#enh executions

One would equate their personal Dazes to Hell of some sort, wouldn’t they? Touma had been certain his had been just that. Awakening from death in his own home had been jarring enough, but to face his own blood, dried & caking against the floor had been a sure enough sign to set his stomach into knots & twists. Panic had arisen in his eyes the first time he had come upon it, a dull ache in his skull blooming as he tried to glance around despite the fog that had settle over his vision. His ears had found the first source of life before his sight could, & the result hadn’t left him feeling any more safe. Hell was meant to punish: & Punish it would, as the familiar scent of gunpowder wafted through his nose. The distinct clicking of shotgun shells bouncing against the ground after a fired shot had been ones he could never forget, & it only set his nerves ablaze. He had been a soldier, & a soldier knew when to run -- So he would, throughout these never-ending halls, until he would stumble upon his own daughter. In this moment, he had hated her, & he was certain she had hated him, too, with the way her hallucinated figure had chased him out.

But that had changed.

Things were different now, & yet he had been faced with the familiar setting once more. His body stood perfectly still at the door way, as if his feet were chained to the Earth beneath it. Every muscle in his form refused to move, his pulse’s rapid beating nearly deafening him with how it had reminded him of war drums. Compared to his prior experience, the air had been more crisp, silent -- there had been no eruptions of gun shells, no erratic footsteps stampeding throughout the house, no strangled cries through raw throats that bled of pain & betrayal. If anything, the hush that had lingered had been maddening. It was far too much, too serene for what he had experienced before. The atmosphere had lodged itself in his throat & choked him, strangled him, made his body tense -- there was nothing safe here. Something was to come, it had, hadn’t it? If the snakes were sentencing him to an execution, then this would surely not last.

As if hearing his thoughts ( & maybe it could, given the nature of the serpents who had overtaken this world for their own ), a hissed laugh echoes in his ear. It sounds dangerously close, & he swears that he can feel the coldest of brushes against his shoulders. Instinctively, he tenses further, nerves attempting to steel themselves given the combat that had stained his memory -- his fists clench at his sides, & his eyes slip to his peripherals, only to find that no one was there at all. Despite the lack of a physical presence, words are uttered against his ear, constantly resounding in the confines of his mind as if it were an echo chamber. 

「If you value your pathetic life so much, why not fight for it?」

Hasn’t that been what he’s been doing? Surviving in this world, killing for an ‘out’ -- they made their rules clear. So what was this? A trick?

「That is your desire, beyond even your wife’s suffering, isn’t it? A normal life -- perhaps even with your own daughter that you’ve come to care for?」

Those final words leave his body to replicate time in the Haze: Frozen, never moving forward, never inching closer despite the day & night cycles that it had gone through. They had rooted him entirely, his eyes slightly widening, for he had never trusted snakes. How he had hated them -- feared them, they had always tricked him, just as Shion did. Their presence as ‘rulers’ over this so-called ‘game’ held no significance to him: It had only made him more & more initially wary, & this proposition had buried the hatchet. There had been no reason to trust them, & rightfully so, he didn’t. But when backed into a corner, what other option was he left with then to listen? No doors or exits immediately made themselves available: As far as Touma was concerned, he was in the palm of their hand.

The thought made his stomach sink. Hissed laughter only grew in his ear at that, & he cursed how they sounded so nestled in the back of his head as if they had nested themselves there.

「Your task is simple: you had found your way out before, hadn’t you? Do it again. Relive this nightmare once more, & you will be set free with your beloved daughter. 」

That couldn’t be right, could it? They had only offered freedom to those who had gotten away with their crime -- not those who had gotten caught. His brows knit together, lip curling in dissatisfaction & suspicion. Rightfully placed as it was, he wouldn’t be given the time to think it over as much as he would like to, nor reply to the serpent who had invaded his mind. For again, it would speak, its tone cruel & unforgiving as always:

「My, imagine how happy she would be beside you, well & alive again! To think, she had become so attached to you--」

  In that moment, he swear that even beyond the serpent’s words, he could hear one thing clear as day: Marry’s weak voice, tired in her throat. There’s a single word, battered between long-exasperated sniffles & evident mental exhaustion:

‘Otou-san...’

「--Fathers cannot resist the cries of their own children, begging them for protection, can they? 」

Before he’s given the chance to respond, the floorboards beneath him shake. Startled, his vision darts downward to the source, the sound of wood snapping & breaking away apparent. Cracks & gaps form through the boards, & in a burst of darkness, snakes shoot out, hissing as their venomous fangs bared. Shock settles through his bloodstream, & he gasps as he staggers back, his nerves shot. They persist despite his movements, striking towards one of his ankles -- they wrap around the limb & constrict with the intention to cut off blood flow & throw him off of his balance. He stumbles, teeth grit & adrenaline pumping through his veins, a pained noise cracking through as their fangs sink in with the goal to tear into him & poison him. In a swift motion, he reaches a hand down to grip at one of the snakes, pulling it free & tossing it onto the ground, crushing it beneath his foot. He kicks aside the others, rage boiling in his eyes as they, too, are smashed beneath the sole of his shoes, their forms dissipating with a shadowy smoke.

It was clear he had only one intention: Run.

Even with the torn fabric of his pants leg & the warm blood seeping from the bite marks on his skin, he still rushes forward. If he were to remain idle, then that would leave him in more danger, wouldn’t it? What if, of all things, they had sicced their kind on Marry? As her father, wasn’t it his responsibility to care for her? If they had made it out together -- would he be able to redeem himself? Would they carry on happily, he wonders? It’s an odd thought process to traverse through when fear is alive in his heart & the feeling of snake scales against his skin has him feeling sick. It was to be expected that they would leave ‘trap doors’ before the road to freedom; snakes were frequently described as cunning, involving trickery & falsehood in order to trap prey. When he had died at the hands of a monster, one who had used those very things against him, he would not fall again. That was what he had told himself.

