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Mob perches on the bed (his bed), not moving. In addition to the bed, there is also a dresser (his dresser), a desk (his desk), and four blank walls comprising the room (his room...no...his world now). They had gone to great effort to make it comfortable, roomy even, but he doesn't care to investigate it further. He doesn't care about anything anymore.
There's a door on one of the walls, and after a few hours of unmoving silence, a man comes through it. He speaks softly to him, gently, but Mob barely registers the words. The man (Joseph) talks to him about a schedule, about food and restrooms, all without response from Mob, whose eyes have not so much as wandered. Finally, finally, the man turns to go.
He pauses, hand twitching on the handle of the door he's pulled half open.
"It's unlocked, you know," the man tells him.
And then he is gone. Mob waits a few seconds more, and then with a bitter smile crawls onto the bed and curls into as tight a ball as he can.
It's a nice gesture, he thinks. People continue to be kind when they don't need to be. He truly is lucky.
It's okay.
And really, it is. The men and women who came, who spoke at him with the dull hope that he would speak back, were kind. As if he were an inpatient they are trying to help to recovery.
But there is no recovery from this. You can't recover from yourself. Mob learned this the hard way.
It doesn't matter how many platitudes and reassurances he's given, he knows this now. It is a cruel reality, but he accepts it. He will not let himself canker like Mogami, or lose himself to it like Suzuki. He will protect and save, just as he intended, albeit in a way he never expected (he should have).
He misses the sky.
It's the one thing he can't quite bury, the one selfish desire he can't overcome. One afternoon, expending more energy than he has in weeks, he finally succumbs. He digs into the untouched desk, and pulls out the paper and crayons that had been provided since the very first day, and begins to scrawl. Soon, sheet after sheet is covered in blue, and he doesn't stop until the blue crayon is nothing but a nub.
He realizes too late that there is no way to adhere the papers to the ceiling, as he had first thought to do. Instead, he scatters them across the floor: blue papers, white tiles peeking out between them. Almost like clouds. Almost like the sky at his feet.
When he wakes the next day, he tries not to be disappointed to find the papers are gone. It's fleeting though, at the realization that somebody seems to have understood his desperate plan. His ceiling is now filled with sky.
People are kind. He reminds himself to be grateful for how lucky he is.
It's okay. (It's not.)
Mob is roused from his slumber one morning (afternoon? evening?), and in his grogginess he forgets. Muscle memories he didn't know he had kick in, and he rolls over expecting any moment to be called down for breakfast.
The beautiful delusion lasts all of five seconds before Mob registers what's happening. He's grown accustomed to the auras of the people of this place, knows roughly their schedule and routine. But there's something new, something sharp and jagged, heading for his room at a breakneck speed.
Mob doesn't have enough time to hide, in a blind panic stumbling into the furthest corner from the door and curling up, trying to shrink from existence.
The door slams open, a sound louder and sharper than he's heard in a long time. He curls into himself tighter. For the first time since coming here, Mob calls upon his psychic powers, putting up a large barrier just in the nick of time.
"Nii-san!" The anguish in Ritsu's voice breaks something that Mob thought he'd buried deep, deep inside. He doesn't dare look up, knows he couldn't stand to see the expression on his younger brother's face. He can feel without looking that his brother has stopped, just short of his barrier. "I'm here, Shige! I found you, let me...let me help you!"
Mob doesn't move. He tries not to shudder too obviously as the tears begin and his breathing becomes uneven.
The security details are coming. They must have been caught off balance by Ritsu's fury and strength, otherwise he wouldn't have made it this far. They'll be more careful in the future, and Mob is glad of it. He doesn't know if he can do this again.
"Shige!" Ritsu's voice becomes more urgent, and he actively tries to break through the barrier keeping them apart, aura lashing out with an almost panicked desperation. It comes to a halt, and there are the sounds of a scuffle. "Stop it, stop it, stop it! Let me see him! You can't...you can't do this, he's innocent. I'm telling you, he's innocent. Please Nii-san, tell them!"
Ritsu's voice is cracking now, the futility of this struggle becoming obvious. Silently, in his tears, Mob wills him to stop fighting, knowing that it's against Ritsu's very nature to do so.
"If you...if you want somebody to blame, blame me! Didn't you see how I hurt those guards to get in here? I'm the dangerous one, not him!" Mob can hear him protesting, calling, crying for his older brother as he's escorted (gently, kindly, gently) away.
Mob doesn't move from his corner, wracked with guilt and pain. He doesn't return to the bed or look up at the false sky. He doesn't deserve it.
Not for the first time since coming here, the door stands wide open, forgotten in the struggle. That means nothing to him.
They stop giving Mob knives with his meals. As though he could've done anything with the dull-edged butter knives. As if he would be so stupid as to purposely break his vessel. As if he has an appetite to eat at all.
The third day after the security breach, Joseph visits him. He's convinced himself to crawl back onto his bed, but his back is to the door, stalwartly turned towards the wall. Joseph has words for him again, but he's too tired and too broken. They are kind words though. Words of worry. (No matter how hard he tries, he always hurts people.)
"You're getting weaker," he continues, "You need to eat, or I'll have to get the doctor's."
"No."
The word is soft, a voice creaking from disuse, but Joseph stops cold.
"Please, think about this," he continues after a moment, more pleading but with a spark of hope now.
"No," Mob repeats, drawing his knees closer to his chin, "You promised."
Joseph falls silent. The minutes stretch out, no words to break them up, and Mob begins drifting off again when he hears the man shuffle. He thinks, perhaps, that Joseph regrets making that promise now.
