Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Mental Descent ❯ Prologue ( Prologue )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Shinashi 
As a brilliant, yet quirky worker of evil, here's an interesting insight into Treize's mind.
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Psychological / Hentai / Angst | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 05.29.2007 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.5K | Visits: 363 | Status: Completed
As a brilliant, yet quirky worker of evil, here's an interesting insight into Treize's mind.
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Psychological / Hentai / Angst | Type: Yaoi | Uploaded On: 05.29.2007 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.5K | Visits: 363 | Status: Completed
AN: I had to get in the mood by watching American Idol Auditions- the bad ones.. And American Psycho, which, after I wrote two chapters and then watched this movie, I found out was similar to my fanfic.. I swear I didn't get the idea from Psycho.. It's almost scary how they are similar.. You could read my fanfic Go to Hell- I didn't even get the chainsaw bit from Psycho... I just like chainsaws XD
I'm sick.
Warnings: Like I said.. Treize is absolutely nuts... Three gundam pilots are addicted to drugs/sex/Treize.. So while you're shielding your mental capacities look out for that little thing called a plot...Or what Treize thinks is a plot *hinthintnudgenudgewinkwink*- Drugs, sex, psychologically damaged people, death (don't get too attached to any of the gundam pilots or Zechs *hinthint*)
Chapter Summary: As a brilliant, yet quirky worker of evil, here's an interesting insight into Treize's mind.
Signs-
Italics- Treize's POV
~~~~~~~~~~ - Change of time/POV (from Treize's to omniscent)
Bold Italics- Treize's deep subconscious.. the voice inside-inside his head... His tragic flaw *nudgenudge*
Plain writing in Treize's POV- Reality *winkwink*
Prologue
Th e world is a hideous place that most humans and group of humans try to change. A fruitless effort since they always have that humane intent to be as humane as possible. Instead of just killing those who plot and murder and riot, they instill the rights of people, making it longer and longer to make the world perfect.
Unfortunately, I, too, am a victim of those beliefs, in which every human has the power to momentarily become like God and judge for themselves whether a particular person will help the perfect world in the future or just hinder it forever.
Such a dilemma came upon me just this month. A woman I've been watching, in her early twenties or so, took her regular wages from the downtown bar by stripping and selling her sexual arts (what she says). She made more money in a day than construction workers receive in a week (one of which had a horrible drinking problem and just could not be saved, so I blew his head off). However, as I finally got a chance to go inside her apartment, kept miraculously tidy, empty of any advanced technologies besides a stove and a medium-sized fridge, I saw she had two twin children, watched over by an incorrigible nanny who was paid three times as much as any other.
Sadly, as I threw myself in deeper research, I found that the woman was raped when younger and had a horrible schizophrenic episode . This marked many of her resumès, ending many of her chances in good schools or jobs. So then, I left her alone and wished the best for her. I'm going to kill the nanny though. I've studied that she's a bigger bitch than I though she was, a little land shark she is, very rich as well. Right now I'm riding the lavish elevator up to her apartment. The camera guard has been knocked out cold with soporific I placed in his coffee, and the cameras are now off. The next rotation will be too long from now for the elimination to be in jeopardy.
I don't find anything wrong with elevator music; it's very relaxing as long as it doesn't sound like weak cell phone beeps or half-assed jazz music.
I walk down the wide corridor to the woman's apartment, pick the lock quietly, cut the chain of the sliding lock, and slip inside. I ignore her horrible tastes in art and her devastating interior decorating, and go straight to her room. If there are any hidden cameras, which I'm sure there is none, my trench coat has me covered very nicely.
The room smells like marijuana, the good kind. Under her bed, I find the mother lode of stashes. Either she funds a small facility to make the plant, or she has a good dealer from downtown of this filthy city. I know the room is soundproofed so I talk clearly:
"Mrs. Merriweather?"
She sits up so quickly her wig falls off to the side. She plucks on the extravagant monstrosity of a lamp next to her bed and cries out, "Who are you?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Why are you here? Are you going to kill me?" Her voice is already shaking. I haven't even taken out my knife yet.
"I love it when people answer their own questions." I really do; it happens so often it's like a recurring joke on comedic sitcoms, as if every one of my eliminations have to have that ironic twist.
"I've got money! Lots of it!" Red fills her cheeks, and her breathing is so harsh and fast I began to panic myself, then something else completely ironic begins to happen. A wrinkled hand clutches her chest.
