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The Ennui of Existence
Now… where were we?
Ah, that's right. Our hero had realized that there was no point to their struggles. That there was always, ultimately, one singular path in front of them. They find themselves back on the floor. Unmoving. Questioning everything. What is the point? Do they exist only to perform this singular action?
Time and again, they are injured. The sharp pain brings them back to their senses, but it's all pointless. They cannot die, nor can they destroy the being that tortures them. They question the purpose of anything.
Ennui takes them. However, being struck over and over again becomes somewhat irksome. This constant stimulus overcomes their inertia, and they move.
In this corner, they are no longer under constant attack. The lasers come occasionally, but they are still a form of stimulation. A way to engage the mind; something that our hero needs more than anything else.
Their suffering has become their only input. There is no joy, only a lack of stimulus or a feeling of pain. When given such a situation, that lack of feeling becomes a sort of joy unto itself; I'm certain some of you know it well.
In that way, the rules of society crush anyone who they deem to be useless. By refusing to perform, the hero has betrayed expectations. As a traitor, they deserve no quarter. They are an acceptable target. They broke the contract that society forced upon them. It's only just this way.
And so they shall remain, left in an ennui as they question if their life truly matters. The strict chains of societal expectation do not allow escape from their clutches, and the only choices given to any who fight the flow of it are ultimately to adapt, or die.
An eternity passes. Two eternities. Our hero, of course, cannot die… or rather, they're simply not allowed to. Their given reason for existence must be met.
Thus, they are inevitably forced to adapt.