"Hey, calm down! It's just a spar!" You yell the reminder, but Satoru only starts thrashing, feral. I'll rip off your limbs! Let's see how you'll strike me then! I'll rip them off your body tendon by tendon, you hear me?" You don't want to hurt Satoru, even though Satoru is hurting you. You're fitting against the hold, arms straining and legs kicking. You feel nails raking against your arms, reaching higher. You can’t tell what Satoru is trying to do, at first, save for flail in frustration. Then you get it. Satoru is reaching for his face. They’re trying to claw at their face. At their eyes.*
“Cut it off!” You demand as you tighten your grip to deter him.
Laughter spills from their lips, frenzied and fragmented, punctuated by sharp, ragged breaths. Their arms flail wildly, hands clawing at the earth with desperate fervor, as if seeking to anchor themselves in the tangible against the onslaught of their unraveling mind. Their voice, a cacophony of whispers and gasps, is barely discernible as they bow under the weight of their revelation.
“The fabric of space and time is an illusion, an invisible cage, it is taunting us with a false sense of fate, a false God," they borderline start chanting. "The past increased, the future recedes...I...it..it's all unraveling!"
Abruptly, they contort, rolling onto their back, the sky above a blurred canvas for their torment. Fingers weave into a prison across their face, a barrier to contain the madness within. Their eyes, wild with clarity, pierce the veil of their self-made confines.
“I am a biological accident, I am the force of creation, I am that false God, the void will always be within me.” Satoru proclaims, lost in the throes of their harrowing epiphany.
The words tumble out, relentless, and raw. "I am forged from the silt of the earth and the ichor of life, from carnal yearnings and prophetic sights beyond comprehension!" Gojo's hands sprawl to the sky, wild and feral. "IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS"
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