#oughh cramps but not too bad

[bluekeaton]

i need to be fed ibuprofen like how you would feed oats to a horse

[mail-posting]

okay so its a little unclear but, i think this is saying he thinks he'll die if he tried to fight back, which is an ingrained response (based on the fact they basically say "even though he has amnesia he thinks that")

this is just. dejecting really considering he both had tranquilizers AND sleeping pills presumably at the same time (the wiki does call his medication a "dangerous amount of sedatives"

i have no idea what defrauding charity funds are, but if i had to guess he had some slight income from an organization or something but the asylum cut him off from that? not too sure though

so. this is abt his mom i'd assume and i think she had some sort of meltdown? i think this might have also contributed to him in the asylum of the staff knew about it since some mental illnesses are genetic

boo for whoever he got sold to fuck that guy

this is what i was talking abt when i mentioned he doesnt like being tied down (obviously for the asylum reasons but. also this) and looking back on it i think this would be another cause for a smaller height, bc on top of the poor nutrition he was also living in a VERY cramped space

again this could be where the "violent tendencies" came from but like when he attacked the guard i think. this can be somewhat slightly excused considering ELECTRIC FUCKING CHAIR

this just. makes me cry and sad oughh

Okay so!! In order:

1: what you said is correct I think but also I think *fighting back* is different from *not being obedient* and depending how strict their standards were it's no wonder he just follows blindly augh

2: he ABSOLUTELY had a dangerous amount of sedation. He's definitely overdosed at least once I think

3: defrauding charity funds in this case likely means that the asylum was paid money to put towards taking care of the patients, but they instead used it for personal reasons and didn't help their patients at all.

4: if the photo is still around then that could have been used as an excuse to sell Emil off? Because "look! His mother is CLEARLY unfit to take care of him!"

5/6: god his conditions were so bad... Also yeah kennels can be VERY small, especially for a human. It's also likely they were used for dogs too, since he was never intended to be in the ring until he tried to escape

7: yeah!! He probably WOULD have lashed out because of fear— goddd

8: aughh he wants to make people happy my heartt,,,,,,,,, he has so much love but he doesn't know what it is aaa

[achtung-attitude]

CHAPTER 27: She’s Trying to Make a Devil Out of Me

Shizuka emerges from her blanket of darkness, waking with a jolt. The first thing she sees is Moya staring down at her, a worried expression melting into relief. “Moya?” she mutters, looking around.

She is lying on a narrow bed in an enclosed space with white walls. Equipment of various purposes line the walls. It takes her a moment to remember first what an ambulance is, and another to realize she’s in one.

“Hey, Shizuka,” Moya groans, falling painfully into the seat next to the gurney, rubbing her side. Her right arm is in a sling, and she is covered all over in hastily applied bandages.

“... Ph-Phantasma, where--!? Where is she--?!”

She sits up to receive a flash of red and blue light in her face. From beyond the doors at the back of the ambulance, she can see the exterior of the gym. Gathered in front of the entrance is another ambulance, a police squad car and an imposing steel paddywagon, LAPD emblazoned on its side.

And there, despite towering over the officers, Phantasma appears incredibly small. Her head hung low, her ankles and wrists cuffed together. Her mask is gone, and the face that hid beneath is that of a middle aged woman, lined and framed by a surprising amount of dark flowing hair, streaked with grey.

“Whu--?

“You can relax. She’s done. I don’t know how you pulled it off, but you saved us…” Moya says, calming her. Shizuka sinks into the bed, her head suddenly light as air. She barely hears her friend speaking. “You kicked the fight right out of her. They say a fight’s only done when one opponent’s lost the will to win, and I never thought I’d see that happen to Phantasma. She lost everything… even this.” Moya raises her still-functioning left hand, and in it is a silver disc.

Shizuka peers at it, taking a moment to register its shape and form. Squinting, she sees the vague outline of a humanoid figure reflected in the silver material. But it is not her reflection, nor anyone else’s.

The figure moves slightly, as if alive within the reflection. In that instant she recognizes what it is, despite never seeing one before, and snatches it from Moya’s hand. She stares. “Where did this come from!?”

“... Phantasma’s head,” Moya says, puzzled, “Like I said, you knocked it right out of her. Her Stand ability’s in this thing, apparently. ABRAXAS is gone for good now.”

“Then this really is…! Do you know what this is!?”

“Do I know what…?” she paused, then taps her forehead with her finger, “Sure I know. I’ve got one too.”

“What!!? But where did…! How?” She springs up, sitting straight on the stretcher, clutching the disc.

“Whoa, easy. You’re still injured…!”

“Moya, you have to tell me! It’s important!”

“... Brother Dust. He gives these to everyone he deems worthy. I don’t know where he found them, but they’ve been the key to his power since the beginning… I assumed you got your Stand the same way, just from a different source. Your family, I’m guessing…?”

She shakes her head. “I was born with my abilities, I’ve never even seen one of these discs in person before. But my nephew told me about them. There was a man, years ago, who used these to give people power and sent them to kill the Joestars. But he’s dead! He’s been dead for almost six years now… Where did he get these?” she says, looking up at her friend. Moya has no answer other than a scowl directed at Phantasma.

A paramedic appears and hops in the back of the ambulance. Before he can say anything, Moya steps out, taking the disc away from Shizuka as she goes. “Moya…?” she says, but gets no answer. The ambulance doors shut and the vehicle drives off, blaring its siren.

