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Rather than opening his eyes, he realizes his eyes are open, realizes he’s lying on a bed with the sheets all disheveled beneath him, realizes there’s an unfamiliar ceiling above and a familiar face at his side.
“Major… Kyoka?” he says with great difficulty, not just to bring the words to his voice but even to pull them from his thoughts, and a pair of sad red eyes turn to him.
“Good morning,” she replies, her tone soft and kind but somehow distant. “How do you feel? Do you have any headache?”
The question renders him all too keenly aware of any number of complaints, but above all of them, he’s just so tired. He’s so tired, but the major is clearly waiting for his response, so he digs for the energy to give it, “It’s more like it’s sore… It feels like my head just came out of a vice…” He moves with a groan to sit up and feels his company’s hand slip behind his back to support him. “What… happened?”
“Before that,” Kyoka says, “I’d like to ask you a few questions to determine the extent to which your memories have been affected. Do you remember your name and age?”
He hums an affirmative. “Nagi Karman, sixteen.”
“Do you remember what year it is?”
“It’s… 2020, right?”
She nods. “Yes, that’s right. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?”
It’s a simple question, but Nagi finds himself unable to pinpoint an answer. He remembers feeling like his whole body was on fire, like someone was digging their fingers into his skull and tearing it open. He remembers his throat feeling raw, his hands slick and red. He remembers terror. He remembers despair. He remembers someone screaming and screaming and screaming. He remembers a person’s face, and he doesn’t know whose, but it feels so important, so absolutely crucial that he remember…
“You don’t need to force yourself,” Kyoka says, and Nagi startles out of his spell. “Some memory impairment is to be expected, especially with regard to more recent events. Your brain sustained egregious damage - to be honest, it’s a miracle you regained consciousness at all.”
“The personality rehabilitation.”
The words slip out of Nagi’s mouth as if spoken by someone else, and all at once a wave of cold and numb crashes over his body and batters the breath out of his lungs. The personality rehabilitation. The restraints, the injections, the smell of metal, the dispassionate droning of doctors - doctors? - deaf to all pleas for mercy, to all cries of pain, the sting of virtual cables prickling and prodding at his spine, at the base of his neck, deep into the core of his brain, shredding his mind apart like a blender, his own voice, his own words, his own thoughts, Dispatch Yuito Sumeragi. Retrieve the target’s head with as little damage as possible. For the glory of New Himuka.
He remembers terror. He remembers despair.
He remembers a person’s face.
“Nagi. Nagi.”
Nagi’s hands are shaking as he smacks away the touch on his shoulder, eyes wide and wet, his body reeling back on reflex. His palm finds the edge of the mattress and slips, but before he can tip over and off the side of the bed, Kyoka catches his arms and gently tugs him back.
“Right now,” she says, her voice and gaze firm, almost piercingly so, “you’re in the emergency shelter that we’re using as our base of operations. We’re relatively far from Suoh, and no one from the New Himuka government is aware that we’re here except for Major General Fubuki, who’s working with us as an ally and has promised to personally guarantee your safety.” Her fingers slide down to his palms and squeeze gently. “Can you feel my hands?”
He can. Kyoka’s aren’t the hands that fastened him to a cold metal chair, nor is hers the voice that warned him that he would be killed should he resist. He gives one small, curt nod.
“This feeling will pass,” Kyoka assures. “You’re safe, and you’ll stay safe. Try taking slow, deep breaths, in through your nose and out through your mouth.”
He tries. It’s not easily done - his heart is hammering against his ribs, and his lungs are anxious to keep up with it - but eventually, surely, he manages to take a breath that isn’t ragged and harrowed and harsh. He’s left somehow even more tired than he already was and feeling as though he could come to tears at any moment, but at least he feels present.
“There you go… Good job, Nagi, you did well. Are you feeling a little better?”
He nods again, still small and curt but less for tension now and more for simple exhaustion. Vaguely he begins to grasp that this likely isn’t the first one of such episodes he’s had since… since…?
“What happened?” he asks again, bowing his face into his palm as he tries, fails to remember.
“I would like to explain that, if I may.”
