![](https://i.imgur.com/LLARzGn.jpeg)
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
Location: The Trials, Southern Plateau - Dundas Island
Hope In Hell #2.053: Superego
Interaction(s): N/A
"I'm sorry."
Tiny-sounding, pointless words, squeezed out through labored breaths drawn into bruised lungs beneath broken ribs.
Gil's already-broken nose took another kick and he felt a sharp pain shoot across his face. A tooth came loose and rattled around inside his mouth, before he managed to roll over, shielding his head with his arms, and spit out the tooth alongside a sizeable wad of blood. The kicks went for his side instead, and the already-broken ribs sent agonizing protests across his torso with every fresh blow. Tears welled up in Gil's eyes.
Hands reached for him; he swatted them away, before latching onto one that tried to pry his arms away from his head, and with adrenaline-fueled strength, twisted it and yanked hard. The owner - some uniform-clad copy, Gil was too woozy to identify which specific aspect of himself this doppelganger was supposed to be mocking - fell to the floor, but no one paid any mind in the midst of the frenzy; the clone received its own blows, vicious kicks and stomps and punches, but disturbingly, focused only on continuing its own assault of the original Gil. Thrashing and kicking on the ground, the clone caught a boot to its temple, and Gil heard and saw the distinct sound and sight of a skull fracturing into pieces, shards moving beneath the miraculously-unbroken skin. Blood and something else leaked out of the clone's ears, and he lay still.
Gil vomited.
Someone stomped on his ankle and he felt something snap and he cried out. He was so utterly sure he was going to die, and felt completely hollow about it. What would he be remembered for? One teen rom-com a decade ago, and a handful of episodes on a niche soap opera melodrama. He could count on one hand the people that would miss him.
He clawed his way across the grass as best he could; some of the clones mistook the corpse of their ex-comrade for their actual target, and their beatings began to mutilate the un-moving carcass, granting Gil himself some breathing room. There was a slight break in the mob, and it galvanised Gil; somehow, plumbing depths he no longer believed he had, he managed to push himself along with his working leg, the broken ankle dragging his other foot behind him at an angle he'd rather not contemplate.
He rolled himself onto his back with a not-inconsiderable amount of effort, and in the process managed to slip one of his broken ribs through the soft tissue of his lung. He felt the pain immediately - sharp, stabbing, white-hot, turning to a dull but persistent ache that only got worse with each labored breath. He coughed, the spasms sending their own agony through him, and began to gasp for air; every intake was ragged and bubbly, and the pace of his breathing quickened, short pants unable to supply the air he needed.
The dregs of the mob that had followed him now called to the others, and, finally, Gil gave up. His muscles screamed for oxygen his failing respiratory system was no longer able to provide. With the last of his energy, he held a bruised and bloody hand to the sky, swirling it in a smooth repetition of an elegant movement from only the night before; a more pleasant memory, with a girl he'd had nothing to pretend to be for. The cigarette appeared once more, and Gil placed it in his mouth, regretting the AR Suit's lack of pockets for the book of matches he'd had to leave behind.
He rested his head, trying to focus on the cool grass beneath him, and closed his eyes, waiting for the end to arrive.
Tiny-sounding, pointless words, squeezed out through labored breaths drawn into bruised lungs beneath broken ribs.
"I'm sorry."
Not heeded, not wanted, not respected. Empty platitudes born of desperation and pain. And there was a lot of pain.
Not heeded, not wanted, not respected. Empty platitudes born of desperation and pain. And there was a lot of pain.
"I'm sorry."
Gil's already-broken nose took another kick and he felt a sharp pain shoot across his face. A tooth came loose and rattled around inside his mouth, before he managed to roll over, shielding his head with his arms, and spit out the tooth alongside a sizeable wad of blood. The kicks went for his side instead, and the already-broken ribs sent agonizing protests across his torso with every fresh blow. Tears welled up in Gil's eyes.
Hands reached for him; he swatted them away, before latching onto one that tried to pry his arms away from his head, and with adrenaline-fueled strength, twisted it and yanked hard. The owner - some uniform-clad copy, Gil was too woozy to identify which specific aspect of himself this doppelganger was supposed to be mocking - fell to the floor, but no one paid any mind in the midst of the frenzy; the clone received its own blows, vicious kicks and stomps and punches, but disturbingly, focused only on continuing its own assault of the original Gil. Thrashing and kicking on the ground, the clone caught a boot to its temple, and Gil heard and saw the distinct sound and sight of a skull fracturing into pieces, shards moving beneath the miraculously-unbroken skin. Blood and something else leaked out of the clone's ears, and he lay still.
Gil vomited.
Someone stomped on his ankle and he felt something snap and he cried out. He was so utterly sure he was going to die, and felt completely hollow about it. What would he be remembered for? One teen rom-com a decade ago, and a handful of episodes on a niche soap opera melodrama. He could count on one hand the people that would miss him.
He clawed his way across the grass as best he could; some of the clones mistook the corpse of their ex-comrade for their actual target, and their beatings began to mutilate the un-moving carcass, granting Gil himself some breathing room. There was a slight break in the mob, and it galvanised Gil; somehow, plumbing depths he no longer believed he had, he managed to push himself along with his working leg, the broken ankle dragging his other foot behind him at an angle he'd rather not contemplate.
He rolled himself onto his back with a not-inconsiderable amount of effort, and in the process managed to slip one of his broken ribs through the soft tissue of his lung. He felt the pain immediately - sharp, stabbing, white-hot, turning to a dull but persistent ache that only got worse with each labored breath. He coughed, the spasms sending their own agony through him, and began to gasp for air; every intake was ragged and bubbly, and the pace of his breathing quickened, short pants unable to supply the air he needed.
The dregs of the mob that had followed him now called to the others, and, finally, Gil gave up. His muscles screamed for oxygen his failing respiratory system was no longer able to provide. With the last of his energy, he held a bruised and bloody hand to the sky, swirling it in a smooth repetition of an elegant movement from only the night before; a more pleasant memory, with a girl he'd had nothing to pretend to be for. The cigarette appeared once more, and Gil placed it in his mouth, regretting the AR Suit's lack of pockets for the book of matches he'd had to leave behind.
He rested his head, trying to focus on the cool grass beneath him, and closed his eyes, waiting for the end to arrive.