#this scene is just... UGGGGGHJSHFG

[kharonion]

I would like to hear about Purgatory 👀👀👀

[ ask about my WIPs ]

Whoof, this is probably the most Angsty and Rough WIP currently. It's already made me cry a few times... oops. Purgatory is the telling of the infamous Rooftop Scene, but for Vikt's specific canon story. And... it's as heart-wrenching as it might already sound. This happens near endgame, so Vikt is at a point where he is severely struggling to maintain even a granule of hope; he's exhausted all options, stuck with this death sentence he has no clue what to do about. It's ugly, frankly...

SNIPPET—WARNING, THIS IS ROUGH; TW for depression and dangerous ideation:

“V.”

“What.”

“Talk to me. Because I know you’re—”

“You don’t fucking know shit, Johnny.” 

He sulks in the cheap chair. Makes it creak under his weight, but hell if he cares. Doesn’t care about much anymore, brain fried to the point he can hardly register where he even is; the only clues it’s a rooftop are the faint whooshes of a breeze, the rare absence of the city stench. 

Johnny perches, overlooks the cityscape. He’s gotten more real by the day. His chrome now gleams in the neon lights. His eyes are a definitive brown—and they’ve not stopped looking at him. Big and sad, like a puppy dog.

Vikt can’t bring himself to return the gaze.

He’s a dead man walking, they say—some go so far as to throw out the word zombie. Pulled back from the brink enough times to count on two hands. People call him… lucky. Makes Vikt sick. Pisses him off. 

He sure as fuck doesn’t feel like it. 

Not when he’s lost damn near everyone his cold, dark heart has opened up to. When he now has to visit their graves, stare longingly at the names he can’t bring himself to delete from his contact list in the hopes they’ll pick up when he calls.

Not when he’s a monster of Arasaka’s creation who has ruined so many lives with his own two hands. When he’s worn innocent blood like a second skin and thought nothing of it.

Not when he sits here so close to death he tastes it on his tongue—a disgusting copper, so thick it’s leaden in his throat. A dread he can’t swallow. A hopelessness gnawing at the few nerves his brain has left. His heart aches, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from the cloud of despair or the way his heart struggles to keep him alive.

The pistol rests right there. Its metal is glittering like a beacon. His eyes won’t leave it. Vaguely, he knows his fingers twitch; they’re craving its weight in the palm of his hand. Something tugs at him, pulls his hand toward it ever so slowly… This is your way out. This is your solace, your release. This is what’s best—for everyone.

“Fuck you doing, V?” Johnny’s snap is enough for Vikt’s eyes to dart away and finally lock with the engram’s stare.

“Thinking.”

“Well, cut it out. You’re makin’ me nervous.”

Vikt scoffs. “What? What happened to just taking what’s yours, J? Wiping me out so you can live happily fucking after?”