BY : Felix_McKraken
Category: Dragon Ball Z > Yaoi - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 1872
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball Z or any of the characters. This was made purely for entertainment purposes and no profit is made off of it.

Nowhere: thirty

He was going to be the burnt offering.

They were coming for him to take him, to make him a sacrifice, to appeal for clemency.

And he was too weak to resist. And that’s why he was hiding like a coward. Not merely because he feared the pain, but because he feared something greater than his life. He feared that they were correct. He feared that to be absolved of sin was to place it upon exhibit and raze it into oblivion.

Then, in a moment, he came to realise their propensity for blame must be induced through some type of acquaintance. Strangers were not hunted in private. Strangers were not torn from cracks and crevices. His presence had been noted. Whether it was from faulty interloping or intentional malignity on his behalf he could not say. That still meant there was a chance, some likelihood that his position was not of victim but of an aberration that must be meted justice.

Did the innocent ever fear such a thing? No, they feared suffering under a falsehood. The mere fact he did not have the integrity to do the same was damning.

Maybe what he feared most was his complacency. That he wouldn’t merely succumb, but that he would eventually embrace the verdict as if it were a communion. That he would blithely allow the transfiguration of his self into a vessel. One of asthenia, of a docile plebeian, of nihilistic utopia.

Then there was darkness. His hiding place was already unlit, but this darkness was different, unnatural. It gently enswathed his mind and remained innocuous until

a metallic droning pierced his cranium – dozens, hundreds, thousands… an incalculable amount of tailspins erupted into his consciousness.

It was a fractal of infamy and lamentation. Yet the darkness could not be responsible for the violation as much as any host can be responsible for an unknown parasite. He was alternatively clutching and clawing at his own skull with barely articulate pleas for cessation escaping his lips. Loud, but no matter how much pressure his lungs expelled it would not rival the noise within.

And as quickly as it came, it withdrew, leaving him a sweating, panting, incapacitated heap. It was like a tide receding, the pain abating, his senses slow to waking. What transpired he couldn’t even begin to hypothesize, but he knew something more critical, more detrimental yet more instrumental and aggrandizing. He was right; they were right. They had always been right.

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