Droplets of blood splatter onto the floor as he rushes down a hall, & becomes increasingly aware that this is not the exact house layout he remembers. He had lived there for years, after all, & he had become familiar with the temporary housing that Marry provided him with that was a near replica. One’s memory could never forget a place that had been once considered “home” -- it was nearly perfected mapped out in his mind, & these coordinates weren’t aligning perfectly. Had it been another trick from the snakes, another illusion? Decidedly, he had deemed it so -- the hallways had seemed longer, twisted, labyrinths of their own design that surely weren't trustworthy. The floorboards were more rickety than he last recalled, & the walls felt as if they were peeling away & much too fragile to touch. What areas & pathways would have taken a few normal paces to get across had taken countless step after step, leading him nearly nowhere. 

In a sense, it was if he was running in a constant bubble: never moving forward, never moving backward.

Still, he persists -- his footwork is clumsy, but he finds himself turning a corner roughly, messy steps & a sharp pain in his leg causing him to teeter & his ankle to bend awkwardly. His eyes squeeze shut in the pain that shoots through his body, a hand shakily gripping itself against the wall as he tries to correct his legwork, cursing under his breath. But in that moment, not even there is peace: For the wall beneath his fingers seems to crackle & crumble away like drywall, more scales felt beneath the skin of his fingers. The immediate answer as to what it is rings through his mind like an alarm, & he pushes himself away, breath tight in his lungs as the wall chips & crumbles. It only leaves a hole there, larger than his head, but through it is a mess of scales: The body of what can only be a snake is much larger than the ones who had struck him earlier, & his back hits the parallel wall without recognition of the rough texture against his spine. His throat feels tight as a large, red eye comes into view, hissing filling every angle of his hearing, the gaze that had locked itself on him is judgmental, even predatory as if it’s mocking him, either prepared to taunt his existence or devour him whole. Maybe even both.

It’s only when he feels the wall begin to tremble against him that he moves again, not wanting to be faced with that fate. It was one he would refuse. He dashes again, his fight or flight instincts in full force. His own footsteps become the metronome of his heartbeat as he continues down his path, eyes immediately darting to a door. Shoes scuff against the floor as he slides with the sudden stop, hands reaching for the door knob & throwing it open. Through it, he’s only met with darkness, but against the serpents that lurk behind the walls, he would take it above all else. Reason & logic has no room, only the instinct to survive. Stepping through the doorway leads him into nothing but sheer blackness, & any attempt to go & turn around leads him further nowhere. For a long while, he’s certain that he’s completely trapped himself -- until light begins to show. He swears he can hear Marry’s voice, so his footsteps become less sluggish as he follows a gradually increasing light. Forward & forward he goes until he comes upon another door, opening it to--

Lead him right back to where he began.

Cursing beneath his breath, he heads down the corridor again, following the same path as before as it was the only one offered. After the same repletion, he passes by the door he had previously entered, which, for some reason, had shut itself without him needing to do so. Still, he presses on, eyes searching for another way, another door -- & turning another corner leads him to one, where he opens it only to find another wall. Another swear rings out as he slams it shut, turning briskly on his feet & gauging the area for another way. He swears he can hear the snake laughing in his mind again, as if this is all a show for him -- & knowing their behavior, he wouldn’t be shocked if it was.

Turning to his left, he tries again. Doors are opened & closed as he’s met with dead end after dead end, & going through various sections of halls lead him to virtually nowhere. Exhaustion fills his bones as he rushes down another hall, positive he can make out Marry’s voice, only to freeze in his steps. Though their back is turned to him, he recognizes the figure. Clothed in all black, & her hair a similar shade of ebony, but her hair is what sends terror through his veins. At first glance, it seems like nothing more than thick, wavy curls -- but upon a closer inspection, it’s clear that they are snakes too, ones that curl & hiss & change their stances to stare him down. A sick twist flares in his stomach, & before he has the chance to dart off from the side, she moves as sharply as a viper would, turning her head to face him -- he’s only given the luck of not meeting her eyes.

Fury radiates off of her supposed figure, & he spits out something akin to ‘monster’ as she faces him fully. She embodies what Shion’s bloodline was. She represents the threat that he was tricked into loving, & he hates it so terribly. Eyes firmly shut, he attempts to move to get away -- But she just so happens to be faster. The snakes that had gathered to be her hair lash out suddenly, & they wrap themselves around his waist & legs, forcing him harshly to the ground. He trips this time, the skin of his elbows & knees burned against the harsh wood, blood dampening the fabric of his pants & his shirt. He can hear her approaching, feel the vibrations of each step against his body, & he snarls in response. Though he considers her the monster, he, in this situation, is cornered like an animal. But humans are those, aren’t they?

「I did say fight, did I not? 」

Bastard snake. He makes another attempt to move, his body trembling as his brain moves through too many emotions at once, his heart rate haywire as he tries to push himself up from the ground. Once more he’s brought down by the weight of serpents, feeling them curl around his neck & restrict his breath, causing him to choke. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head, coughs & gasps spat & dripping out of his mouth as he kicks & struggles to stand. He can only manages to crawl, body low to the ground as he staggers & stumbles for some footing, nails tearing against the snakes with the utmost urgency, uncaring whether or not he reddens his own skin or even breaks away at it. Blood collects under his nails, & more is added as he feels the snakes bite away at him, their jaws clenching at his shoulder, his head, his hands, fingers, where ever they can reach, & each & every bite earns a pained noise, makes his clawing & attempts to tear them away more desperate.

Fortunately, the Medusa dares not to follow, but her snakes stay with him. He rips & growls, tearing some free & throwing them aside, but some are more persistent. Through snarls & perseverance, he eventually rids himself of them, but not without struggle -- Here & there he tumbles, crumpled posture against the wall or forced upon his knees again. Let go of him, his mind persists, he has no interest in being contained by snakes anymore. The final one, the most threatening that had made his neck its target, is eventually yanked away, a sharp breath of air taken into his lungs as a hand rests over his Adam’s apple -- & the snake in question thrashes & hisses, attempting to strike at his hand. Offering it a sharp glare, he drops it onto the ground, crushing its head beneath his boot.

