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- Frieza Force
Though Frieza may have fought his fate to the absolute extreme, refused to surrender past the point of sanity or reason, driven on by sheer force of will, the moment the poisoned needle pierced his flesh, he knew. This was it. Game over.
He was going to die.
He was going to die.
The chaos in his mind was all-consuming, that when his former ally sliced off his other arm the pain barely even registered, and the soft thud as his forearm hit the ground felt like a thousand miles away. His body moved on automatic pilot, dragging itself towards Mickey and raining blows upon him again and again and again as if it were as natural a bodily function as breathing. Even past the point where he couldn't breathe, he kept attacking. Not that it mattered, though; the mouse was as dead as he was, and if anything, he was just speeding up his own death. But he hadn't the presence of mind to care.
He wasn't sure if it was his mind that broke first, or his body, but one by one his senses failed. First his hearing, then sight, then touch. Smell and taste stayed, though, and the only reason he knew he was still alive was the ringing in his ears and the blood, saliva, and vomit expelled by the poison destroying his insides. He lasted longer than a human might have to the poison's effects, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Was his body still moving, or had it finally given out? He didn't know. Whatever his body was doing, the outside world had faded to deafening white noise. Mentally, he was in a state beyond shock, curled up in a fetal position in the corner of his brain and gripping to the skin of his arms until his nails drew blood and the bones in his knuckles threatened to rip free of his flesh.
I'm going to die.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to die.
He'd feared death, when he was younger, hadn't he? He'd pushed it far from his mind, because he used to be strong enough that there wasn't anything that could kill him. But being plucked from his universe and dropped into the Crossroads had changed everything. He had managed to gather a following and make a tidy profit back on Inverxe, yes, but it wasn't until this moment where he lay dying that it truly sunk in, down to the skin of his intestines and the marrow of his bones, that his days as Emperor of the Universe were over. That they'd been over ever since that first day he'd woken up here.
To the extent that he could comprehend that, anyway. Power was his lifeblood, not a petty ambition. All that meant was that he'd need to get that power back.
And even then, even as he lay paralyzed and dying, that despair wasn't enough to quell the all-consuming fire that was Frieza's very being. Giving up on something he wanted was something he fundamentally could not register, and what he wanted was everything. If whatever cruel fate had landed him here had reduced him to nothing, then he would destroy everything else that existed until he reigned supreme over the ashes of the universe. If he broke, he would put himself together again and again and again until he won. If death was a law of reality, then he would break reality itself. That was who he was.
But he was also just a mortal like any other.
The despair and anger surged through his veins like the poison that tore his body apart, and he could only watch, mind blank of any coherent thought, as they clashed against one another until, finally, he had no energy left to resist the fatigue that dragged him into the abyss.
He'd never been one to believe in afterlives. The only world that mattered was the one that was readily observable, where power over one's surroundings was everything. Anything beyond that was a fairytale, foolish stories with no basis in reality which the weak told themselves around campfires to delude themselves into believing their lives had any meaning. Death, he believed, was the extinguishing of a flame, and there was nothing that awaited him, or anything else, beyond eternal nothingness.
But, if Heaven and Hell were real, he'd never held any delusions about which of the two he would be destined for.
(And as it turned out, they were, and he was very, very right. However, he was quite wrong about whatever he thought "hell" might have entailed.)
He was going to die.
He was going to die.
The chaos in his mind was all-consuming, that when his former ally sliced off his other arm the pain barely even registered, and the soft thud as his forearm hit the ground felt like a thousand miles away. His body moved on automatic pilot, dragging itself towards Mickey and raining blows upon him again and again and again as if it were as natural a bodily function as breathing. Even past the point where he couldn't breathe, he kept attacking. Not that it mattered, though; the mouse was as dead as he was, and if anything, he was just speeding up his own death. But he hadn't the presence of mind to care.
He wasn't sure if it was his mind that broke first, or his body, but one by one his senses failed. First his hearing, then sight, then touch. Smell and taste stayed, though, and the only reason he knew he was still alive was the ringing in his ears and the blood, saliva, and vomit expelled by the poison destroying his insides. He lasted longer than a human might have to the poison's effects, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Was his body still moving, or had it finally given out? He didn't know. Whatever his body was doing, the outside world had faded to deafening white noise. Mentally, he was in a state beyond shock, curled up in a fetal position in the corner of his brain and gripping to the skin of his arms until his nails drew blood and the bones in his knuckles threatened to rip free of his flesh.
I'm going to die.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to die.
He'd feared death, when he was younger, hadn't he? He'd pushed it far from his mind, because he used to be strong enough that there wasn't anything that could kill him. But being plucked from his universe and dropped into the Crossroads had changed everything. He had managed to gather a following and make a tidy profit back on Inverxe, yes, but it wasn't until this moment where he lay dying that it truly sunk in, down to the skin of his intestines and the marrow of his bones, that his days as Emperor of the Universe were over. That they'd been over ever since that first day he'd woken up here.
To the extent that he could comprehend that, anyway. Power was his lifeblood, not a petty ambition. All that meant was that he'd need to get that power back.
And even then, even as he lay paralyzed and dying, that despair wasn't enough to quell the all-consuming fire that was Frieza's very being. Giving up on something he wanted was something he fundamentally could not register, and what he wanted was everything. If whatever cruel fate had landed him here had reduced him to nothing, then he would destroy everything else that existed until he reigned supreme over the ashes of the universe. If he broke, he would put himself together again and again and again until he won. If death was a law of reality, then he would break reality itself. That was who he was.
But he was also just a mortal like any other.
The despair and anger surged through his veins like the poison that tore his body apart, and he could only watch, mind blank of any coherent thought, as they clashed against one another until, finally, he had no energy left to resist the fatigue that dragged him into the abyss.
He'd never been one to believe in afterlives. The only world that mattered was the one that was readily observable, where power over one's surroundings was everything. Anything beyond that was a fairytale, foolish stories with no basis in reality which the weak told themselves around campfires to delude themselves into believing their lives had any meaning. Death, he believed, was the extinguishing of a flame, and there was nothing that awaited him, or anything else, beyond eternal nothingness.
But, if Heaven and Hell were real, he'd never held any delusions about which of the two he would be destined for.
(And as it turned out, they were, and he was very, very right. However, he was quite wrong about whatever he thought "hell" might have entailed.)
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