And then, just like that, it was done. His entire left side was still tingling, as if he were being jabbed with a series of tiny needles - nerve damage, he reminded himself; the human body wasn't built to effortlessly accommodate a sudden evolution into a giant monster - but the debilitating, blinding pain was gone, having drained away seemingly through the crystal still sitting innocently in his hand.
Kratos barely flinched when the doctor handcuffed him to the table, still too worn out to even bother with a protest, not that he would have made one even if he did have some strength left. That a restraint was still needed, though, suggested that more was in store, as if an encore was needed after the magnificent performance he'd just put on. That possibility was just a bit frightening--no, actually, it was incredibly frightening. Now that lucidity was returning, he remembered that, as much as he had been thoroughly looking forward to it not more than a few seconds ago, he did not actually want to die. He had given up on that desire, convinced himself (or, been convinced, more like) that it was more worthwhile to battle through all the mess he'd made of his life over the past four thousand years than to just give up.
The problem now was that he had no idea how much more he could endure; what he did know was he was hanging on to life by a single thread, and sanity by a considerably thinner one.
The doctor drew close, close enough that Kratos could feel his breath on his face, and then decided it was time to bring down the figurative hammer on the other weak spot in his shield. This one, at least, he'd grown slightly less sensitive toward, since it had been brought up so often in the past month. Regardless, the allusion, no matter how slight, to Anna and her manner of death was still toxic enough to elicit a reaction: "Go...to hell," Kratos rasped as he met the doctor's eyes with about as much steel as he could muster. It was a totally pointless and unhelpful thing to say, but somehow, it felt very satisfying. He could, occasionally, surprise himself.
no subject
Kratos barely flinched when the doctor handcuffed him to the table, still too worn out to even bother with a protest, not that he would have made one even if he did have some strength left. That a restraint was still needed, though, suggested that more was in store, as if an encore was needed after the magnificent performance he'd just put on. That possibility was just a bit frightening--no, actually, it was incredibly frightening. Now that lucidity was returning, he remembered that, as much as he had been thoroughly looking forward to it not more than a few seconds ago, he did not actually want to die. He had given up on that desire, convinced himself (or, been convinced, more like) that it was more worthwhile to battle through all the mess he'd made of his life over the past four thousand years than to just give up.
The problem now was that he had no idea how much more he could endure; what he did know was he was hanging on to life by a single thread, and sanity by a considerably thinner one.
The doctor drew close, close enough that Kratos could feel his breath on his face, and then decided it was time to bring down the figurative hammer on the other weak spot in his shield. This one, at least, he'd grown slightly less sensitive toward, since it had been brought up so often in the past month. Regardless, the allusion, no matter how slight, to Anna and her manner of death was still toxic enough to elicit a reaction: "Go...to hell," Kratos rasped as he met the doctor's eyes with about as much steel as he could muster. It was a totally pointless and unhelpful thing to say, but somehow, it felt very satisfying. He could, occasionally, surprise himself.