View source for Tale:DELTA-V Personnel Journal: Joint Task Force I - Yoro Azar

{{Admonishment}}{{Diegetic
| perspective_characters = Yoro Azar
| location = Remnant United States of America
| date = December 3rd - 1982
}}{{ContentWarning
| violence = true
| gore = true
| mental_illness = true
| self_harm = true
| psychological_abuse = true
| physical_abuse = true
| other = *Profanity 
*Distressing Themes
*Child Abuse
}}
 NOTE: THIS ARTICLE IS TO BE UNDERSTOOD TO BE A WRITTEN ACCOUNT OF VOCAL RECORDS 
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I never gave a shit. 

About anything. 

Anyone. 

Not even when I was a runt.

I’d lie on the floor, not moving, not breathing right: and no one gave a damn.

Neither did I. 

<span style="color:#ff2222; font-style:italic;">I felt nothing.</span>  

----Old man used to brag I never cried: 

"Strong boy," he'd grunt; like some drunk samurai from a history book. 

Said he took "pride" in it. 

--- 

--- 

--- 

That word; ''"pride"'' — it means fuck all. 

Smoke up the ass of broken men.

''"Azar,"'' he said once. — ''"Fire"'' in Persian. 

Said we had ''“Imperial blood.”'' 

Said we came from Ottoman royalty, or some other delusion. 

Told me like it mattered. Like it gave meaning to the shit life we had. 

''<span style="color:#ff2222; font-style:italic;">I felt nothing.</span>  .'' 
----He moved to Japan and married some Shinto girl after World War II. 

She was the quiet type, thin hands and thinner patience.

They popped out me and Yuma. 

Yuma had his face. That made her the favorite. 

I didn’t care. 

''<span style="color:#ff2222; font-style:italic;">I felt nothing.</span>  .''
----Dad pushed Islam. 

Ma kept her kami. 

Sis' went full veil, full prayer, full submission. 

I never got used to that head-wrap thing. 

I never got used to any of it.

Home was shouting. My parents fought... often. 

Spit. Blood. Flying plates. Cracked teeth. Fists to lips. 

''<span style="color:#ff2222; font-style:italic;">I felt nothing.</span>  .'' 
----


Until one night, mom had enough; and she finally shut him up.

Knife to neck. 

One clean slice... 

Arterial spray like a fucking art piece. 

--- 

--- 

--- 

And for once...

...just once...

''I felt something.'' 

It was... beautiful...
----We ditched the corpse. Car ran dry. 

She carried us halfway up a frozen bastard of a mountain to some hellhole in Hokkaido. 

There, I met the rest of the freakshow:   

Grandfather and his goons.  

Didn't give a shit about names. 

Turned out Ma was part of some ghost-clan;  

Nameless. Assassins. Killers.  

Bastards with no flag, no god, no face. 

Said we were legacy filth. Killers by birth. Rapists by tradition. Our ticket in was dad’s throat.

Didn't blink. 

''<span style="color:#ff2222; font-style:italic;">I felt nothing.</span>  .''
----Old bastard said I’d be Death’s Agent: Rich as American oil pigs. 

That made me listen. 

Not care — just listen...

First lesson? 

Grabbed by the neck. 

Bamboo flayed us raw. 

Salt in. 

Salt in again.

Screams from Yuma. 

''<span style="color:#ff2222; font-style:italic;">I felt nothing.</span>  .''

---

---

---

...<big>'''She felt everything.'''</big>
----They taught us how to kill slow. Kill fast. Kill without blinking. 

Children, old folks, pretty girls, whimpering boys — didn’t matter. 

They left eyes open so we could see the fear. Hear the screams. 

Begging in three languages.

Yuma couldn't handle it; she cracked. 

I’d cover for her. Beat the others off her.

I think some part of me still gave a damn. 

Maybe...

---

---

---

But that night she just... 

...stopped trying. 

Just curled up and went still...

---

---

---

...that was the last fucking ember...
----Mother offed herself after. 

Slit wrists in the bath like some tragic novel. 

And I laughed: Laughed like a maniac.

Thought it was the funniest shit I ever saw. 

Beat her daughter for years, then cried when the corpse got cold. 

What a joke.

---

---

---

They made me full agent.  

Blood-slick hands, full pay.  

One day, I realized I could make more if I killed the old man.  

So I did. 

<span style="color:#ff2222; font-style:italic;">I felt nothing.</span>  .

----

Years went on.  

Kills racked up.  

Nations begged for my blade.  

Cash flowed like wine. 

I kept cutting:

Children, leaders, rebels, innocents; who gave a fuck? 

The world kept burning. 

The heat never reached me. 

''<span style="color:#ff2222; font-style:italic;">I felt nothing.</span>  .''
----Then came the President. American. 

Big job. 

High risk, higher reward. 

--- 

--- 

--- 

...I fucked it up. 

Got caught. 

Shackled. 

Tossed into whatever ''this'' is.
----Now I sit in this place...

...maybe prison. 

Maybe purgatory:

Maybe something ''worse''...

---

---

---

''...I still feel nothing.''
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[[Category:Author: LordSkorne7]]