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Agony, screaming, darkness, it was all he felt. Everyone always leaves him in the end, the open wounds he sustained from the fight with the clones stained his clothes and skin dark red, a harsh contrast to his pastel aesthetic. His pink hair splattered with blood gave him the appearance of someone with a terrible dye job, failed highlights from an amatuer hair stylist. How ironic was it that in his last moments, the fashion designer would be looking his worst?
It wasn’t as if anyone cared, even his own clones had left after deeming his injuries fatal. The government didn’t need him, the former members of The Dirty Dawg didn’t want him, his current teammates from Fling Posse weren’t there to save him either - not that they would want to anyways. He was utterly and completely alone. As usual.
Somehow, it was cathartic, bleeding out in an alleyway on the streets of Shibuya late in the night. He knew he was going to die, something he had tried to run from all his life, but now he welcomed the idea like he had just been offered the tastiest slice of cake. The peace of death, no more moral dilemmas deciding what was right or wrong, never having to pretend to be someone he wasn’t.
He could be free, a puppet with no strings attached wasn’t a puppet anymore, he could be his own person for these few moments before he ceased to exist. It was surprising to him that the ache of his wounds wasn’t more pronounced, but he assumed that was his body naturally reacting to being in a situation like this.
The world looked like swirling colors and flashing lights, like a dream he was awake to see. It made him laugh - then cough and spit up blood as sharp pains shot through his chest. Still, he found the situation somewhat amusing, if he had known this was how he died maybe he would not have spent so much time running away from it. Perhaps then The Dirty Dawg would have never broken up and taken down the oppressive government. Fling Posse never would have been formed and Dice could win a jackpot and become a millionaire, Gentaro could devote all his time into his novels. Jakurai wouldn’t be left with the aching hole in his heart from his adopted son being in a coma for years. All of the people he had hurt wouldn’t be in pain anymore.
Was his life really purposeful? Did he do anything that benefited anyone in this world? He had already failed the single task he had been created for, and was to be killed by his successors. Nothing he had done was meaningful, nobody would remember his name in the fashion world for his designs, and The Dirty Dawg members were hardly known by name anyways. Fling Posse hadn’t won the Division Rap Battle, there was no reason for anyone to pay attention to the name Ramuda Amemura.
And to be quite honest, he was okay with that. If it meant the world forgot about the horrible things he did, and the people he knew could heal from the damage he caused, then he was fine to disappear into the earth as a speck of dust.
As the world was spinning in his vision, he closed his eyes to give himself a break from the onslaught of colors and sensory information his exhausted brain was taking in. He hadn’t noticed how heavy his eyelids had become and he felt so much more… comfortable. Finally he could relax for once in his life, there wouldn’t be a tomorrow to worry about.
They always say your life flashes before your eyes as you pass, and he supposed that was what was happening now as he thought he heard voices belonging to Gentaro and Dice, incomprehensible words that reminded him of the good times the three of them did have together. It was a shame he had to be the one to ruin that.
His body was weightless, feeling as if it was lifted off the ground and into a comforting embrace. Today was a good day to die, he decided.