Simulation. He was a simulation. Stasis. He wasn't real. He wasn't real. He wasn't real. He wasn't real.
The strange eyes stared at Tobirama, dimly feeling that hand on his face, holding him gently. I'm not real The Senju was talking still, something about powerful, about being invulnerable, but he barely heard it. I'm still dead. How could he when he watched his hand knit together as if it was nothing. This isn't real life.
His lips parted, then closed once more, until what to say. Tobirama rarely rendered him speechless, but today, today he did a fine job.
Was he proud? Was he proud of what he had done? Of what he brought back? Was he happy with Izuna like this? This simulation? The casing for a soul? This half-life? Was he ecstatic of the monster he had created?
"I'm a doll," he whispered quietly. "I'm not real. I'm just a doll for you."
And without thinking, without missing a beat, he brought his own wrist to his lips and bit down, hard, ripping the papery flesh from the tender underneath where blue veins should have ran. Spitting out the chunk of skinmuscletendons, he waited to bleed out all over the Senju, let him actually watch this time as he died.
But it was anticlimactic, the drama lost as just the skin flew back to him like a magnet, reattaching itself to his arm, neat, as if it had never been pulled apart. He stared for a moment, the sinking realization coming in that he couldn't even die. Tobirama had taken everything from him: both life and death.
He truly was his prisoner in every capacity.
Why couldn't Tobirama touch him like a prisoner, though? Why did he so affectionately hold him? How could he put those fingers in his hair? How could that hand sit on his back? They fit together too perfectly, like before, but they were miles apart. His body wasn't even warm anymore, but now it was no different than a plank of wood.
Why did he do it like this? Was it a requirement of the jutsu, or had he done it so that the past, so that his murder, couldn't be repeated? So they didn't have to go through him dying again? Why?!
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The strange eyes stared at Tobirama, dimly feeling that hand on his face, holding him gently. I'm not real The Senju was talking still, something about powerful, about being invulnerable, but he barely heard it. I'm still dead. How could he when he watched his hand knit together as if it was nothing. This isn't real life.
His lips parted, then closed once more, until what to say. Tobirama rarely rendered him speechless, but today, today he did a fine job.
Was he proud? Was he proud of what he had done? Of what he brought back? Was he happy with Izuna like this? This simulation? The casing for a soul? This half-life? Was he ecstatic of the monster he had created?
"I'm a doll," he whispered quietly. "I'm not real. I'm just a doll for you."
And without thinking, without missing a beat, he brought his own wrist to his lips and bit down, hard, ripping the papery flesh from the tender underneath where blue veins should have ran. Spitting out the chunk of skinmuscletendons, he waited to bleed out all over the Senju, let him actually watch this time as he died.
But it was anticlimactic, the drama lost as just the skin flew back to him like a magnet, reattaching itself to his arm, neat, as if it had never been pulled apart. He stared for a moment, the sinking realization coming in that he couldn't even die. Tobirama had taken everything from him: both life and death.
He truly was his prisoner in every capacity.
Why couldn't Tobirama touch him like a prisoner, though? Why did he so affectionately hold him? How could he put those fingers in his hair? How could that hand sit on his back? They fit together too perfectly, like before, but they were miles apart. His body wasn't even warm anymore, but now it was no different than a plank of wood.
Why did he do it like this? Was it a requirement of the jutsu, or had he done it so that the past, so that his murder, couldn't be repeated? So they didn't have to go through him dying again? Why?!
"I...am immortal?" he murmured.