[ Yuri unchains one person, then another, easing them to the ground. They aren't conscious, not enough to say anything or help. One person mumbles something indistinct, but Yuri can't pause. He doesn't have a plan either. Flynn would say to stop, think about it, make a plan, then act, but there's no time, to time to think. They just need to do what they can, help these people as best as they can.
There's so much blood, in the air, on the people, in the bags and buckets around the room. He's breathing it in, he can't not, there's no way around it. Blood pollution, it's called, he remembers vaguely, but he can't think about it too hard.
If Lysithea spares a glance at him, she'll see his skin fading, blue-ish and odd, his eyes bloodshot, fingers elongating. He doesn't notice, either, too focused.
They're left alone, for now, at least. The zealots must not have to check on this room just yet.
Yuri's got five of them down, then six, his fingers starting to go numb, they're so cold, and now there's blue blood on the people, too, blue blood slowly seeping from his nails as he works. The blood in the air is affecting him more and more, the corruption sinking into his lungs, his single-minded focus not really helping, seeing the horror in front of him, these people, who are no different than him, unconscious, hurting, being used for their blood. It's like Ragou all over again, people with power using those without for their own gain, against their will, using them, killing them, for-- for what? For their own pleasure? For power? He doesn't know, he doesn't want to know, but the horror sinks into him, too, the horror that this is happening, here, in Trench, that it's been happening, that he didn't know, didn't do anything about it.
Suddenly, Yuri wavers, halfway through unhooking an IV from someone's arm, and stares at what he's doing. He doesn't remember showing up here, doesn't remember what's happening, where he is, the corruption making him lose track of himself, his purpose here.
He looks around, seeing all of the bodies, propped against the walls, laying on tables, unmoving, sees another person, on the other side of the room. ]
Flynn--?
[ No, not Flynn. That isn't Flynn. White hair, he doesn't remember. He drops the IV and takes a staggering step back ]
cw: mild body horror
There's so much blood, in the air, on the people, in the bags and buckets around the room. He's breathing it in, he can't not, there's no way around it. Blood pollution, it's called, he remembers vaguely, but he can't think about it too hard.
If Lysithea spares a glance at him, she'll see his skin fading, blue-ish and odd, his eyes bloodshot, fingers elongating. He doesn't notice, either, too focused.
They're left alone, for now, at least. The zealots must not have to check on this room just yet.
Yuri's got five of them down, then six, his fingers starting to go numb, they're so cold, and now there's blue blood on the people, too, blue blood slowly seeping from his nails as he works. The blood in the air is affecting him more and more, the corruption sinking into his lungs, his single-minded focus not really helping, seeing the horror in front of him, these people, who are no different than him, unconscious, hurting, being used for their blood. It's like Ragou all over again, people with power using those without for their own gain, against their will, using them, killing them, for-- for what? For their own pleasure? For power? He doesn't know, he doesn't want to know, but the horror sinks into him, too, the horror that this is happening, here, in Trench, that it's been happening, that he didn't know, didn't do anything about it.
Suddenly, Yuri wavers, halfway through unhooking an IV from someone's arm, and stares at what he's doing. He doesn't remember showing up here, doesn't remember what's happening, where he is, the corruption making him lose track of himself, his purpose here.
He looks around, seeing all of the bodies, propped against the walls, laying on tables, unmoving, sees another person, on the other side of the room. ]
Flynn--?
[ No, not Flynn. That isn't Flynn. White hair, he doesn't remember. He drops the IV and takes a staggering step back ]
What the hell?