Again, & again, & again, & again & AGAIN & AGAIN until it’s nothing but a mess of blood & muscle & bone beneath him. 

He stands there, glaring upon it with disgust as his breathing evens itself out, & his body fills with pain -- he’s certain he can feel something odd rushing through his veins, something akin to poison, & it numbs him while the bites flare against his skin. Surely, he could have given up here & allowed this to be his fate, to allow himself to die of poison & perhaps the Medusa finding her way back to him. But that would be all for nothing, wouldn’t it? If there had been a chance to survive, he would take it -- he wouldn’t allow his perfectly constructed ruse to go to waste, even if he had been found guilty. There was a chance. He had to hold on to that.

His pace is much slower as he drags himself through the halls, trying to pinpoint Marry’s voice & where the exit to where his former home even was. He braces a hand against the wall as he feels his vision blur & haze over, shaking his head to try & keep a grip on himself as he turns corners & tries to recount every failed path, every mistake, every miscalculation. Continuing on like this proves to be what he assumes is his favor, as eventually, he sees her at the very end. The pain is forgotten then, even as he rushes towards her, her name leaving his lips in a croaked tone.

Stopping before her, he can witness firsthand through his glasses how she seems so devoid of life. Her posture is slumped, her pink eyes lost of their light & despair is clear upon her forlorn expression. Trembling hands reach out, & they radiate a warmth that the cold body of a Medusa would appreciate. She, in turn, tips her head up to him, & there’s an emotion he can’t quite read. He attempts, in some way, to offer her a smile -- one that should radiate comfort, something fatherly, that should put his own flesh & blood at ease.

Instead, only tears begin to well up in those doe eyes of hers, brimming & spilling onto her cheeks.

“Otou-san,” she hiccups again, & her body trembles violently. Her tiny hands want to reach out & wrap around him, grip onto his shirt & hide against her father, the man who should be keeping her safe, but she can’t. Her mind is torn, freshly ripped from the pool of denial that she had drowned it in, & trying to give it air -- the truth, reality -- only causes it to hurt more & more. Pain is evident, & her mouth opens, then closes a few times, as if to try & find words, but ultimately failing.

“Marry, it’s alright. We can--”

His sentence cannot be reached, as she breaks it apart before it can even start with a rasping, “No, no we -- we can’t. They won’t let you. They lied.” The agony that radiates off of that final word nearly comes off as something with double-meaning. An aching, agonized, ‘You lied.’

Confusion spreads across his features, dark brows knitted together as he tries to steady her, to move his hands around her & rub her back. “Now, calm down. If you would let me explain, I--”

His words fall once his eyes spot something in her hands. Something he hadn’t recognized before. In her grasp, weak & half-hearted, is the shotgun that Shion once held within her own. The one that had taken his life. The memory flashes, clear as can be, & he stumbles back, horrified as he had once been. He wonders, perhaps, if this was karma -- he had been tricked by his wife, tricked his daughter in death, & was he being tricked by her in return for it? Was this the world’s twisted revenge upon him? 

At the loss of contact, her gaze breaks, sadness seeping through like a flood gate. Her hold is shaking, unsure, as if she would rather die than do this. “I’m sorry, I’m s--sorry, I’m sorry for -- Everything, f--for being born, for not h--helping you a-avoid suspicion, for--” For this, is what she wants to say, & her breathing picks up its pace & tumbles over itself. Panic & refusal is boiling her blood, & she so clearly hates every second of this. “I don’t want to... I don’t want this--!” 

For a moment more, he hesitates, unsure if he should allow himself to become angry with the situation or comfort her. Ultimately, he chooses the latter, words fresh upon his tongue--

& soon to be lost. As soon as he approaches, a similar shadow to the snakes before flashes, & one of the game masters himself is behind Marry. His skin is a sickening white, & his color palette of black, yellow & grey would indicate danger. In the matter of a second, time seems to slow down & stack action upon action. His own eyes widen, & Marry tenses, then crumbles as she realizes exactly who it is behind her, while Clearing’s mouth s t r e t c h e s into a sadistic smile, showcasing fangs that rightfully belong to a snake. In a flash, his hands grip at Marry’s arms, & forcing her to hold the shotgun in the proper stance, clearly experienced with weaponry as much as he had been.

「Now now, it seems you’ve failed. Tragic, isn’t it? To be inches close of victory, & having it smashed to pieces before your very eyes. Your daughter was not your exit, thus--」 His head tilts to the side, & bones snap in a way that sees unnatural. Snakes do not belong in the bodies of humans, after all.  「--Your time is up. 」

Protest, the will to fight, the combat experience to tear the gun away -- they were all present, prevalent. But they fail to come to light, for the snake is much quicker than a mere human, his finger pulling the trigger. A single round is shot, & when the bullets pierce through Touma’s skin, his mind goes white. The world slows down once more, the burst of gunpowder & force of a shotgun sending his body backward from the velocity of it all. Before him, Marry’s expression completely shatters, her mouth open & screams surely pouring out of it as tears run down her face, a hand trying to reach out to him & her body struggling against Clearing’s grasp. The latter can only watch with delight, the sight of his pupils shrinking in his green hues & his body trembling in what Touma assumes as laughter will burn itself into his final memories, he’s sure. Each step is slow, only three taken before his body falls back, his eyes widened than ever before & only able to focus ahead. 

Some small part of his mind can recognize that, at the very least, the snake is a tremendous shot.

