempt black hair in plain, unassuming clothes, no visible sign yet of any monster traits transforming his slim frame. At first glance, he likely seems laughably out of his element, a nerdy kid who should be in school with his nose in a book rather than tagging along to a monster-infested death trap.
Inside the hospital, however … he’s a different person entirely. He stealthily slinks around corners like a seasoned jewel thief, pocketing every useful supply he can carry and gracefully evading traps like an acrobat. When one of those hideous creatures comes into his sight … hoo boy, is he ever ready for a fight. Armed with a large bladed weapon he either found or made, Ren attacks with spinning jumps, slicing wildly, grinning like a maniac after the fight ends. If that’s not enough to fell the foe, Ren is joined by a giant, black-winged demonic figure wearing a top hat and wreathed in chains and blue flame, appearing after a summoning shout of ”Come, Arsène!” to dish out spells of incredible damage.
At some point, Ren does slip up - he’s not perfect, he’s still just a kid, and sometimes he gets a little cocky. A syringe sneaks up and sticks him - but it’s fine, he never expects to go into battle without taking some blows. Nothing about him physically changes, but mentally, he becomes a walking billboard.
dream: out of kindness (cw: blood, knives, death)
”This isn’t trivial!”
You find yourself standing in a room, crowded with large tables and benches to one side, a bar with five chairs on the other. Soft lighting tumbles out from underneath multi-colored domes of glass hung from the ceiling. Behind the bar, large glass jars full of coffee beans line the shelves of the wall. There is no music here, only heavy silence in the aftermath of the jingling bell over the door, the signal of a recent departure.
A figure stands in front of you: tan trench coat, red plaid scarf, black gloves. His face is featureless, impassive, like that of a mannequin, framed by soft brown hair. Behind him, through the glass-paned café door, you see snow gently falling onto the street, darkened in the night.
I will carve my own path for myself, the figure in front of you says, his voice warped beyond recognition, slicing through the silence. His tone is calm and even as he explains: I refuse to accept a reality concocted by someone else, stuck under their control for the rest of my days.
“But then, you’ll … “ Your throat is dry, tight, refusing to let you finish the sentence.
So what? the other person snaps. That’s the path I chose.
Your heart is a leaden weight in your chest as you raise your eyes to meet where his aren’t. “Are you sure?”
He nods. All you have to do is stick to your guns and challenge Maruki.
You fall silent. He makes it sound so easy, like making the choice to end his life is the same as deciding whether to make a cup of coffee.
Your silence angers him, and he takes a challenging step forward.
Are you really so spineless that you’d fold over some bullshit, trivial threat on my life? he demands to know, seething.
“This isn’t trivial!” you shout, head snapping up as enraged white heat shoots up your spine and collects at the base of your skull.
It IS! he insists, shouting back at you.
You shake your head. “Don’t oversimplify this,” you say, and it feels like begging, even without the please that goes unspoken.
Do you think I’d be happy with this? Being shown mercy now, of all times?
You again drop your gaze to the floor, and again say nothing.
I don’t want to be pitied - this isn’t something I’m debating with you!
You don’t answer. He never had a problem debating with you before. You want to leave, to walk out that door and start running and never stop. Let someone else take the lead and make decisions for a change. It’s not fucking fair that you have to be the one to break your own heart.
Your indecisiveness on the matter is essentially a betrayal of my wishes.
… He’s right. You know he’s right, and you know what you need to do. But knowing doesn’t stop it from making you feel like you’re being torn apart from the inside.
I want to hear you say it aloud … what do you intend to do?
He moves toward you, steps close in front of you, places both gloved hands on your shoulders. Those hands feel heavier than the weight of the entire world.
I won’t wait a moment longer, Ren. Answer me.
The heaviness of your heart shatters like glass. Some small part of you will never forgive yourself for this. That same part of you may never forgive him for making you choose this, either.
“We’re stopping Maruki,” you answer, calmly, and without warning, you jam a double-edged knife as big as your forearm into his chest. Blood seeps out around the blade, staining his coat as it spreads. You give the knife a hard twist and yank it free.
“I won’t fold,” you say, and this time, you shove the knife into the surface of what should be his face. It shatters like porcelain, and the figure before you falls to the floor in a heap at your feet.
“I won’t fold,” you repeat, and the knife drops to the floor with a loud clatter. You stare down at your hands, now covered in blood, and watch silently as the blood thickens, wraps tightly around each finger, and transforms into a pair of red leather gloves.