The voice comes from a ways across the room, towards what must be the entrance, and Fubuki stands there with a hand poised tensely in front of his waist, his features somber.
“Major General,” Kyoka greets. “Are you all right to be up and moving around already?”
“I’m fine, Kyoka, thank you for your concern. The others have begun planning our next moves, if you’d like to join them. I believe your input regarding Togetsu would be of use.”
“I see…” Kyoka is still for a moment, thoughtful, and then she turns to Nagi, “Your condition is stable, but your body still has a lot of recovering to do. As I said before, this place is safe, so please feel free to rest here for as long as you’d like, okay?”
Nagi isn’t entirely sure what’s going on and doesn’t know how much of that is because of the dense fog swirling around his thoughts and how much is because he’s simply out of the loop, but he gives his acknowledgment nonetheless, “Uh, sure… Thank you, Major.”
She smiles with that same sadness she showed him when he first realized he was conscious, and with a brief word to excuse herself, she steps away, passes by Fubuki, and leaves the room.
“Please allow me to start by apologizing,” Fubuki begins as he approaches, and then, suddenly, Septentrion Second Class First Regiment Commander Major General Fubuki Spring bows down so deeply that Nagi can’t even see his face anymore. “No words can express the regret I feel at having been unable to prevent the things that happened to you. I should have acted faster. I should have contacted the hospital ahead of your arrival and made clear that you were under my jurisdiction. That I failed to do so and what resulted from it are things that I can never apologize for enough.”
All at once acutely aware of his status as a mere volunteer soldier, no more than a private and without a single accolade to his name, Nagi quickly shakes his head and dismisses, “H-Hey, there’s no need for all that! It’s not like any of it happened on your orders, or even with your approval. So…”
Fubuki raises his head, his brow still furrowed. “That’s very gracious of you,” he says. “Still, I want to do whatever is within my power to make things right. To that end, I’m prepared to move forward with your discharge from the OSF at any time and, following that, can offer a monthly stipend exceeding the cost of living in Suoh, to be paid indefinitely.”
Nagi frowns. “Huh– Wait, hold on a second. What do you mean, my discharge from the OSF? Am I going to be forced to resign…?”
“Oh.” Fubuki blinks, visibly surprised. “Well, no, you wouldn’t be forced… I suppose I just assumed that, given everything that happened…”
“I don’t want to quit,” Nagi affirms. “Joining the OSF was my dream. And besides, I made a promise–”
They made a promise, he and Yuito. Awash in the bright twilight, sweat and dirt clinging to their faces and their clothes after their narrow escape from an Other far beyond their ability to fight, they promised: Whether it’s you or me who dies first, one of us will carry on the mission and protect the city.
They promised. They promised, but why would that promise come to mind now?
Terror, despair, a person’s face. Someone’s face. His head buzzes, and he stops and takes a breath. Then, with a small shake of his head, Nagi continues, “Anyway, the point is that I want to stay in the OSF. …Well, although I guess I might change my mind if they keep treating their soldiers like trash…”
“Reformation of the OSF is one of my highest priorities,” Fubuki says, “as well as something that may be addressed very soon, depending on how present circumstances develop. If you’d like, we can defer this matter until after the situation becomes more stable.”
“Right… Let’s do that, then, I guess.”
Fubuki nods. “Now, regarding your earlier question, about the events that brought you here…” Reluctance flickers briefly across his face, stilling his lips for but a moment before he continues, “You made contact with Yuito Platoon in Ryujin Ward in Suoh and initiated combat,” he begins. “Reportedly, the battle caused you incredible mental stress, and this, in addition to the strain on your brain caused by your artificially enhanced powers, resulted in your loss of consciousness. You were taken into allied custody and brought back to this hideout, where Major Kyoka and my sister undid as many of the modifications made to your brain as possible.”
“As many as possible,” Nagi repeats, apprehensive. “Does… that mean I’m not completely back to normal?”
“They were unable to restore your memory of the metamorphosis of Naomi Randall into an Other that was previously extracted,” he explains, “and, furthermore, we’re not yet sure what effects there may be on your powers. As you recover, you may find that your aerokinesis is stronger or weaker than you expect it to be.”