He had aimed for his lungs, & It’s a horrible way to go. He can feel his limbs twitch & spasm as he gasps for air, feeling the sacs fill & overflow with blood, every breath wracked through his body overwhelming painful. He can feel crimson stream to his throat, & drip down his nostrils & out of his agape mouth as his throat hiccups & chokes on his own blood. Again & again, his body flounders against the ground, convulsing & desperately trying to breathe, feeling his head become dizzy & his mind slipping away with the failure of oxygen being delivered to where it needs to go. His ears ring, & he’s unsure if he can hear anything -- everything is muted, but faintly, muffled by death coming upon him, is a voice he can only pinpoint once more as Marry’s. She had fallen to her knees long ago, gun tossed aside & her arms wrapping around him in a weak hold. She’s saying something, sputtering & screaming it out between broken sobs & hiccups, but he’s far too gone to recognize it anymore. 

The last thing Touma Kozakura sees before dying once more is his own daughter, wailing incessantly & not caring for how the stickiness of his own blood coats her arms & hands. Of all things, he would have been thankful it was her, at least -- but the self-satisfied serpent in his peripherals makes him wish he could focus on Marry’s screams of agony as he fades & withers away, taking his last, struggled breaths.

THE TRAGEDY OF CHAPTER ONE HAS ENDED.

it's not something she expected. these louts to figure out it was her , oh so easily, of course, she had been told it would be easy - - that someone would help her rise past this, but his opinions had changed, once he saw past what she was saying.

yunneth sinclair is a monster..

words spill from her lips to an uninterested crowd; none of them turning to look as she calls out those words, again && again--waiting for someone to turn, someone to listen to her, to help put an end to this tragedy, to help her finish this all--end this cycle of pain && suffering that she had tried to prevent for so long, but had failed.  help the people she had loved, help her make her way back to them, because she’s the only one who could fix this.

she’s the only one who can see.

yunneth sinclair is the demon king.

no one looks, no one bats an eye. she is alone and nothing will fix this. of course, what she doesn't notice, what she doesn't see, is a figure approaching her from the back.

stomp stomp stomp--STOMP STOMP. 

It quickens && right when she turns around, right when she faces the would be assailant, it's not yunneth, but the demon king himself  wearing her friend’s body, wielding a scythe as something grim reaper-esque && he holds her up by her hair, knotting a clawed hand through it - - appendages digging into her scalp.

'In terror the Boy ran toward the village shouting "Wolf! Wolf!" But though the Villagers heard the cry, they did not run to help him as they had before. "He cannot fool us again," they said.'  is what the beast speaks, grin sickening as he drops the scythe to claw into her neck, drawing blood as he does so.

She falls, broken, like a porcelain doll.

oh, how predictable. zarc’s fate was predictable--he was idiotic through & through. an idiot, a jumble of constant anger & hostility towards ‘humans.’

but even when faced with death he keeps that smug grin on his face. he was a god, an unstoppable force. death from a group of ‘pathetic’ snakes is something he doesn’t fear. He welcomes death as an escape from the miserable humans that ruined his life. the humans that called for bloodshed in that dueling ring--the ones that made him & his beloved dragons fight day after day & until they couldn’t no more.

it is ironic when the the time for zarc’s execution comes & he is shoved mercilessly into the fighting ring by a snake. he spits at the ground--a sign of some last futile attempt at resistance while that smug grin still remains on his face.

but it will be gone soon--zarc will be slaughtered & broken down until that smug, shit-eating grin is wiped from his face. the gate on the opposite side opens & a creature all-too-familiar to zarc steps out. it’s odd eyes. his beloved dragon, his most trusted friend. zarc opens his arms to welcome the dragon with a warm embrace & to comfort it for whatever’s about to come. it does not accept that comfort, however. the dragon rushes forward with a roar & digs its claw into zarc’s shoulder. zarc is screaming & begging odd-eyes to stop (we’re friends, aren’t we odd-eyes? you trust me, don’t you?)

odd-eyes is relentless in his attack. there is blood everywhere & zarc swears he can hear the crowd cheering for more again. he can hear those cheers & cries for bloodshed in the back of his mind as odd-eyes slashes his leg. the cheers will be satisfied, as odd-eyes is close to finishing him off. zarc thinks he will never hear those blood-thirsty cries & that all will be over soon.

oh, how foolish he is. the snakes pull the gates open once more & three dragons rush out. dark rebellion, clear wing, & starve venom rush into the arena with that same ferocity that odd-eyes had. they cry out & then begin to attack zarc without hesitation. venom’s mouths bite at every inch of zarc’s body & when they are done dark rebellion takes over to shock him with lightning. the final blow comes when clear wing lifts his beaten & barely alive body into the air, and then sends it crashing into the ground with a bang. It kicks up dust in the arena floor & when the dust clears, the barely-recognizable & bloody body of zarc lies in the center of the arena.

the body does not move. the cheers for bloodshed & violence have stopped.

THE TRAGEDY OF CHAPTER 5 HAS ENDED.

What a twist this had been. 

Kano had always been deemed that of the boy who had cried wolf, for every word that had spilled from his lips held even a dash of deceit, no matter how much he had cried out that it was the truth. People had regarded lies in a rather funny way -- for many hated those who withheld the truth with every fiber of their being. Their disgust towards them was scorching, an ever-burning flame that seized the skin, tore past the confines of the body and scarred the heart -- but did liars not do the same onto them, one would argue? Had the cheats and the cons not led people astray, into decisions that they would not have made without the sway and pull of carefully placed words? But had morality truly mattered in a case such as this? It was a matter of life or death -- kill or be killed. No one had wanted to die -- not most people within the proper mindset, anyhow. Human beings were cruel, treacherous things who would stop at no means for their survival -- for they, just like the snakes in this world, had been utter animals.

So who else had fit the bill better than the unfortunate soul who had been cursed with the snake of deception itself? 

It was funny -- or perhaps, funny to the point where nothing had been humorous at all. For this time, the Deceiver -- as he had been so uncomfortably branded -- had not lied. Falsehood failed to lace itself into his sentences, where it had once been interwoven like that of fate’s strings themselves -- instead, he had spat truth after truth. But despite his efforts, those in the courtroom had failed to be convinced: they regarded him warily, with accusations against his alibi and against what he knew had went on, as if he had been speaking utter nonsense in an entirely different language. Every defense of his had been shot down, scoffed at, and he had been sentenced to the curse of the scapegoat. It was a horrid one, really: for the scapegoat must endure, endure, endure.

