Work Text:
TICK TOCK TICK TOCK. The clock is nonexistent yet the loud ticking of the hand moving round and round resounds loudly in his head, only ever amplified by the otherwise silent atmosphere. It’s weird, the place looks almost functional now that all the weeds growing inside ( and outside ) have been cleared. If the barbed wired on the windows were removed as well, it’d look like a fairly normal yet abandoned school.
Under no circumstances should he think of the bloodied school grounds as normal yet here he is, entertaining the thought of the Academy being a lively place populated by students.
For the briefest of moments, Shuichi isn’t at the main entrance staring into nothingness while he rests on one of the benches. Instead, he’s in a classroom with a dozen other teenagers who whisper among themselves before the teacher turns around and attempts to shush them. A blink and he’s inside the gym this time, waiting for his turn to run; they are so close to winning the race. Another blink and this time he finds himself wandering outside with a plate filled with food; the decorations he can see remind him of a festival.
Head is promptly shaken as if to chase away the stray thoughts. Even if this school used to house such activities, it is now nothing more than a repurposed shell, a witness to the ugliest things humans are capable of, to unbiased death, to crushed dreams and shattered hopes. It’s seen so much bloodshed in just a few days, weeks, months, a lot more than either of them would have seen in their entire lives. And there’s much more to come, as long as there are more than two survivors, the killings will just continue on and on.
A bark of laughter leaves his lips, broken and full of grief, bounces off the walls that construct empty hallways as it gets carried around before making its way to the upper floors. Whoever collected all of them and put them here akin to playing pretend but with living, breathing beings has planned everything in the greatest detail from making sure that they won’t starve to death by stocking the warehouse to carefully picking the talents that they’ve kidnapped. A quirky cast of characters that find their talent useful in such a strange situation – the Ultimate Maid took care of all their needs, the Ultimate Pianist kept them in high spirits, the Ultimate Inventor created useful gadgets. The Ultimate Detective picks the pieces up, puts them together and sentences them to certain death.
And now more than half of them are dead.
It’s definitely not the first time he thinks back on it. Each and every murder, the culprits and the victims, the motives, the executions. The very first trial. The immense betrayal he’s felt initially upon figuring the truth out. The guilt he’s felt afterwards at not realizing what’s going on sooner, at unwillingly becoming a witness, an accomplice. The sorrow as the hope for the future has been entrusted into him, a dying wish he had no other option but to accept. Him, a dying star growing dimmer by the moment forcefully rekindled and thrown back into the wide-open space instead of being allowed to live his last moments before colliding violently into another celestial body and exploding into a colourful shower of smaller stars.
That very day Shuichi Saihara may as well have died himself, leaving behind only a vessel for the Pianist to use in order to make sure that her sacrifice isn’t in vain. That very day Shuichi Saihara became everybody’s cornerstone, a physical manifestation of a failed plan that they’ll attempt again and again and again and again in various other forms. He’s no longer Shuichi Saihara but rather their ticket to the outside, the winning lottery ticket that will get them out provided they don’t fall prey to the blackened first. He’s ceased being his own person and instead began living as a concept, as the Ultimate Detective that can solve any crime in spite of how many times he attempts to tell them that he’s but a mere apprentice.
Quite honestly, he shouldn’t be surprised. He isn’t surprised.
People want somebody they can put all their hopes into, building them up to be something that can’t be touched in their eyes, indestructible and infallible, that will get them out of this mess. And if that doesn’t work? They’ll be quick to turn on him, to use him as a scapegoat, to blame him for his deductions and how he’s killed each and every one of their friends himself; the blood on his hands will never wash out no matter how hard and much he scrubs at them.
If the stress of having to survive in the first place weren’t enough, having people rely on him so heavily only serves to allow paranoia to plant its roots into his brain. One of these days somebody will target him, somebody will plan the perfect murder that will include getting rid of him as well so they actually stand a chance to get out of this hellhole. It’s a terrifying thought that somebody would wish him harm just so they can escape and yet. He understands it. He doesn’t want to condemn his friends any more than they want to have to think of a way to disable him or even take him out of the picture altogether.
What a laughable contradiction. They would honestly be doing him a service.