[By the time the golden light appears, Miyano's already made peace with his imminent demise. It's not exactly how he'd imagined he'd go -- ritual sacrifice isn't exactly something that happens to the average guy -- but everything from the past couple hours seems to confirm that it's inevitable. He's already begged and pleaded and had a complete meltdown, but now he's just sort of...empty.
The strange, thick, strong-smelling concoction they'd forced down his throat probably had something to do with that. Everything before then -- being grabbed off the street and blindfolded and taken somewhere remote, being relentlessly questioned about his intimate history of all things -- had been in sharp, overwhelming clarity. Now it feels vague, floaty, clouded.
Miya hadn't resisted when the group of hooded figures had stripped off his school clothes, when he'd felt their hands roaming every inch of his body, when they pronounced him suitable. He hadn't fought back when they painted strange symbols across his chest and stomach and thighs, when they dressed him in white, sheer, clinging fabric that covered nothing and led him to the altar. He hadn't begged or wept when they pushed him onto his back and bound his wrists and ankles, leaving him spread out, exposed, vulnerable.
When the huge, dark figure appears out of the blinding flash of light, though, even the drugs can't keep Miyano from recoiling in shock. He'd assumed it was some sort of arcane ritual that'd end with him being stabbed or something, actually sacrificed. He hadn't expected them to actually summon something.
The leader of the group is saying something about the figure -- the demon -- examining his gift before granting their plea, and there's a knife sliding neatly through the filmy fabric Miyano's wearing, leaving him completely bare beneath the monstrous, demonic gaze, and he can't stifle the soft, shuddering whine of fear that tears out of his throat.]
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The strange, thick, strong-smelling concoction they'd forced down his throat probably had something to do with that. Everything before then -- being grabbed off the street and blindfolded and taken somewhere remote, being relentlessly questioned about his intimate history of all things -- had been in sharp, overwhelming clarity. Now it feels vague, floaty, clouded.
Miya hadn't resisted when the group of hooded figures had stripped off his school clothes, when he'd felt their hands roaming every inch of his body, when they pronounced him suitable. He hadn't fought back when they painted strange symbols across his chest and stomach and thighs, when they dressed him in white, sheer, clinging fabric that covered nothing and led him to the altar. He hadn't begged or wept when they pushed him onto his back and bound his wrists and ankles, leaving him spread out, exposed, vulnerable.
When the huge, dark figure appears out of the blinding flash of light, though, even the drugs can't keep Miyano from recoiling in shock. He'd assumed it was some sort of arcane ritual that'd end with him being stabbed or something, actually sacrificed. He hadn't expected them to actually summon something.
The leader of the group is saying something about the figure -- the demon -- examining his gift before granting their plea, and there's a knife sliding neatly through the filmy fabric Miyano's wearing, leaving him completely bare beneath the monstrous, demonic gaze, and he can't stifle the soft, shuddering whine of fear that tears out of his throat.]