And so he had. But who was to say that the scapegoat endured willingly? Who was to say that Shuuya Kano was one to simply lie there and take whatever onslaught had been done onto him without even a tremor in his composure? One who had grown up from an environment that had branded him with bruises and reasons for his mind to shatter and believe that the world’s heaviest of weighted burdens had been his fault surely hadn’t any reason to take it lightly. Much less at all to begin with, with the way that his expression, usually so perfectly contorted to match his face, brimming with joviality and mischief, melted into something far more foul. Golden brows knit together, and a crease etches itself into his forehead as his chest tightens: hands wrap around his heart and squeeze, dig their fingers into the ever-beating organ so that it picks up its pace and causes the body to react.

His chest burns, he realizes. It’s an uncomfortable warmth that floods through his ribs, one that has his lungs feeling trapped in its cage -- a term that feels disgustingly appropriate for once. Heat flashes across various parts of his body, flooding in his face and tingling in his fingertips as his hands ball up tightly. Blunted nails dare to dig into the sensitive, frail skin of his palms as the muscles in his jaws twist and tighten, and his heartbeat races against his chest and blares in his ears, which have too become warm with the swell of anger. His vocal chords twitch and fluctuate as he attempts to speak -- noises barely crackle out, and are lost between ragged breaths as his teeth grind and grit in irritation.

Is it anger, or is it the hurt of being so falsely accused? Is it pain from his childhood, or is simply feeling as if he, for once, has been wronged?

Shuuya finds himself unsure, for his mind is racing too much to think properly. In a split second, he sees double, and his vision blurs with the overwhelming amounts of rage that begins to pump through his veins. There remains the desire to argue: to bark against the accusations against him and prove himself innocent. But time is far from on his side, isn’t it? The clocks hands, despite this world being never-ending and time only flowing by the snake’s apparent will for it to, had moved past whatever final minutes would have secured his freedom. All the ballots had been cast, and his name was as good off as written in blood itself, and he had been sent to march to his death as if it were a fate he was willing to accept. 

But what more could one do when the metaphorical noose had been wrung around his neck, and he had been due for a hanging?

In the moment, his brain had been on the fritz -- if he were made of metal and not human, one would best describe it as malfunctioning, wires sparking and gears grating against one another. His eyes are widened, pupils trembling as his mind completely blanks for some kind of solution -- there remains nothing of possibility that he could muster. For that, his stomach drops to the lowest part of himself -- so much that he swears it would fall to the floor, if it were nothing more than a revolting metaphor for a feeling that felt just as terrible. He wonders, if he were Kousuke -- the same Kousuke he had accused over and over of being the murderer for far too many trials now -- would he weep? Would his eyes burn with tears, and leave them spilling over his heated face? Would he sob and cry out that he was innocent? 

What a taste of karma this had been -- was this how Seto may have felt? Karma, understandably, tasted bitter. Bitter as the cold, bitter as night, bitter as the lies upon his tongue and the “adulthood” that Deceiving Eyes had whispered in the back of his mind so long ago.

If he had been still possessed by the snake, he surely would have heard his whispers amount the flash flood of thoughts that had been filling his head. It was as if there had been a hole cracked into his mind, and endless subjects and emotions were leaking through, leaving it brimming with the dark waters of anxiety that sloshed around. But amidst the bubbling waters was a voice -- one that was far too familiar to even be that of a snake’s. It was feminine, not quite saccharine but for all the softness and faux comfort it held, it sought to persuade, to tempt. It was not that of his friends, or his siblings -- but that of family, of his birth mother who had left pieces of herself etched into his mind for all the following years to come.

Her whispers had proposed an idea -- one that, in a moment like this where he failed to think straight, had seemed like the only proper response. Genius, even -- a golden opportunity, what his blackened heart desired.

A final show before he goes out. Or was it an act of vengeance?

Neither mattered, not in the moment. It certainly hadn’t mattered when his eyes darted to the knife long disposed of on the floor, still fresh with Roxas’ blood. It hadn’t been his -- not like the so-called prosecutors claimed it was -- but he would be the last to wield it, in any case. Despite his short stature, Kano excelled in being agile -- quick to sprint in the direction of the knife, he leans his body down closer to the ground to swipe the blade up off of the stone flooring. Blood flicks with the sudden sweeping motion and splatters against his fingers and his cheek, his grip on the weapon knuckle-whiteningly tight. The tension releases from his forehead, and where a furrow had once held residence, his brows instead upturn, a wide grin splitting across his face. Surely it had to have been deranged on some level -- but who was to say that Kano had been perfectly well? Who in this place had been, if they had been sentenced to purgatory? 

Surely no one. They were all sinners, one would say. Dirtied souls, darkened hearts, all some form of wrong. In one way or another, they had all done something the snakes had deemed sinful by their twisted philosophy -- but thinking of philosophies and moralities hadn’t mattered now, had it?

Not when he could still remember the day his mother had been stabbed, not when he could still remember the piercing feeling through his skin when he was just a young boy. 

Protests had barged through the air, but none had managed to be heard, falling upon deaf ears. Instead, all Shuuya could hear was his own heartbeat -- it was a drum’s song that fueled his maddened march. He rushes forward, footwork sloppy and his weight careless as his arm swings with the force of his charge. He hadn’t cared for a target -- anyone, anyone at all would do. So long as he had taken someone down with him, so that he hadn’t been in vain, that was what had mattered. It was to spit upon the snake’s faces: after all, who were they to decide who should live, and who should die? They had known who had committed the crime, hadn’t they? They must have, so to just let the falsely accused such as him die--- he refused to go down without something.