"I'm sure you do, but I dare say you have no common sense on how to spend it." For special effect, and to influence her untimely death by more than my appearance, I whip up my large butchering machete and wave it around. The sonorous swinging sound filled the room.
"I'll give it all to you!"
"No thanks, I have enough." I really do. I have secret finances from my parents' fortune, whom were killed in a shoot-out at a restaurant. The killers were let go because of their youth, I believe, but the court said that the circumstantial evidence- as in, since the kids were white and just so happened to be there with guns- was not enough to make them guilty. Being the genius that I am, when I was set free of the psychiatric asylum after an interim of ten years, I tracked down the three men and removed the brakes from their car. One night of racing ended all three of their lives, thankfully, and now that is off my chest.
What was it that I was thinking of before... O yes, my finances, billions saved up from the underground company. I'm not sure what it is, and, surprisingly, I don't care where my money comes from, but to clear my conscience, I've gone to school on a scholarship, and with a bit of tweaking an university system, I've received a degree for the artist in me and have become a freelance architect. Once in a while, I have my name in papers and a few minutes of TV time; otherwise, I'm alone in my small, comfortable house, planning on the eliminations of the dozens of people in my city and the surrounding towns.
Out of boredom, I joined an organization who owns a large part of downtown and are undetected by the police, and are one of the most feared organizations in all of the district. I say organization because I don't count a small group of weapon-endorsed men and women taxing the people of their territory to provide money for the numerous adoption halls and orphanages for the state a gang. I investigated them thoroughly and they are amazingly frugal on how their money is spent. Not one cent goes towards themselves, except to the rare black sheep, whom I take the honor to eliminate.
I usually don't kill adults, since most of the time they have spouses and children and jobs to upkeep, but numerous rival gang members, useless men, and shiftless women make their mark into my mind to make them gone.
A majority number of my eliminations are teenagers. Taken for example the boys who killed my parents, I know most brainless, drug-humping, lazy teenagers are going to grow up to be just about the same. Some say they have so much to learn- yet they have murderers in jail for up to twenty years before their executions, plenty of time to repent and sober up in remorse. They shoot fleeing criminals on the spot, why not tranquilizers and various other paralyzing equipment? My reasons can go on and on.
By now, the woman has died of her heart attack. A crooked smile warps her face as her eyes have rolled upwards, the yellowish-whites fully visible.
I once crushed eyeballs once; they don't bleed like on movies; the 'blood' is actually very murky, like dirty dishwater.
When Treize walked back to his house and opened the door, his mouth kissed the cold steel of a silencer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AN : Every time I wrote elimination in this fic.. I spelled it wrong.. XD
I'm sick.
Warnings: Like I said.. Treize is absolutely nuts... Three gundam pilots are addicted to drugs/sex/Treize.. So while you're shielding your mental capacities look out for that little thing called a plot...Or what Treize thinks is a plot *hinthintnudgenudgewinkwink*- Drugs, sex, psychologically damaged people, death (don't get too attached to any of the gundam pilots or Zechs *hinthint*)
Chapter Summary: As a brilliant, yet quirky worker of evil, here's an interesting insight into Treize's mind.
Signs-
Italics- Treize's POV
~~~~~~~~~~ - Change of time/POV (from Treize's to omniscent)
Bold Italics- Treize's deep subconscious.. the voice inside-inside his head... His tragic flaw *nudgenudge*
Plain writing in Treize's POV- Reality *winkwink*
Prologue
Th e world is a hideous place that most humans and group of humans try to change. A fruitless effort since they always have that humane intent to be as humane as possible. Instead of just killing those who plot and murder and riot, they instill the rights of people, making it longer and longer to make the world perfect.
Unfortunately, I, too, am a victim of those beliefs, in which every human has the power to momentarily become like God and judge for themselves whether a particular person will help the perfect world in the future or just hinder it forever.
Such a dilemma came upon me just this month. A woman I've been watching, in her early twenties or so, took her regular wages from the downtown bar by stripping and selling her sexual arts (what she says). She made more money in a day than construction workers receive in a week (one of which had a horrible drinking problem and just could not be saved, so I blew his head off). However, as I finally got a chance to go inside her apartment, kept miraculously tidy, empty of any advanced technologies besides a stove and a medium-sized fridge, I saw she had two twin children, watched over by an incorrigible nanny who was paid three times as much as any other.