A sigh eases loose from Nagi’s chest. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” he thinks aloud, and it doesn’t, really. It would sting to find out that his power’s potency had diminished - it was already judged too weak for him to be considered for conscription, after all - but he’s willing to accept such a price if it means never having to endure that kind of pain again.
Somehow, though, Fubuki doesn’t look as relieved, and the weight on his shoulders only grows heavier, his expression all the more severe, as he presses his lips together, takes a breath, and continues, “There’s one more thing I think you need to know. Unfortunately… Unfortunately, Yuito Sumeragi has passed away.”
The words spear Nagi sharply, suddenly, spread like fire through his ribs and burn like ice to his very fingertips, turn his limbs to stone and his throat to dust. And yet, they come as no surprise. What stuns him more than the news itself is that he feels as though he already knew it. His ears ring. He remembers screaming–
“Oh,” he says, numb. “How… How did it happen?”
Something within Nagi taunts him: Why do you need to ask? Shouldn’t you know?
Fubuki’s eyes flick down. “Yuito suffered from a condition that caused debilitating headaches and loss of consciousness, especially during periods of heavy use of his power. He experienced one such episode during mortal combat, and his allies were unable to prevent him from receiving a fatal blow.”
He remembers screaming. He remembers screaming, and despair…
But more keenly than the tug of those vague, ominous memories, Nagi feels a pit of grief open up in his chest, the words echoing hollowly in the empty space left behind: Yuito Sumeragi has passed away. It was a possibility, or perhaps even an eventuality, that Nagi had already anticipated ages ago, one that he had forced himself to acknowledge and prepare for, but to face it in reality hurts so much more acutely than in his imagination.
As it sinks over him and swallows him whole, Nagi is abruptly jolted out of his heartache by a loud shout from somewhere else in the shelter, too muffled to understand except for the anger in its tone. The sudden yell startles Fubuki just as much, and he glances towards the door with a slight frown.
“Please excuse me for a moment,” he says as he crosses the room, and when he opens the door to pass through it, the voices on the other side draw Nagi’s curiosity - or perhaps they simply appeal to his desire for a distraction - and he swings his feet over the side of the bed and follows, lingering close to the door as he peeks out past Fubuki’s shoulder.
The space on the other side of the doorway isn’t quite what Nagi pictured when he heard the words ‘emergency shelter’ earlier, but the cozy living room, packed full of what are clearly the personal belongings of many different people, brings to mind a vague recollection of being told once upon a time that Seto Platoon would be adopting one of the Sumeragi family’s shelters as an unofficial hideout. Cozy though the area may seem, the atmosphere therein is anything but: The people scattered around the room - surprisingly, they’re all familiar faces such as Hanabi and Tsugumi and Kagero, Septentrion Sixth Class Luka Travers, and even Arashi Spring, face of the OSF - wear tense, dark expressions, and though he can imagine well why that would be so, he has a harder time imagining why the austere and aloof Kasane is sitting on the couch, drawn into herself like a child caught doing something wrong, while Shiden stands in front of her with his shoulders drawn up and his hands clenched at his sides.
“Did something happen?” Fubuki asks, and Luka looks up at him with a small shake of his head.
“No, it’s nothing warranting concern.”
Before he can go into any further detail, Kasane speaks up, her brow tightly pinched and her hands tense in her lap, “Did I sound happy about it? How else should I have phrased it?”
“You shouldn’t have phrased it at all!” Shiden snaps back with a bite to his voice that makes Nagi remember feeling relieved not to have had to share a group with him during the training exercise they’d conducted an eternity ago. “How would you have felt if we were pointing out ‘bright sides’ when Naomi died?! ‘Oh, what a shame that your sister’s dead, but at least she took out one of Togetsu’s detachments!’”
The suggestion visibly wounds Kasane, and she tucks her head down, presses her lips together. “I… I see. You’re right, I was insensitive.” She raises her gaze, looking to Hanabi more than anyone else. “I’m sorry.”
Hanabi, her eyes rimmed in red, her shoulders sunken, and her hands folded loosely, responds only with a faint shake of her head.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Gemma says, and his words are level and patient but deeply, indescribably tired. “It’s true that we had no leads on what to do about the Kunad Gate. None of us are happy that it worked out the way it did, but it is to our benefit to not have that problem left to solve, on top of everything else.”