Outside, the snow continues to fall.
wild card? wild card. [Want something else? Feel free to hit me up! PM or gothmoth @ plurk. Happy to do prose or brackets.]
ren amamiya } persona 5 royal } potential new kid
Whether you recruited him or he asked to join, there is now one (1) Ren Amamiya in your scavenging party, headed for the bizarro hospital. He doesn’t look like much - a quiet teenager with glasses and unkempt black hair in plain, unassuming clothes, no visible sign yet of any monster traits transforming his slim frame. At first glance, he likely seems laughably out of his element, a nerdy kid who should be in school with his nose in a book rather than tagging along to a monster-infested death trap.
Inside the hospital, however … he’s a different person entirely. He stealthily slinks around corners like a seasoned jewel thief, pocketing every useful supply he can carry and gracefully evading traps like an acrobat. When one of those hideous creatures comes into his sight … hoo boy, is he ever ready for a fight. Armed with a large bladed weapon he either found or made, Ren attacks with spinning jumps, slicing wildly, grinning like a maniac after the fight ends. If that’s not enough to fell the foe, Ren is joined by a giant, black-winged demonic figure wearing a top hat and wreathed in chains and blue flame, appearing after a summoning shout of ”Come, Arsène!” to dish out spells of incredible damage.
At some point, Ren does slip up - he’s not perfect, he’s still just a kid, and sometimes he gets a little cocky. A syringe sneaks up and sticks him - but it’s fine, he never expects to go into battle without taking some blows. Nothing about him physically changes, but mentally, he becomes a walking billboard.
dream: out of kindness (cw: blood, knives, death)
”This isn’t trivial!”
You find yourself standing in a room, crowded with large tables and benches to one side, a bar with five chairs on the other. Soft lighting tumbles out from underneath multi-colored domes of glass hung from the ceiling. Behind the bar, large glass jars full of coffee beans line the shelves of the wall. There is no music here, only heavy silence in the aftermath of the jingling bell over the door, the signal of a recent departure.
A figure stands in front of you: tan trench coat, red plaid scarf, black gloves. His face is featureless, impassive, like that of a mannequin, framed by soft brown hair. Behind him, through the glass-paned café door, you see snow gently falling onto the street, darkened in the night.
I will carve my own path for myself, the figure in front of you says, his voice warped beyond recognition, slicing through the silence. His tone is calm and even as he explains: I refuse to accept a reality concocted by someone else, stuck under their control for the rest of my days.
“But then, you’ll … “ Your throat is dry, tight, refusing to let you finish the sentence.
So what? the other person snaps. That’s the path I chose.
Your heart is a leaden weight in your chest as you raise your eyes to meet where his aren’t. “Are you sure?”
He nods. All you have to do is stick to your guns and challenge Maruki.
You fall silent. He makes it sound so easy, like making the choice to end his life is the same as deciding whether to make a cup of coffee.
Your silence angers him, and he takes a challenging step forward.
Are you really so spineless that you’d fold over some bullshit, trivial threat on my life? he demands to know, seething.
“This isn’t trivial!” you shout, head snapping up as enraged white heat shoots up your spine and collects at the base of your skull.
It IS! he insists, shouting back at you.
You shake your head. “Don’t oversimplify this,” you say, and it feels like begging, even without the please that goes unspoken.
Do you think I’d be happy with this? Being shown mercy now, of all times?
You again drop your gaze to the floor, and again say nothing.
I don’t want to be pitied - this isn’t something I’m debating with you!
You don’t answer. He never had a problem debating with you before. You want to leave, to walk out that door and start running and never stop. Let someone else take the lead and make decisions for a change. It’s not fucking fair that you have to be the one to break your own heart.
Your indecisiveness on the matter is essentially a betrayal of my wishes.
… He’s right. You know he’s right, and you know what you need to do. But knowing doesn’t stop it from making you feel like you’re being torn apart from the inside.
I want to hear you say it aloud … what do you intend to do?
He moves toward you, steps close in front of you, places both gloved hands on your shoulders. Those hands feel heavier than the weight of the entire world.
I won’t wait a moment longer, Ren. Answer me.
The heaviness of your heart shatters like glass. Some small part of you will never forgive yourself for this. That same part of you may never forgive him for making you choose this, either.
“We’re stopping Maruki,” you answer, calmly, and without warning, you jam a double-edged knife as big as your forearm into his chest. Blood seeps out around the blade, staining his coat as it spreads. You give the knife a hard twist and yank it free.
“I won’t fold,” you say, and this time, you shove the knife into the surface of what should be his face. It shatters like porcelain, and the figure before you falls to the floor in a heap at your feet.
“I won’t fold,” you repeat, and the knife drops to the floor with a loud clatter. You stare down at your hands, now covered in blood, and watch silently as the blood thickens, wraps tightly around each finger, and transforms into a pair of red leather gloves.
Outside, the snow continues to fall.
wild card? wild card.
[Want something else? Feel free to hit me up! PM or gothmoth @ plurk. Happy to do prose or brackets.]