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Rokujou, Kyoya
Friday, February 12th 2021 | 3:00pm | Ikebukuro
Friday, February 12th 2021 | 3:00pm | Ikebukuro
The room smelt like butane even after the windows were opened. On the third floor of a small, single motel room, the sour stench continued to spread and the culprit continued to toy with a palm sized torch, half tempted to forgo safety and burn the grimy, STD-infested Hellhole down.
"Fuck," He cursed loud, free, and angry. He curled his bottom lip with his teeth and winced when the dry, dehydrated skin burned on contact."Fuck!" Kyoya, writhing with anger, curled his hands into fists and pounded on the keyboard, breaking the plastic and sending white keys flying to his feet. Naturally, when a separate party lowers their guard - even just the slightest amount - he attacks. Trust reveals vulnerabilities, and he planned on sinking his teeth into this with intentions of gutting the organization from the inside out, if only to sooth his capricious curiosity. The volcanic energy of his heart kept his life in motion, but it could also torment him. That was his current reality now that he was realizing how in the dark the keepers of Project Iris kept him.
The so-called 'project' presented him and five others with a pitch that sounded like a premise for a light novel or anime series, but the suits in charge weren't idiots and they definitely weren't stupid enough to leave their networks unprotected, to his chagrin. He took the keyboard in his hands, lifted it above his hands and slammed it down into the desk's corner, pushing all of his wrath into the the violent motion so when the plastic would hit, it would break. It shattered instead: noise, and then silence. Kyoya dropped the keyboard and reached back to his open laptop, where he only went through the motions of erasing his web and digital presence before shoving it into his backpack. Time was running out and he'd have to reserve hacking into the mysterious organization another day because for now, he was strictly I-R-L.
He stared at his phone in the elevator and left the rest of his usually on-hand electronics in the motel room, kept locked beneath the queen sized bed. The message, which included a seemingly non-threatening location, didn't waver or disappear and by the time he had returned to the ground he came to accept the reality of his situation; he was going to walk a few blocks and enter an ambiguous situation that wasn't guaranteed to not kill him. It was far from the sketchiest situation he had been in and it definitely didn't seem like the strangest (that went to the furry genocide cult for now), but for some reason he felt calm, like he knew that no one would be waiting to kill him or worse, arrest him.
Is this what they call trust? Oh, gross. On second thought, just let him die now.
@Sakana said...
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