Something’ is what he would receive, his arm raising with the blade pointed outward to impale Komaeda in the abdomen. He had hoped for it -- for that sickening sound of flesh being torn through, of muscle being cut apart, of blood and innards wrapping around the blade. It seemed that his wish had been granted -- for he can feel the warmth of blood splash and stain his shirt as Komaeda hacks out a wet cough of crimson. He had succeeded, the knife plunged straight into his stomach. A grotesque sense of glee washes over the teen -- it’s an elation that the voice in the back of his skull eggs on, clawing and itching in the back of his mind to hold the blade just a little tighter, dig it in a little further. After all, it coos, hadn’t they hurt him? Hadn’t they killed off an innocent, like himself? This was only returning the favor -- giving them a taste of their own medicine! So it was fine, wasn’t it? Further does he twist the blade, sinking it in further and further--

Until he’s forced to stop. His body freezes up, and alarm shoots through him like electricity as he finds he cannot move his limbs: not his arms, nor his legs, and attempting to move either is as if he was fighting against chains. Only one answer could be found for this, and whatever elation came from the thrill of the kill and the sweet taste of revenge had died upon his tongue. Instead, things tasted bitter, and it washed over him like a poison, forcing its way down his throat and into his core. Kano, by no means, was an idiot. 

Black-scaled serpents wrap around his arms and legs, rooting him in place where he stands. Their skin is cold, and they emit hisses as they coil around his limbs and glare their tiny red eyes at him, tongues flicking as if they were laughing at him, in a way. In one fell swoop, his body is jerked back -- harshly, forcefully, and plummets to the ground. Once again does the knife clatter to the floor, and a harsh sting flares over his back as it makes contact with the unforgiving stone beneath, sending shock waves through his bones as he releases a cry of pain, eyes squeezed shut. It only lasts for a moment before they re-open, staring up at Clearing Eyes himself, who bores an expression of total agitation, his eyes darkened and pupils mere slivers to accompany the scowl on his face. 

That was right -- he recalled a moment before, how out of his peripherals, he spotted the Queen and Clearing exchanging irate glances. Her lips had moved to say something to her fellow serpent, but Kano hadn’t caught it -- he hadn’t cared to. But from those actions alone -- then that had meant he had angered them, right? He had taken these all-powerful ‘game masters’ and broke down their pedestals that they so loved to sit on, hadn’t he? What a feat! Taking beings so powerful and to reduce them into tantrum throwing tyrants -- he had to be proud of that, hadn’t he? It was what he wanted. They deserved to feel the anger he had, too.

So Kano laughs, and laughs, and laughs until his lungs feel sore and his vocal chords spasm. Cackles bellow out of him as he writhes against the ground, whatever high this had been giving him crashing down as his laughter turns more manic. Snickers warble and falter as his voice crackles and crumbles -- and just as he had wondered earlier, tears begin to rise at the corner of his eyes. They fall and stream down his cheeks as he makes noises that are between maddened laughter and horrified sobs -- had the boy been crying before the wolf? Was it whatever fresh trauma had decided to dig its way up from his mind coming to haunt him and emotionally rock him? Who had known -- Kano hadn’t, for his mind had been an absolute disarray.

But it knew one thing, and that was the instinctive nature to toss his hand out to try and grab the knife once more. Clearing had been mortal now, hadn’t he? What had been a greater way to raise a middle finger to their captors than to kill one of them? The Queen had been off-limits -- there was no way to harm her, understandably, but like this -- Clearing had made himself a walking target. One that Kano would have no greater pleasure seeking one final act of personal revenge against: for he had been part of the reason for his misery. So his fingers pat along the ground before they skim over the handle, and trembling digits wrap to maintain a grip. His shoulder rolls, and he tries to quickly pull his arm back -- but it ends up being no use at all. 

Noises halt completely in the midst of his throat, and his eyes shoot open as they scramble to get a look at what had gone on. A white hand held an iron grip on his arm, and black nails dug into the skin beyond the fabric as Clearing glared at him. Before even a word could leave his lips, he felt his arm suddenly twist -- and twist, twist, twist so that it had bent unnaturally. A shrill, pained shout leaves him, and something akin to ‘stop it’ flees from his tongue, but they fall upon ears even more deaf than his own. Kano attempts to struggle, but in his efforts, he only ends up in a worse position than before. Clearing’s arm pulls back, and with the use of the modifications left in this body, the bone of the body is dislocated, sending more agony traveling throughout his nerves. It hadn’t stopped there, of course -- for the sound of ripping skin and tearing muscle soon fills the air as Kano’s arm is promptly torn off of his body as if it were nothing at all, as if the human body had structured itself so that this wasn’t meant to happen normally. 

Whatever noises Kano had made previously compared not to the sharp screams and howls that left him on command as his mind could only register how much everything hurt. There was warmth to be felt: spewing from his shoulder had been a waterfall of blood, surely pooling at the snake’s feet. Nerves, disconnected and completely destroyed by the mutilation, could barely feel it -- but it had been there, and seeing it out of the corner of his eyes left him nearly ready to retch, as does the sight of his arm being tossed aside like meager trash. But he wouldn’t be given the opportunity -- not when his torso had been boxed in by Clearing’s boots, effectively trapping him in his place. The snake utters something -- something Kano had trouble making out from the ringing in his ears -- that sounded akin to a hiss of ‘shitty brat’ before his hand reaches down for him once more.

A fist balls up his shirt and lifts his body from the ground -- but only barely. Clearing’s eyes narrow as his other hand swipes up the knife, flips it in his palm so that the blade points down towards Kano, and impales it into his throat. It sinks deep past the skin and muscle and slices through the vocal chords, leaving whatever wails of suffering to become choked gasps and gargles on his own blood. A corner of Kano’s mind notices that one of his arms had been released by the snakes that had previously bound it to be motionless. Why, he doesn’t question -- playing into Clearing’s game was the most likely answer, but he hadn’t held even half of a mind to process it properly. Instead, he reaches up to claw and scrape at his throat, to pull away the knife as sputtered noises leave it, desperate for some kind of relief of all this overwhelming pain.

