Season 11.5 [Rewrite: Continuation]

Release

(A/N: I'm currently sitting in an airport without any sleep nor food for the past hours but here's the chapter!)

Let go.

I implore you to consider my admonishment. Let go of the bondage, of the momentary illusion of affliction. Let go of the acute blade that entombs your soul.

There is an incomparable anguish out there, one that you yourself will stagger through. It will be your deceiver but companion, your salvation, but melancholy. A two-faced cutlass that harmonizes and cripples the body and soul.

I nod to the existence of your indignation. Our ties are doeful, our purposes distressing. Yet I discipline you. That indignation is transient.

Does not the butterfly fade within the year? Produce rot in a week? Your soreness is not dissimilar.

Do let go. It alleviates the job, both yours, and mine.

>_<

Inhale. He clawed the molecules out the air.

Exhale. He painfully vocalized.

That marked the 6753th breathing exercise. The 6753th moment from when the ninja disappeared, the wall was intact, gym floor stable, and the terrain was precise to the condition of eight hours ago.

Sopping wet with the winter-wonderland theme.

He scrutinized the ceiling. Jagged knives were at rest, icicles ruminating to fall or sit back. The floor was not in its peak condition, a makeshift boreal forest stripped of the fauna segment to be usurped with mounds of snow.

Otherwise, a disaster.

Unfortunately, he demolished the bed not to long ago, but, favorably, the snow was hospitable. Since there was no guarantee that Muskrat was to fly over to deliver a cot, the best choice was to stay put.

Not to mention the fact that he was an accident scouting for turmoil. One wrong slip and bam. Ice.

He snorted at the training regime. Zane meekly encouraged the officer to stray from negative abstractions, but it was an unreachable feat. There were twenty-thousand wrongs to count at the presiding moment, and he was to--

"Forget about it?!" Turner snapped and punched the snow with a fist.

The icicle opted to fall. Cowardly, he scrambled with a dash as the lacerating masterwork of nature scattered the snow.

Okay. New idea. Don't yell when disturbed. Just, shut up and behave.

That was rich. Behave? How does a father behave when his daughter is in peril? When he was coerced to slaughter five politicians?

Turner outstretched his arms to collapse into the snow. Abnormally, the chill was unnoticeable through the thin-film of a shirt on his back, but he attributed it to the machinations of his livelihood.

Great. Add incapability to react to the cold on his list of irregular body habits.

But, still. The wind fluently strummed the screams of his victims, the spikes of snow to abrase the man. He wept in the morning hours, rueful over the dead men. He was inconsolable over the blood designs on the wall, of the red-stained portrait of five purloined lives in that office dorm.

Dead. The politicians were dead, and the guilty crew was absolved of crime.

It, stained his mind. The root cause for this gym of an area combined with the horrid cries for his daughter. Though he was cognizant of the words of Trystan and Zane, regardful of the correct navigation channels to subdue his pain, those were the words of murderers and heartless fiends.