Doctor Edward Richtofen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doctor_dismemberment) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
animus_network2013-03-23 11:34 pm
doctor_dismemberment) wrote in animus_network2013-03-23 11:34 pm
video
[The feed clicks on. Hunched over the terminal is a haggard, shivering man in a Nazi uniform with snow still dusting his body, who's glaring at the camera as if he's trying to burn a hole through whoever is watching. He's silent for a moment, just breathing heavily, until he finally speaks in a voice that's as gravelly and uneven as a cobblestone road.]
...That's it. [His German accent is thicker than ever, as if he's not even trying to speak properly anymore. He sounds strangely serene underneath it all, eerily so.] I've had it. I can't take it anymore. I don't want to live here-
[He cuts himself off sharply after his voice rises in volume, and he draws in a ragged breath, shutting his eyes. A violent shudder runs through his body, and a strap of leather slides down his shoulder as a result. He shrugs it back up, and the glinting metal of a large gun can be seen behind his back.]
...I don't. You are all- [A look crosses his face like he's just thought of a funny joke. He gives a chuckle, and the sound is light and airy, but it's weak, too.] You're all laughing, aren't you? You're laughing- [He slams his fists down on the terminal, all traces of good humor gone from his face and his tone.] -und you're happy that I am suffering like this! Well, I'll give you all another reason to hate me, ja?
[He straightens up, and for a moment, a pained expression crosses his face. He puts a hand to his head, mutters:] Shut up, shut up!
[And then he tugs his gun off its strap and over his shoulder. To those who are familiar with WWII-era weaponry, it's an MP 40 sub-machine gun, and Richtofen's holding it with a vice grip. He gives the camera a lopsided grin, then shouts at the terminal, at the viewer.]
Why don't you all try to give me one reason why I shouldn't knock on every door in this hallway und blow the brains out of whoever answers? Hmm? Come on, I know you have it in you! Convince me, heroes. [He spits out that last word like it's poison.
Speaking up again, his voice is bitter. There's an almost mournful edge to it.] Give me a reason to try und be a good person.
[And then he leans against the terminal again, eyes darting to and fro over the screen, gripping the gun tightly in his trembling hands.]
((ooc: Richtofen is at one of the terminals on the 2nd dormitory level. action replies are welcomed! just beware that an action reply also puts you at risk of being attacked by Richtofen. he has no supernatural abilities, but he has a knife and an itchy trigger finger.
warning - replies may include violence, dark subject matter, and possibly suicide if Richtofen isn't calmed down. as always, he has a permissions post that you can use to let me know what you are and aren't okay with, or you can just let me know in your tag.))
...That's it. [His German accent is thicker than ever, as if he's not even trying to speak properly anymore. He sounds strangely serene underneath it all, eerily so.] I've had it. I can't take it anymore. I don't want to live here-
[He cuts himself off sharply after his voice rises in volume, and he draws in a ragged breath, shutting his eyes. A violent shudder runs through his body, and a strap of leather slides down his shoulder as a result. He shrugs it back up, and the glinting metal of a large gun can be seen behind his back.]
...I don't. You are all- [A look crosses his face like he's just thought of a funny joke. He gives a chuckle, and the sound is light and airy, but it's weak, too.] You're all laughing, aren't you? You're laughing- [He slams his fists down on the terminal, all traces of good humor gone from his face and his tone.] -und you're happy that I am suffering like this! Well, I'll give you all another reason to hate me, ja?
[He straightens up, and for a moment, a pained expression crosses his face. He puts a hand to his head, mutters:] Shut up, shut up!
[And then he tugs his gun off its strap and over his shoulder. To those who are familiar with WWII-era weaponry, it's an MP 40 sub-machine gun, and Richtofen's holding it with a vice grip. He gives the camera a lopsided grin, then shouts at the terminal, at the viewer.]
Why don't you all try to give me one reason why I shouldn't knock on every door in this hallway und blow the brains out of whoever answers? Hmm? Come on, I know you have it in you! Convince me, heroes. [He spits out that last word like it's poison.
Speaking up again, his voice is bitter. There's an almost mournful edge to it.] Give me a reason to try und be a good person.
[And then he leans against the terminal again, eyes darting to and fro over the screen, gripping the gun tightly in his trembling hands.]
((ooc: Richtofen is at one of the terminals on the 2nd dormitory level. action replies are welcomed! just beware that an action reply also puts you at risk of being attacked by Richtofen. he has no supernatural abilities, but he has a knife and an itchy trigger finger.
warning - replies may include violence, dark subject matter, and possibly suicide if Richtofen isn't calmed down. as always, he has a permissions post that you can use to let me know what you are and aren't okay with, or you can just let me know in your tag.))
no subject
He can't breathe.
He makes a strangled gurgling noise, frozen in place with his hands clasped over the wound. He can't tell how deep it is, isn't thinking about whether it's the cut or the pressure of his own hands against it that's choking him off, because all he can think of is that he's going to die. He's going to die again. No, no, no, he hates this, he's always hated it, he doesn't want to die--
Richtofen can't force any words out. All of the anger has drained off his face, leaving in its wake nothing but absolute terror. This'll be the first time he's died since he learned about what really happens to their bodies, their souls. He doesn't want to die knowing that he won't remember what happens to him between the time his light fades, and when he wakes up, paralyzed, in his bed.
It doesn't seem, though, like he has much of a choice.]
no subject
Lights out, bastard.
no subject
He tries to open his mouth, to force out some words about how this man doesn't have the right, the privilege to taste his blood, but nothing comes out. One hand falls away from his neck, feeling strangely cold. A few moments later, he lifts the second one, and he almost looks tranquil, resigned to his fate.
He uses the last of his strength to lift his middle finger in Hallelujah's face.
And then his eyes shut, and Richtofen goes limp.]