Relief is what he would get, but the snakes had often chided that one must be careful with what they wish for.

Fingers and hands reroute their forceful grip to the top and bottom of his mouth, bracing around his teeth. Had it been his own fault for leaving his mouth agape with screams, he wonders briefly? Whether he had or not hadn’t mattered -- instead, instinct kicked in instead, attempts made to gnash his teeth against the intruding fingers and bite down hard enough to draw blood. He had succeeded, surely, when he had tasted rust and crimson upon his tongue and felt Clearing’s hands tremble, another hiss leaving the low of his chest -- but it hadn’t halted his task in any way at all. If anything, it seemed to have fed into aggression: it bleeds into the way his nails dig and scrape against the roof of his mouth and his tongue, and he bears his fangs down at Kano in a sneer.

It clicks in Kano’s mind then of what’s going on. But it was a moment too late -- for the moment it dawns upon him, he can feel Clearing’s hands begin to pull the two halves apart. A click of his jawbone is heard in his ear, and the splitting and snapping of muscle is even louder. Blood can be felt pushing up from his throat the farther and farther his jaw and pulled, and a muffled cry akin to begging for mercy and to stop is deadened both in blood and his fingers. It’s ironic, in a way -- this was not the exact way he died coming into the Haze, no, but once more he had died at Clearing’s hands. Was he, and the others of the Dan as well, simply fated to die by the snake’s will?

He feels like somewhere, perhaps, Clearing would most certainly say so -- but all thoughts are gone from his mind with one final, sickening crack. His head is spit in two with a jerk of Clearing’s arms, the top half of his skull brutally torn from the bottom half. As further blood leaves from the body, Clearing’s grip relaxes before releasing, bringing his bloodstained hands up to his face as he stands upright. Reddened fingers press to his pale skin, and it’s in that moment, he looks like a monster -- something Kano had called himself countless times, but hadn’t been. 

What a pity that he had been granted some clarity when long dead.

THE TRAGEDY OF CHAPTER III HAS ENDED.

Votes based on morality are a funny thing. It’s an oddity to itself to watch as the killer had clearly outed themselves, a spectacle for all to see, no longer wishing to conceal nor wash the blood of her hands. & Yet the masses had voted in favor of someone who they had deemed as more morally corrupt, more willing of a death than the girl who killed a child herself. It’s funny, Kikuko thinks. Not unexpected, by any means, no, but rather something to find humor in, amusement at this sort of “love” they show for their own lives, their own well-being, perhaps even those of others. But love is a maddening thing, isn’t it? It’s flavors can overwhelm, can become addicting, if one lacks the restraint & willpower. A heart will march to the beat of the drum of love, & she believes that perhaps equating it to a sickness & disease is best, & she is patient zero.

But who is she to judge those who love their lives, or those who give their love to others by assuring their safety? Certainly not she, who devours every ounce of love whole that she can, but she refrains from that. Instead, she only smiles: Lips curve upright, & her eyes flutter shut in a state of sheer calm. On any other person, this kind of expression would be calming, & perhaps even endearing. But that was far from the case -- Instead, it’s nearly uncanny just how serene & at peace someone’s expression could look when faced with the prospect of death. Did she truly not care? Is that the reason she had thrown her life away with only a bare minimum of a fight, if one could even call it that? Had she only allowed it to come this far to test the nature of people’s hearts: To see if they would truly vote for who they personally believed deserved death the most?

Only she knew, & it was the secret she would take to her grave, among many others.

Her smile refuses to falter, even as the very world around her seems to peel away from each & every sense she has. While her shut eyes had already concealed her vision in darkness, it becomes apparent by ear that she is no longer in the court room. There are no more voices surrounding her, ranging in soft whispers to even more booming tones. Voices had personality, she had thought, & personalities were easy to decipher when she had only a handful of information on someone -- If not only assumptions of who they were. Their words spoke volumes, they poured out the truth of their hearts, & when they hadn’t, their bodies had. At times they were cold to the touch, & at times they were warm.

The feeling that Kikuko soon feels on her skin, however, is burning. Scorching, even, as she feels the flicks of flames kissing her flesh & singeing away at the surface. 

Light pools even behind her closed eyelids, as if demanding that she is to view its very presence -- & so she complies, her pace ever slow & relaxed as her vision is greeted by a wave of heat. It would have rendered any others with blurry, burning vision & eyes that practically screamed for a way to escape, but she regards it with not even a hint of fear. Instead of fright, there is an expression of utter calm, complete with the crinkle in her smile, even nostalgia & the aforementioned humor from earlier. What surrounds her is as she deduced, a sight she has quite literally burned in her memory, imprinted there to recount over & over, but was hardly her first experience dealing with such a phenomenon: 

Flames. A roaring fire screams at her, & instead of the argumentative conversations that had filled her in the courtroom, she is met with crackles & sparks. They burn bright, raising high into the air & blocking off some of her pathways. Their glow is almost hypnotizing in a way -- At least, to her. She finds herself more fascinated by the fire than she is terrified of it, the heat they emit & the clarity they provide against the dark is something that a pyromaniac like her must be hypnotized by. The scent that tickles her nose is not something that deters her, either: It is expected, as is with fires, of the distinct smell of burning: Ash, smoke that would surely burn up her airways until they were completely ruined & stained black, & perhaps something more.

‘Something more’, as she can guess, is only that of burning bodies. But that, too, is something she’s well acquainted with, & chooses not to flinch at. For what is there to evade in death, & being faced with it yet again? Skin bathed in charcoal & being seared away is no stranger to her:  Where it would cause some to gag, retch, vomit their stomachs of all its contents & have the body physically reject it due to the brain’s refusal to cope with death, she accepts it. In a way, it is morbidly comforting, entirely macabre in the matter as she recounts her final night prior to her death. She recounts the rush, the harsh & oddly charming smell of gasoline, the flick of a match, & watching her dearest niece fling herself off of the rooftop with the love she had claimed to have found.

