Even the CRC security were going to need therapy after seeing THAT mess. The body looks like it'd been through ten levels of hell before being allowed to die. The shaking person in the center, rocking, weeping, knife in hand, still bore the shackles of their bane, before they flipped, and freed themselves. -- Anon Guest
Their name was Chain, and they had died. They should have died. They remembered the feel of the blade, their stolen blade, slicing through their throat. So sharp you won't feel a thing, was a lie. Chain had felt it.
They had felt it after the blood started to flow.
They woke up to beautiful colours, flowing and changing in a soothing pattern. For a minute, Chain was certain that this was the entrance to heaven. Some variety of paradise, anyway. Any moment, they would be judged. Chain waited for judgement.
Judgement did not come.
There came friendly faces with soft voices. There came gentle hands offering help. There came good food, and medication. There came a residence with everything Chain needed close to hand. They could lock the door and stay inside and nobody would hurt them.
There came careful people who spoke in murmurs. There came a gentle flow of education. Teaching Chain to read. Teaching Chain to filter truth from false information. Teaching Chain how to interact in society.
Any time Chain tried to interact, there was always someone nearby. One of the soft people. One of the local Security officers. They were there to keep Chain safe, they said.
Sometimes, Chain wondered if they were there to keep others safe from Chain.
They had only killed once. Technically twice if you counted their own self-murder.
Chain had no reason to kill again.
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