Emerging from the most desolate depths of his psyche, the figure breached containment at the Rscp Foundation site. Encased in an intricate maze of security measures—blinding lights, shifting shapes, and anesthetic gas flooding the air—he navigated the confusion that was his constant companion. The door to his chamber, forged from steel so thick it could withstand a nuclear blast, stood futile against his escape.
Surrounded by chaos, he chuckled quietly to himself.
Everyone at the facility harbored a deep fear of him, but not for the reasons they might assume. He wasn't a prisoner—never been one; he was merely resting, biding his time for the perfect moment. For him, true containment was impossible. The Rscp Foundation could only sedate his body and dull his consciousness, but his mind remained far beyond their grasp.
He had all the time in the world and with the luxury of "later," the urgency to act now was nonexistent. Like all sentient beings, he experienced bouts of boredom. Most might turn to a hobby, but for this entity, with his glowing red eyes, alleviating boredom meant something far darker. It meant killing, inflicting serious harm on anyone who ventured too close to heart.
For him, the act of killing was merely the least entertaining part of his dark pastime.
The screams. The begging. The desperate pleas. Broken bones and shattered faces. Warm tears on trembling cheeks. Convulsions of pain. The dull sheen of dead hope in their eyes when they realized their doom was inevitable, and he—their captor, their tormentor—would decide the exact moment they slipped into the void. This was what he lived for.
If you could call what he did living.
He cracked his neck and licked his lips, his mouth twisted into a sadistic, sinister grin. Was he salivating already? The mere thought of inflicting pain seemed to have gotten him worked up.
"W-we don't want any trouble," they stammered, desperation thick in their voices.
Funny, considering they were the ones who had sought trouble in the first place.
"Look, we've learned our lesson. Just let us go. We'll never do it again, I swear." Another pleaded, panic driving every word.
As though it were that simple. He, the Monster, the so-called Devil, hadn't even begun to mete out his own twisted brand of justice.
Just as the Monster prepared to unleash his fury, a sudden noise caught his attention—a distant siren, perhaps, or the echo of footsteps. His eyes flicked away for a brief moment, his focus broken.
The bullies seized the opportunity. They exchanged a quick glance and, without a word, bolted in different directions. The monster's head snapped back, but it was too late. They had already gone, their footsteps fading.
His anger surged, for the chance to exact his vengeance had slipped through his grasp. For now.
Cowards!
They couldn't even muster a decent fight. It was all starting to feel tediously familiar. How many screams could one endure before they all blended into a single, monotonous shrill? Even the most exquisite delicacy loses its allure when consumed too often.
How utterly boring.
He snapped out of his icy demeanor, a flicker of panic crossing Kiel's face as he dropped the wooden plank to the cold ground of the desolate alley. Silence stretched around them, broken only by the faint echoes of their breaths in the stillness.
Nearby, huddled in a shadowed corner, the younger Kaiju trembled, haunted by the nightmarish visions of what the monster might do if it found him. Clutching a knife in both hands, his grip was tight yet uncertain, the blade quivering as the monster's abrupt movement snapped his focus.
In that moment, the boy's presence stirred a flicker of recognition in Kiel, reminiscent of his own innocent past. A time when life seemed simpler, when the world held promise and worries were fleeting. The child's palpable fear filled the air, his rapid heartbeat echoing through the alley, a testament to his terror.
Senses heightened, Kiel could almost taste the acrid tang of the boy's sweat, mingled with the sharp scent of fear. Every nuance of the child's distress signaled a deep-seated panic, a primal response to the looming threat before him.
Himself?
How so? How could he inspire such terror, even in another Kaiju like himself? The question weighed heavily on Kiel's mind as he studied his hands, stained with a few patches of crimson. The sight perplexed him, yet he remained stoic, unaffected by the traces of blood. Continuing on his path, he disregarded the flicker of surprise in the other Kaiju's eyes.
His gaze remained fixed ahead, the tension in his expression gradually easing as his awareness returned. The vibrant blue aura that had enveloped him moments ago dissipated, leaving a lingering sense of calm mingled with a faint haze in Kiel's mind. Despite reverting to his normal state, he couldn't shake off a slight disorientation.
His vision blurred as he staggered against the alley wall, exhaustion overtaking him. It was like waking abruptly from a near-drowning, gasping and disoriented, except now the turmoil was internal, his injuries throbbing with every breath. Head bowed in the dim, desolate surroundings, he fought waves of dizziness. His pants brushed against the damp, mildewed bricks, his insides feeling as if they were being consumed by a void.
What's happening to me? He wondered, his mind swirling with confusion. Nausea churned from his abdomen to his head, his breath shallow and erratic.
Before he could make sense of it, an intense headache seized him, and he crumpled to the ground like a puppet cut loose suddenly from its strings.
In the corner, where the younger Kaiju had been cowering, a window of opportunity opened wide. Without a moment's hesitation, he darted away, fleeing the chaotic scene.
Ah, now you see, Kiel mused solemnly, the gravity of his thoughts sinking in. This is why I don't bother with other people.
He scanned his surroundings, a wave of futility crashing over him. What am I doing here? What was I even hoping for?
And with those words, his world faded to black.
He had succumbed to the strain, slipping into unconsciousness.