White, the absence of space, time, anything solid, not even absence can exist for nothing is there to be absent save for him, save for it. He's unnaware of his position, how he's there or if he's there at all, but his thoughts as basic and near-null as they seem underlie his unknown world. No kinesthetic awareness, nor even visual awareness. So long has the time been there, that he's not even capable of sight of himself. If those which are his eyes are open or closed is irrelevant. He is motionless but not unable to move.
Infinity...
Forever...
For all time...
Stuck in this white abyss for as long as there are numbers to count...
From positive infinties...
To negative infinities...
Stuck until were done counting digits from 0 until 1...
The same twisted irony of the half step journey...
But then, all journies have an end...
Perhaps all infinities must end aswell...
A concept that doesn't end, doesn't stop changing...
How can a concept without end, be a concept...
That which is nothing and everything...
Cannot be defined as an amount...
This loop has no ending point...
There is no breaking point...
But therein lies a falsity - an error, an overlooked or perhaps rounded digit to throw off the entire logic of his prison. The impossible half journey completed, the 0 becomes a one and the looping prison reaches it's break. The eyes of this one shudder, and wince - opening slowly the sunburst pigmented irisis take in the brightness of something else - the abyss begins to peel back and soon he's not alone. Within the abyss before him is a door, and returning to him slowly his kinesthetic sense of self. A hand reaches out - his own towards the cold steel handle before him. As the frail and faulty fingers learn to grasp and twist again the door opens and a new world slowly burns into those eyes. His body goes limp as he collapses upon the cold cement of an unfamiliar place.
His mouth opens to release an inaudible cry in agony, as the feeling runs through his entire body, the widened mouth turns to clenched teeth as he gasps for air through them. His body shakes as the feeling creeps through every inch of his skin like a sick toxic within his veins. With a grunt of strain he pulls himself forward, sitting up he's winded staring down at his naked flesh, arms limp against the ground beneath him. Slowly he lifts his hands from the ground and pulls them before his face, he bends and curls his fingers in all the ways he cans, the dancing digits before him slowly shape this new world for him. The fingers stop, and become tightly balled fists.
Pushing himself off the ground, he uses the stone frame beside him for leverage, a door mounted in this wall next to him, now closed. As he gets to his feet, holding the wall for leverage he looks around, atop some kind of plateau, some elevated place. Behemoths of metal and glass around him, familiar strangers. He moves towards the ramp leading downward, these oversized stairs on his left and right, but the slope before him is his task.
A step, another and a third, the descent begins and get's faster and faster as the world around him spins and bounces continously, a blur of these lights and sounds, people in yellow jump suits, neon signs and trash that litter the streets. And then a loud crash and it stops, the spinning and blur, something else his holds attention, a new sensation coursing through his veins.
Hie eyes widen as he shivers - a heavy gasp released as his body throbs with yet another familiarity.
What is this - feeling?
Ah yes, now i recall.
Pain.
The pain coursing through him brings new twinges, awakening more parts of his body as he lifts himself off the ground more confidently. His lip throbs and he runs his hand across it, staring down at his palm, there rests a crimson streak upon it. A small splash jumps upward as a drop falls from his lip to his hand. He traces the tip of his tongue across his own palm and his eyes widen, along with a sick grin. He walks along the dead grass towards an alleyway ahead of him. A strange box of red, black and purple sits to his left as he makes his way forward still. One of the strangers in the yellow jump suits stands in front of him with a grin.
Nice birthday suit punk, ready to die?
He laughs staring into the dark shades of this one in front of him.
Not yet.
The same dancing digits extend with the arm they are attached to and wrap around the throat of this fellow in the jump suit, the shades fly from his head - his eyes wide with fear and pain. From within the suit he draws out his magnum but his wrist is caught by more dancing digits and his eyes widen moreso.
What a cute toy.
The first disturbingly sick crack echoes through the area as the jumpsuit chap tries to cry out in pain and can't. The pressure into his vocal chords too high. The gun falls to the ground as the smile widens below those yellow eyes. His sick grin fades as yet again makes those dancing digits into a fist, and another deafening crack fills the air. Torn tissue and muscle fibre, the broken case for the low level gurgling noise that can barely be heard over the area as the code begins to rise from the dead exile. Reaching down he picks up the magnum and continues down the alleyway.
^Cyntom