How funny, she thinks, that the hall she’s been thrown into resembles the one of that night. Of course she knows it by heart: It was the apartment complex she had lived in after all, or a near replica created by this strange world. It would almost seem unrecognizable by the sea of orange that surrounds her so, & how its left the walls, ceiling & ground blackened with char. The wooden flooring is hot to the touch, hissing & fighting against her bare feet as she takes a leisurely step forward: It scorches & sends pain shooting through the body, but her smile only tightens significantly. It leaves the skin reddened & aching, the nerves on the soles of her feet protesting against her decision to step forward once more, but she progresses along her path, despite the sharp pain that comes with every inch she takes forward.

This pain too, in a way, is love: A love for justice, or is it a love for freeing themselves of what they deem a “threat”?

On does Kikuko dare to press, the lightness in her step betraying how the pain sears & eats away at her nerves. But her eyes wander & preoccupy themselves with examining her surroundings instead, much more enraptured & entertained by the Hell that they have resigned her to, this “fate” that they proclaim is her death. She prefers it, she thinks as the tail end of a flame singes at her hair, leaving a fresher & yet more foul stench in the air, to that of how she died. Is there symbolism, she wonders, in this death? Lethal injection for her crime was one thing: Boring, dare she say, & while fitting to a criminal of her caliber, there were more entertaining ways to go out. This one way, she believes: It likens her to a witch, doesn’t it? That’s another thing she considers funny in comparison, namely with a few select “players” in this “game” of theirs who had suffered such a fate.

She waltzes carelessly throughout the halls, & finds that there is no ending, nor a beginning. It is all the same, each door, ( & she notes that their metal knobs are hotter than the floor beneath & eating away at the skin of her palms & fingers, leaving blisters & blood. but she couldn’t care less, truthfully. ) only leading back to the very start of it all. Of course, she regards it without a care: only a giggle passes through her lips, & she shrugs as her footwork curls against the ground, giving her a twirl in her step as she sighs in resignation. So this was the game they would play, was it? Well, that was fine by her. If she was not given an exit, then what point would there be in finding one? Clearly they had the intention to engulf her in flames & burn her at the stake like in days told in dusted & ancient texts, & she saw no reason to fight it. This was their “ending”, wasn’t it?

So she falls back against one of the walls, spine curving against the surface as she splays her legs out & hums idly. This would expose the body to the flames further, & that was what was desired of her. She could feel it growing: The heat that pressed closer & closer, the sweltering sensation that ran across her skin & how the fire grew & grew with each passing second. It was odd in a way, as nothing should have fueled it: But little details like that hadn’t mattered now, had it? Her posture corrects slightly as she tilts her head up, gaze boring into the ceiling as she allows the embers to approach further & further. There hadn’t been a doubt in her mind that they would devour her soon enough, & she welcomed it. In the mean time, it was only appropriate to think back & recollect, right?

It is then does a realization dawn upon her.

She is alone, utterly & completely. It is something she fears, something the serpents around her would surely harp on. It’s expected that they do, with the voices that flood into her head. Their whispers seep in like cracks through the psyche, & their chants are one in the same: It’s something of a maddening mantra, blended together to chip away at insecurities. They seek to grab at the darkest parts of her heart & pull, to pluck & tear at her heartstrings until she had been nothing more than a fear-riddled mess, broken & beaten down.

「Disgusting woman.」

「The worst of humanity.」

This would have worked well on anyone else, she thinks, as the flames catch upon the tip of her toes & begin to consume her leg in their embers. The words do not sting in the way that the fire does, the heat tearing & scorching her skin & the scent of putrid, burnt flesh filling her nostrils. It hurts, that much is expected: but she is far too numb to it, finds the situation all too amusing to even bear much of a mind to it. She can feel the wetness beneath exposed muscle, the stickiness of her own blood oozing through the disgusting burn marks that were soon to come, & she pays no mind to it. It is terribly ugly, & by no means is she attractive in this state to many, but she has not a care in the world for that right now.

Instead, laughter is warm in the low of her throat, bubbling & slipping through her constant smile. Kikuko laughs at death, laughs at the wonder of how those around her would cope. She can hear it -- Her own niece’s voice, stern & berating her, attempting to drag her down. It is out of some vindictive desire to hurt her, she feels: that it is petty revenge, a scorned heart attempting to hurt when she had been scarred by none other than the woman she had been barking at. It’s almost cute, really, & whether or not she can separate it from her own niece or another ploy to make her crack matters not. Satou often compared people to dogs, but in this moment, Kikuko thought she was of the same breed: Barking, snarling, attempting to bite at her with her metaphorical teeth & lash out.

「You’re the reason why these awful things happened to Shio-chan.」

「Someone as bitter as you deserves to die.」

Still so young, still so much to learn about being an adult & love. What a shame it is, that she would have no more time left to teach her. She had already broken some of the rules, but that was her consequence to suffer from now.

She attempts to move her legs, but finds that there really is no point: They ache & feel too much pain, & she’s noted with a tip of her head that the fire has already begun reaching her abdomen. Her dress is only more reason for it to burn brighter, devouring at the fabric & threads & growing in size & intensity. Further & further up it travels, & for humor’s sake, she reaches out a hand. It burns: of course it does, she expected no other outcome, & where others would have screamed in pain & hurriedly tried to pat themselves out, Kikuko does not. Rather, she allows it to take form upon her hand, coat every digit in its light & tear apart every piece of her so-called “disgusting” skin. Allow it the freedom to burn, allow it to hut. She never minded pain before, & she hadn’t now.

Again her laughter roars, this time trembling & shaken from the pain, but in death, Kikuko Matsuzaka smiles. Closer & closer do the flames draw, & they disfigure her body so, outer layers of skin washed away in the pain, burning to a crisp. But even so, she never falters. 

Not once.

For even here, she has the upper hand in it all.

THE TRAGEDY OF CHAPTER II HAS ENDED.