[ It's the smell that gets to him more than anything— smoke, blood, burning flesh. The sensations conjured from the vision are so visceral, sickening, that when they both emerge from the experience, Kurapika finds himself gasping for a desperate breath, as though he'd been held underwater. Every muscle in his body tenses, like a last ditch effort to keep himself from becoming violently ill from the sights of people being so carelessly brutalized.
At his own hands, too. Alongside the horror that he's capable of such violent actions is the deep-seated feeling of justification, perhaps further enabled by the eerily-familiar scene plucked from the recesses of Dimitri's memory. There are people in the world that need to be dragged to hell and chained there. The people that create atrocities like this—
That's right. He'd had a reason for it all. For killing, for chasing what he'd been chasing without abandon. Seeing something like Dimitri had had been the cause of it— seeing the people you love brought to ruin. Only living through something like that can breed such an iron willpower for vengeance or such a ravenous hatred, the kind required to have the mental fortitude to beat someone within an inch of their life with your bare hands.
Kurapika likes to think of himself (and likes for others to think of him) as an analytical, level-headed person. But the truth is that he's emotioinally volatile, commonly reacting poorly when under duress. He's gone several shades paler once he regains enough sense of self to reach out to Dimitri himself, clutching at his shoulder at some attempt to ground himself. ]
We're fine, [ Kurapika says, unconvincingly, his voice trembling. He can't make sense of what he's feeling, nor even come close to categorizing each individual emotion. Fury, at the injustice he's been made to see? Sorrow for the losses? Concern, for his friend? More forcefully: ] It's fine. We're not actually there.
[ Does that change how traumatic it was to see it? No, but it's all he can manage to offer between his labored breaths, eyes darting about the room in a paranoid fashion as if to search for evidence that he's right. ]
no subject
At his own hands, too. Alongside the horror that he's capable of such violent actions is the deep-seated feeling of justification, perhaps further enabled by the eerily-familiar scene plucked from the recesses of Dimitri's memory. There are people in the world that need to be dragged to hell and chained there. The people that create atrocities like this—
That's right. He'd had a reason for it all. For killing, for chasing what he'd been chasing without abandon. Seeing something like Dimitri had had been the cause of it— seeing the people you love brought to ruin. Only living through something like that can breed such an iron willpower for vengeance or such a ravenous hatred, the kind required to have the mental fortitude to beat someone within an inch of their life with your bare hands.
Kurapika likes to think of himself (and likes for others to think of him) as an analytical, level-headed person. But the truth is that he's emotioinally volatile, commonly reacting poorly when under duress. He's gone several shades paler once he regains enough sense of self to reach out to Dimitri himself, clutching at his shoulder at some attempt to ground himself. ]
We're fine, [ Kurapika says, unconvincingly, his voice trembling. He can't make sense of what he's feeling, nor even come close to categorizing each individual emotion. Fury, at the injustice he's been made to see? Sorrow for the losses? Concern, for his friend? More forcefully: ] It's fine. We're not actually there.
[ Does that change how traumatic it was to see it? No, but it's all he can manage to offer between his labored breaths, eyes darting about the room in a paranoid fashion as if to search for evidence that he's right. ]