[It had been a success--Mikan shouldn't have been surprised, and thankfully she was, surprisingly?, cal and collected during the entire procedure. Being asked to record herself doing all of this was a little strange, but she didn't ind that either--She could watch it herself to see what she could've done better, after all. It would benefit her skills as much as it would benefit Komaeda's fetish interests.
She takes a deep, shuddery breath as she holds Junko's hand in her own. When was the last time she'd held this hand? When was the last tie she'd done a surgery like this? Her knees feel weak like she's run a marathon and a shiver goes down her spine. She's not drooling or anything, but it's clear there's a perverse sort of pleasure she's getting out of all of this.
It reminds her of--Other times. Despair wells up in her chest. The last time-- The last time...Junko Enoshima had died. Been dead. And they were all trying to continue on without her, throwing themselves on her body like wild animals. Wailing. Screaming. Crying. Despair. And with it a newfound motivation--a frenzied obsession, more like--to continue her work. Junko Enoshia was dead, but could live on through all of them--literally and figuratively.
Those had been good times. And at the same time, memories she could've done without. They haunt her, swirling inside bringing a strange mix of unease and a nostalgia that almost hurts, a desire to turn back the clock despite knowing she's in a better place, in better shape, now.
A slow exhale. Now wasn't the time to go tripping down memory lane, and she shied away from those memories. First she had to get the hand into the prepared ice chest and finish cleaning up-- there was still a lot of blood around, splattered on Mikan mostly, but she should be nice and clean up Komaeda and the floor as well, and--
That sure was the door opening. Mikan looks ups quickly, pausing midstep towards the ice chest.]
This-- ['Isn't that it looks like?' Is probably what she's going to say, but then he screams.
So, logically, Mikan just starts screaming in alarm as well.]
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fetishinterests.She takes a deep, shuddery breath as she holds Junko's hand in her own. When was the last time she'd held this hand? When was the last tie she'd done a surgery like this? Her knees feel weak like she's run a marathon and a shiver goes down her spine. She's not drooling or anything, but it's clear there's a perverse sort of pleasure she's getting out of all of this.
It reminds her of--Other times. Despair wells up in her chest. The last time-- The last time...Junko Enoshima had died. Been dead. And they were all trying to continue on without her, throwing themselves on her body like wild animals. Wailing. Screaming. Crying. Despair. And with it a newfound motivation--a frenzied obsession, more like--to continue her work. Junko Enoshia was dead, but could live on through all of them--literally and figuratively.
Those had been good times. And at the same time, memories she could've done without. They haunt her, swirling inside bringing a strange mix of unease and a nostalgia that almost hurts, a desire to turn back the clock despite knowing she's in a better place, in better shape, now.
A slow exhale. Now wasn't the time to go tripping down memory lane, and she shied away from those memories. First she had to get the hand into the prepared ice chest and finish cleaning up-- there was still a lot of blood around, splattered on Mikan mostly, but she should be nice and clean up Komaeda and the floor as well, and--
That sure was the door opening. Mikan looks ups quickly, pausing midstep towards the ice chest.]
This-- ['Isn't that it looks like?' Is probably what she's going to say, but then he screams.
So, logically, Mikan just starts screaming in alarm as well.]