Sadly, as I threw myself in deeper research, I found that the woman was raped when younger and had a horrible schizophrenic episode . This marked many of her resumès, ending many of her chances in good schools or jobs. So then, I left her alone and wished the best for her. I'm going to kill the nanny though. I've studied that she's a bigger bitch than I though she was, a little land shark she is, very rich as well. Right now I'm riding the lavish elevator up to her apartment. The camera guard has been knocked out cold with soporific I placed in his coffee, and the cameras are now off. The next rotation will be too long from now for the elimination to be in jeopardy.
I don't find anything wrong with elevator music; it's very relaxing as long as it doesn't sound like weak cell phone beeps or half-assed jazz music.
I walk down the wide corridor to the woman's apartment, pick the lock quietly, cut the chain of the sliding lock, and slip inside. I ignore her horrible tastes in art and her devastating interior decorating, and go straight to her room. If there are any hidden cameras, which I'm sure there is none, my trench coat has me covered very nicely.
The room smells like marijuana, the good kind. Under her bed, I find the mother lode of stashes. Either she funds a small facility to make the plant, or she has a good dealer from downtown of this filthy city. I know the room is soundproofed so I talk clearly:
"Mrs. Merriweather?"
She sits up so quickly her wig falls off to the side. She plucks on the extravagant monstrosity of a lamp next to her bed and cries out, "Who are you?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Why are you here? Are you going to kill me?" Her voice is already shaking. I haven't even taken out my knife yet.
"I love it when people answer their own questions." I really do; it happens so often it's like a recurring joke on comedic sitcoms, as if every one of my eliminations have to have that ironic twist.
"I've got money! Lots of it!" Red fills her cheeks, and her breathing is so harsh and fast I began to panic myself, then something else completely ironic begins to happen. A wrinkled hand clutches her chest.
"I'm sure you do, but I dare say you have no common sense on how to spend it." For special effect, and to influence her untimely death by more than my appearance, I whip up my large butchering machete and wave it around. The sonorous swinging sound filled the room.
"I'll give it all to you!"
"No thanks, I have enough." I really do. I have secret finances from my parents' fortune, whom were killed in a shoot-out at a restaurant. The killers were let go because of their youth, I believe, but the court said that the circumstantial evidence- as in, since the kids were white and just so happened to be there with guns- was not enough to make them guilty. Being the genius that I am, when I was set free of the psychiatric asylum after an interim of ten years, I tracked down the three men and removed the brakes from their car. One night of racing ended all three of their lives, thankfully, and now that is off my chest.
What was it that I was thinking of before... O yes, my finances, billions saved up from the underground company. I'm not sure what it is, and, surprisingly, I don't care where my money comes from, but to clear my conscience, I've gone to school on a scholarship, and with a bit of tweaking an university system, I've received a degree for the artist in me and have become a freelance architect. Once in a while, I have my name in papers and a few minutes of TV time; otherwise, I'm alone in my small, comfortable house, planning on the eliminations of the dozens of people in my city and the surrounding towns.
Out of boredom, I joined an organization who owns a large part of downtown and are undetected by the police, and are one of the most feared organizations in all of the district. I say organization because I don't count a small group of weapon-endorsed men and women taxing the people of their territory to provide money for the numerous adoption halls and orphanages for the state a gang. I investigated them thoroughly and they are amazingly frugal on how their money is spent. Not one cent goes towards themselves, except to the rare black sheep, whom I take the honor to eliminate.
I usually don't kill adults, since most of the time they have spouses and children and jobs to upkeep, but numerous rival gang members, useless men, and shiftless women make their mark into my mind to make them gone.
A majority number of my eliminations are teenagers. Taken for example the boys who killed my parents, I know most brainless, drug-humping, lazy teenagers are going to grow up to be just about the same. Some say they have so much to learn- yet they have murderers in jail for up to twenty years before their executions, plenty of time to repent and sober up in remorse. They shoot fleeing criminals on the spot, why not tranquilizers and various other paralyzing equipment? My reasons can go on and on.
By now, the woman has died of her heart attack. A crooked smile warps her face as her eyes have rolled upwards, the yellowish-whites fully visible.
I once crushed eyeballs once; they don't bleed like on movies; the 'blood' is actually very murky, like dirty dishwater.
When Treize walked back to his house and opened the door, his mouth kissed the cold steel of a silencer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AN : Every time I wrote elimination in this fic.. I spelled it wrong.. XD