With a huff, Shiden sinks down into an armchair, props his elbow upon his knee, and drops his chin against his palm, and Nagi gets the impression that his sour disposition is directed less towards any of the others and more towards the situation at hand - or perhaps towards his own inability to change that situation.
“It is a shame that it created a whole new problem, though,” Arashi adds. “The NDF certainly didn’t show up in force to take Yuito away because they wanted to give him a burial. Given the circumstances, I’m not sure I’m comfortable leaving Chief Sumeragi alone.” Her focus shifts, and Nagi blinks as he finds her eyes on him, “Hey there, Nagi. Good to see you on your feet. You feeling all right?”
He shies back a bit as the address turns the attention of everyone in the room towards him, and his hand wanders awkwardly to the back of his neck. “Yeah, uhh… I’m totally beat, but I guess I’m pretty lucky if that’s my only complaint. I hear I have you and Major Kyoka to thank for that.”
Arashi waves in dismissal, and Kyoka gives a soft smile and clasps her hands at her chest. “Just ‘Kyoka’ is fine,” the latter says. “I’m so happy that we were able to help. And with what we learned from treating you, we may also be able to help other victims of the government’s manipulation.”
“Yuito,” Tsugumi says, “wanted so badly to save you, Nagi… I’m glad, that we could grant that wish.”
But she doesn’t sound glad, and she certainly doesn’t look glad, and Nagi finds it so difficult to give any more than a nod in response. After all, it won’t serve anyone, least of all the people who have spent the most time working with and fighting alongside Yuito, if he says what he wants to: that granting wish would mean so much more if only he could share it with the person who made it.
His thoughts are cut short as Hanabi abruptly stands, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line, her shoulders drawn up so stiffly that they tremble, and what can only be described as resentment darkening her eyes. She begins to open her mouth only to close it again, to set her teeth all the more tightly together, to wrench her features all the more bitterly as tears quiver on her lashes.
“Hanabi…?” Luka prompts, and she shakes her head.
“I’m sorry,” she says in a voice as tense and choked as her expression. “I’m sorry, I… I know it wasn’t your fault, Nagi, and I know you’re not the one I should blame, but I just…” She pauses, shakes her head again and takes in a shuddering breath. “I’m… going to get some fresh air.”
Without meeting anyone’s gaze, without awaiting any response, and without even paying any acknowledgment when Tsugumi worriedly calls for her to wait, Hanabi quickly steps away from the sofa and crosses the room, opening the shelter’s heavy main door and passing through it. Before the door has even closed behind her, Kasane stands as well and moves to follow.
“I’ll go with her.”
“Maybe actually think before you start running your mouth this time,” Shiden warns, and as snide as the remark sounds, Kasane gives a small, earnest nod over her shoulder as she exits.
In the restive silence that remains, Nagi hazards asking, “Um, is… is Hanabi upset with me? I don’t really remember, but…”
He doesn’t know what to make of the looks he receives in reply, but he suspects that the answer isn’t one he’ll be happy to hear.
“The stress on Nagi’s brain caused extensive damage to his memories,” Kyoka explains to the others. “It’s likely he’ll remember eventually, but we shouldn’t push him.”
Kagero, standing with his back against a wall and his legs crossed at the ankles, gives a long, quiet hum, his expression distant and solemn. “Well, ignorance is bliss, as they say… Though it’s a shame that it means that much less intel for us to base our next course of action on.”
“It is what it is,” Gemma shrugs. “We’re just going to have to assume the worst and proceed accordingly.”
Arashi heaves a sigh and wilts against the couch cushion. “Which means splitting back up into separate teams again,” she laments. “And here I was looking forward to having a few new sets of hands around to pull my weight.”
“Wait, so,” Nagi cautiously interjects, “I don’t really get what’s going on, but… you’re saying that I know something that could help, right?
Tsugumi gives a small, uncertain tilt of her head. “Maybe. Or, maybe not. Or maybe you know but don’t remember, or maybe you don’t know… and don’t remember that you don’t know.”
