#( cyno i hope ur qualified bc he desperately needs it )

[erabundus]

he  wants  to  shove  his  head  in  the  ground.  he  wants  to  scream.  he  wants  to  stop  existing.  he  wants  his  anger  to  burn  hot  enough  to  dissolve  them  all  in  a  sea  of  flames.  ultimately,  ren  chooses  to  do  none  of  the  above  —  instead  curling  his  hands  into  FISTS  in  the  hopes  it  might  quell  the  shaking.  no  such  luck,  but  at  least  it  feels  a  bit  less  noticeable.      ❝  she  must  have  been  one  of  the  lucky  ones.  ❞      ren  muses.  his  voice  sounds  rough,  almost  as  though  he  indulged  in  that  childish  impulse  to  shout  after  all.      ❝  most  of  them  aren't  so  fortunate ...  and  the  truly  unlucky  ones  aren't  afforded  the  luxury  of  a  proper  death  at  all.  ❞      he  allows  the  implication  to  hang  in  the  air  —  grotesque  and  rotten and cumbersome.  sometimes  elaboration  would  only  serve  to  LESSEN  the  horrors;  whatever  the  general  mahamatra's  mind  may  come  up  with,  it  can  only  ever  be  a  pale  imitation  of  reality.

❝  talking  about  it  won't  change  anything. not for me.  ❞      a  soft  laugh spills from the wanderer's lips, bitter and cold.      ❝  the  past  is  set  in  stone.  ❞      he  had  to  learn  that  lesson  the  hard  way.  trying  to  weave  those  AGONIES  into  words  only  stands  the  chance  of  reopening  old  wounds.  and  it's  funny  —  that  for  someone  whose  flesh  is  so  quick  to  knit  itself  back  together,  the  pain  inflicted  upon  his  nonexistent  heart  has  yet  to  stop  BLEEDING.  at  times  it  may  stem,  yet  it  never  ceases  completely.  he  is  perpetually  drowning  in  his  own  trauma  —  fighting  for  those  fleeting  moments  when  his  head  manages  to  break  the  surface.

aloud  the  wanderer  says,      ❝  imagine  every  pain,  every  indignity,  every  injustice  that  could  ever  be  inflicted  on  a  single  person ...  then  imagine  that  person  can't  die,�� no  matter  how  harshly  you  might  treat  them. imagine this all taking place over the course of many, many years ... and that is only the beginning.  ❞      much  like  his  previous  strategy,  he  thinks  it's  better  to  leave  the  details  to  the  imagination.  he  still  isn't  in  the  mood  to  elaborate  —  but  he  thinks  a  bit  of  context  is  necessary  for  what  follows.

❝  i  swore  to  myself ...  i  would  never  be  his  test  subject  again.  yet  here  i  am,  walking  right  into  the  spider's  web.  ❞      a  hand  uncurls  —  only  for  slender  fingers  to  grab  violently  at  his  bangs.  twisting,  pulling,  and  he's  sure  it  has  to  hurt  but  the  sensation  feels  so  FAR  AWAY  somehow.      ❝  not  because  i  have  to.  not  because  i  was  ordered  to.  no ...  i  want  to  be  here.  ❞      he  wants  it  so  bad  he  can  almost  taste  it.      ❝  killing  him  won't  stick.  i'm  not  so  preoccupied  with  REVENGE  that  i  can't  see  it ...  ❞      that's  even  assuming  he  could.      ❝  he  deserves  something  worse  than  death.  he  deserves  to  have  his  life's  work  torn  apart  in  front  of  his  pathetic  face.  he  deserves  to  suffer  until  that  sharp  mind  crumbles  to  worthless  rust.  ❞      another  little  laugh escapes him.  in  contrast,  this  one  is  harsh  and  grating.  (  deeply  unpleasant  to  listen  to.  )      ❝  even  that  won't  be  enough!  ah, but beggars can't be choosers, right?  i'll  take  what  i  can  get ...  ❞

words  trail  into  an  uneasy  (  yet  brief  )  silence.  his  shoulders  tremble,  as  though  staving  off  a third  round  of  laughter.      ❝  don't  misunderstand.  ❞      the  wanderer  rasps,  voice  barely  above  a  whisper.      ❝  it's  not  what  he's  done  to  me ...  it's  what  he  did  to  get  me ...  and  all  the  lives  he  RUINED  in  the  process.  ❞ a pound of flesh for every spirit.

Did the possibility of Ren's control slipping pose a hazard? Certainly. Was this possibility what Cyno found himself most anxious over? Debatable. He didn't return to the grim task of exhuming potential evidence from the dead. Rather, his gaze settled on the condemning way Ren's hands had begun to TREMBLE.

It was perhaps the most human of gestures he'd seen, and that sheer novelty was enough to give him pause. Something had managed to shake him badly, and even the retrospective consultation of his recent banks of memory failed to elucidate what that something had been. Trying to map the boundaries of Ren's patience and composure was unnerving; this blanketing uncertainty sharp and poignant, like delving into the murk of a silt-spun current, unaware of the teeth that lurked below.

"History." Cyno nodded abruptly. "I understand."

Insecurity alone would not deter him. He was one of the few who carried the awareness of the Balladeer's story - that which precisely formed the rationale for his being sought as recourse in this private investigation - and with that in mind, HISTORY with the Fatui suddenly became an obvious nidus of perturbation, an outstanding balance yet to be settled.

"I once took charge of a child from Mondstadt. She'd escaped from one of the Doctor's laboratories."

"It takes time. Do you want to talk about it?"