(It was the only condition Mob had, when Joseph had appeared in the aftermath of the destruction, offering him what he needed to protect the world from himself. The understanding that Mob walked into the cage willingly, that nobody was forcing him. And the condition? That nobody would ever try to force him to do anything. For their own safety.)
"You are right," the man says at last, "But please, Kageyama-kun, try. There are people who care about you."
That's the last of it.
It takes Mob all of another day to convince himself to even nibble at the roll provided with his dinner. Even then the thought makes his stomach churn uneasily.
But he does try, because Joseph has been kind. The men and women here have all been kind, and for some reason they worry over him, even though he doesn't deserve it.
Trying is not enough.
He should know that lesson by now. He's had ample first hand experience.
The days begin to blur together even more than before, in this unchanging room. Every passing day he has less strength to move from his bed to do the handful of essential things that define being 'alive'. The dizziness and shaking are unpleasant, making his attempts to move about few and far between.
He dreams a lot. He hadn't known that it was possible to do so, while wholly awake. He daydreamed plenty in the past, but this was different. More realistic and with less control on his part. They were mostly good dreams though, by some small miracle. Replayed memories of Ritsu and master Reigen and his friends from school and Hanazawa. Good times, even the scary ones, because he already knows the ending, where they all escape unscathed. Where they all live and go home.
It makes him ache, a little, even in this dazed, broken state. But he quickly douses that ache with the knowledge that he's finally doing the right thing. As a reward, he lets himself look up at the false sky, and pretend that it's the real thing.
He's startled out of his reverie by the sound of an explosion, the feeling of the building rocking under his feet. Even then though, he simply assumes it's another part of the waking dream. He's replayed, many times, the events of his epic fights. They are less frightening in hindsight, after all, and if he tries he can feel the ghost of those emotions tickling at his soul.
Another blast interrupts him yet again. Idly, he realizes that there is a commotion happening just outside . The thought slips through his fingers as fast as it comes, leaving him with the vague feeling that he should be doing something.
With all the effort he can muster, he tries to sit up. He doesn't quite make it, only managing to a little movement with his arms (which have lost the little muscle definition they had, but tha'ts all right he can perhaps fix that in his next dream). He's not given a second chance to try before one of the four walls is crumbling down in a roar and a gush of smoke.
Mob doesn't understand what happens next. It's too fast for his slow mind to process. There are figures in the smoke, auras that he knows he recognizes, yet can only call by color and feel--yellow and oily, blue and sharp, red and bubbling. Familiar, bringing in both feelings of joy and dread.
And then there are arms wrapping around him, pulling him tightly to another person's chest. The touch is almost electric, after going so many months without physical contact. They're moving again, fast enough to make Mob close his eyes to fight off the wave of dizziness.
There's a ringing in his ears, but he begins to make out the familiar voices.
"What the hell, what have they been doing to him?"
"None of the other prisoners look anywhere near this bad, why..."
"Doesn't matter now, we need to focus on getting him somewhere safe. We'll...we'll figure out what to do from there."
The thoughts finally click into place. Hanazawa, Ritsu, and his friend Suzuki, all on the offensive. If he focuses now, he can tell that it's Serizawa who is holding him.
Part of him wants to cry, to revel in the feeling of being held like something precious, rather than something deadly. But the other part of him, the part that had embraced his fate so fully, rebels. He can't fail to protect them again.
The motions slow for a moment, and the tense voices of his brother and friends seem to be discussing the next step of their plan. Mob takes his chance.
He tries to put up his barrier, tries to lash out, to physically worm his way out of Serizawa's grip. The man startles a little, but pushes back with his own aura, trying for calm and quiet. He feels a hand on his arm, smaller than Serizawa's, gripping tightly, desperately.
"Nii-san, stop," Ritsu says, voice pleading, and oh god Mob can't do it. He can't do this to Ritsu again.
Before anybody can respond further though, Joseph walks into view. Immediately, the younger espers stand to the ready, prepared to fight. Serizawa is ready too, but seems more focused on shielding and protecting Mob, despite how Mob struggles.
There is one beat of silence, and then...
"Take the left corridor and straight out," Joseph instructs, "The area is evacuated, you just need to blast a way through."
The others eye him doubtfully, suspecting a trap, but Joseph is already walking away. He offers no further fanfare, not even a proper goodbye, only a glance in Mob's direction filled with...guilt.
Mob understands, suddenly, how Ritsu was able to lead his friends into the facility, despite increased security measures. The absurdity of the situation strikes him with full force, as his 'rescuers' begin their escape once more. It didn't seem fair that Mob had still failed, but Joseph had somehow kept his promise.
After all, he wasn't forcing any of this to happen.
The absurdity and unfairness of it all finally bursts out. Broken laughter, intermingled with even more broken sobs as he clutches desperately at Serizawa's suit, the living beating pulse the only thing keeping him tied here any longer. He stops paying attention to their surroundings, only vaguely noting when they break free of the facility, and into a densely wooded area.
There are still sirens in the distance, the sound of a panic left behind. But despite the blatant display of power and destruction, Mob knows that there will be no evidence, no incriminating footage. Joseph is quite good at his job.
Eventually, they are far enough that the sirens can no longer be heard. Only then do they stop to assess the damage, and try to figure out the next move.
Mob is laid gently on the grass. He's still too weak to move, but finds quickly that he doesn't want to. The feeling of the earth beneath him is grounding, even the uncomfortable pricks of grass in his ear, and the tears well up and begin to flow once more.
He looks up and sees the sky far above him. The real sky, not papers placed haphazardly on a white ceiling. It's...terrifying. And freeing. All at once.
He isn't sure if he wants it, not while reeling from his latest failure at self containment. He knows he doesn't deserve it.
But he is very lucky, it seems.