Moya, her body damaged all over, limps with purpose towards the squad cars. The officers are pushing Phantasma into the paddy-wagon. “Wait!” Moya calls, and the officers turn.

“You’re injured, Detective,” says one of the officers, raising a hand, “Let us take care--”

“Shut up! You… What is this? Where did you get it from? Where’s Dust keeping them!?” she demands, shoving the disc in Phantasma’s face. The masked woman says nothing. “Nothing to say? What’s the matter? You had so much to say before! Where are your grand fucking declarations now!?”

Receiving no answer, Moya presses harder. She steps closer and gets into her face, which remains impassive. Humbled, but still with a hint of dignity. “What was it all for? What the fuck did you do it for!?” Moya shouts, before the ache in her body catches up with her and she sways on her feet.

“Easy, Pezzente!” calls the officer. “You know the procedure! We’ll get her back to the station, then we can start asking questions! You’ve done your part for the day, Detective. Let us do ours.” Moya steadies herself, still waiting on an answer from her former mentor.

“...For you,” Phantasma says softly. Moya freezes in place and grits her teeth. Almost doubled over, she does not turn around as the luchadora is stuffed into the back of the paddy-wagon. The paramedics pull Moya back to the ambulance, as the wagon rumbles to life, and drives away.

                                                       ***

Her story was not a special one, she had grown up poor in Tijuana, worshiping luchadores on an old television set with bunny ear antennae, dreaming of standing among them. She was simply one of the few who achieved that dream.

Phantasma stares at the wall of the paddywagon. Her escorts are divided from her by a thick metal grate. She makes no attempt to speak to them, and they do not address her.

The masks drew her in, originally. Luchadores hid their faces, their true names. In doing so, they became more than simple athletes. To her, the mask was a talisman, crafted from transcendent material. Like the shamans of ancient times, in wearing the visages of the gods, became those gods, made flesh and blood. Gateways, through which she could abandon weakness. Abandon humanity.

But it was false. The masks she wore were polyester and spandex things. The matches were little more than games, entertainment for children. She was not a clown. She was extraordinary, forced to dally with the ordinary. She would not be held back by weaklings. And so she was not.

In her first title match, she hit her opponent just a bit too hard. A single palm shot to the chest. The challenger coughed, then sputtered. She kicked her legs and choked. And then she died. It mattered little. There was a place for her among the cartel, and before long, that place was at the very top. Mexico City became too small, so she extended her hand north, to San Diego, San José, and Los Angeles.

But Brother Dust, at last, shattered her illusion. She was no superhuman, no demigod. Just a foolish woman in a mask. There was power in the world beyond her comprehension. But he promised. By his hand, she would be granted that power. She would finally achieve that which she had pretended to have for so long.

Phantasma feels her face. Her flesh and bone, her human face. The one she had tried to escape from, but never had. It had been lurking underneath the entire time. She cannot remember what it looks like.

“Hey, Burnley, what's the matter?” Says the cop in the driver’s seat, breaking Phantasma from her trance. She can hear them from behind the partition. The cop glances away from the road to pat his partner on the shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Burnley groans, hunched over, clutching his guts, “I just got this cramp out of nowhere.”

“Nnh, now that you mention it, my head kinda hurts all of a sudden,” the driver rubs his temple, squinting at the road, “Ah, shit, it’s bad…! I don’t think I can drive like this. You think you can take over?”

“No way, man! Feels like my guts are tearing themselves up! God damn you, Rick, I told you we should’ve gone to Taco Bell, but you just had to try the local cuisine, didn’t you!? Oughh, Jesus, it hurts…”

Burnley leans forward, pressing his forehead on the dashboard and groans. A gurgling noise comes from his gut, so loud Phantasma can hear from. The cop starts belching. She grimaces, and turns to the wall again. She turns back sharply at the sound of Burnley belching, followed by a loud splattering.

The dash in front of Officer Burnley is soiled by a frightening quantity of blood and chunks of flesh. All of it vomited by the officer, who stares at it with dumbfounded horror. His partner, Rick, shouts at him.

“Burnley!? Burnley, what was that!? What happened?!!” The driver cries, his face similarly covered in blood, flowing from every orifice on his head. His eyes are all white and flecked with red. “I can’t see! Burnley, what’s happening?! I can’t fucking see anything!”

She listens hard, trying to discern what is happening, when a trickle of blood pours from her nostril. She dabs at it with her fingers and stares at the blood, only then noticing her hand shaking. “What? What is this?”

It is not just her hand. Everything loose in the paddy-wagon is shaking violently, as if caught in an earthquake. Burnley succumbs first, his whole body convulsing as though he was possessed. Then the driver succumbs, shaking so hard he can't even speak, let alone drive.

The wagon swerves off the road, the driver's foot stuck on the accelerator, Phantasma notices only now the convulsions in her body. Like her insides have acquired minds of their own, she feels her insides writhe, her blood vessels bursting.

As the paddy-wagon picks up speed, she slides to the back and kicks at the bolted door, again and again. For all her titanic strength, the door does not give. Dull pangs of pain run up her leg.

“No!! NO!!!” she shouts, kicking desperately, “I CANNOT DIE THIS WAY!!!”

The paddy-wagon mounts the curb and swerves, flying off balance and flipping in the air. The pedestrians have barely enough time to duck before it crash-lands upside down, halfway through the window of a fashion store.

Yet the wagon remains suffers no damage, inside or out. It remains intact, even as its occupants continue to convulse. Lying on her back, Phantasma's eyes roll into the back of her head as even her brain shakes itself into mush. This is the way she dies.