Work Text:
Your guts.
They're all over the floor.
Sharp and shiny red filter over a metallic blood ridden mess.
How disgusting.
You've seen plenty of gore, you in one form or another the cause of most of it, yet your hands still tremble in a manner so disgustingly human as you take it all in.
Ironic considering the fact that the guts you are having to roughly scoop up, filled with debris and blood, are living proof of your utter inhumanity. Just a thin layer of skin over the metal makeup of something not fully human.
Plenty of parts of you are still human though, like your liver, which is right there on the floor!!
You wonder if any other 'you' would've handled this better. You wonder if 'eight' would've missed your mother's steady hand like you do right now as you sow your own skin back together.
She's been dead for hundreds of years of course. No need to linger on the thought.
You hardly think she'd have used her steady hands to help you anyway, even if she could've.
A minor inconvenience. You handle this just fine yourself.
Your guts may no longer be on the floor but your body still trembles in agony and you can feel every piece of rock and dirt inside of you.
Why do you feel so weak? Why do your impulses betray you like this?
You wish to just lay down and cry, lay down and die.
The other you's probaby wouldn't do that though. They'd laugh at you if they found your corpse. They'd be stronger, better and you're just as good as them.
So you trudge on, one step at a time trying to not let your knees buckle or your stitches pop.