“It’s certainly worth asking, at least,” Luka says, and when his eyes meet Nagi’s, they’re full of heaviness, of reluctance, and of the cool objectivity one would expect of a solider of his standing. “Nagi, do you remember hearing anything at all about the reason Chief Sumeragi wanted to obtain Yuito’s brain?”
“Chief Sumeragi - as in, Yuito’s brother?” The very suggestion is shocking, but at the same time, it’s not. Just like the news of Yuito’s death, it’s not. It’s something that Nagi was already aware of, something he already knew, something that happened right in front of him.
“We’ve successfully installed BIAS,” somebody had said. “According to the data we have on file, his combat abilities should exceed Yuito Sumeragi’s by a notable margin. However, between the power adjustments and the personality rehabilitation, his brain has been significantly destabilized. It’s a shame, but I doubt he’ll be usable for anything else after this.”
“No matter,” somebody else had said, and it must have been Kaito Sumeragi. It must have been, but his features were so cold and impassive that it’s hard to imagine that he was raised in the same household as the earnest, emotional Yuito. “What’s important now is obtaining Yuito’s cooperation. Or, if not that…” That cold impassiveness had then turned upon Nagi, and though he thought nothing of it at the time, it was an expression leaden with resignation, with resolve, with ambition and with savage, single-minded devotion.
“Nagi Karman,” he said, “your target is the traitor Yuito Sumeragi. It is preferable that you subdue and retrieve him alive, but you may use as much force as necessary, up to and including taking his life, as long as his head is not damaged.”
“That is to say,” Nagi replied, and he raised his hand to his neck and gestured down his body, “that everything else is unnecessary, sir?”
Kaito’s eyes flicked away, but his tone remained steady, “Correct. We require only his brain.”
Nagi’s lips curled into a wide grin. Yuito Sumeragi should have died out on the Kunad Highway as he spoke of such treachery as New Himuka turning Naomi into an Other. He should have accepted the mercy of personality rehabilitation after being apprehended for trespassing in the decommissioned OSF hospital. He was a stain on their nation that long should have been wiped away, and Nagi was honored to have been handed the cloth.
He remembers pride. He remembers excitement. He remembers being unable to imagine any worthier duty than to cut down the once-friend that had strayed so far from the path that New Himuka had graciously laid for him.
He remembers feeling as though he were shouting, were wailing, were shrieking, but the only sound that had left him was a single eager, hungry word: “Understood.”
Like tossing a pebble into a pond, Nagi’s memories waver and scatter, and in the ripples he sees himself deploying to the city’s streets to await his target. He sees himself taunting Yuito, forcing him into combat. He sees himself ecstatic, almost deliriously so, in a wild dance of wind and blade as he laughs, as he screams, as he lashes out at vital point after vital point.
In the ripples he sees Yuito’s footing falter, sees his palm raise suddenly to his forehead, sees himself lunge at the opportunity, sees the lethal edge of his chakram sink into flesh.
He remembers terror.
How many times had he heard it now – that he would be killed if he resisted? How often had he been reminded that his life was of no intrinsic value to anyone and that no one would ever notice or even care if some freshly-enlisted volunteer soldier were to quietly disappear?
Somewhere between Nagi’s head and his fingertips, the irresistible order imprinted upon him gave way to his own cowardice. It became his excuse. He didn’t want to hurt Yuito, but he had to.
He didn’t want to die, so he had to.
It was vindicating, in a way that made Nagi despise himself, to see the shadow of his own fear fall over Yuito’s expression, to know that his naive friend, blessed by the convenience of his birth with a position that had safeguarded him, was tasting even a fraction of the nightmare Nagi had for so long been made to swallow.
He laughed, feral and cruel and triumphant, knowing not whether it was the euphoria of the government’s twisted puppet celebrating the accomplishment of his mission or the satisfaction of the desperate child who had finally succeeded in dragging someone down to share with him in his hell.
He remembers despair.
Skin, meat, and muscle parted roughly on the chakram’s blade, crimson flooded out from the tear, splattered thickly upon the pavement, and all at once the laughter ringing in Nagi’s ears sounded so distant.
What had he done?
What had he done?
What had he done?
Yuito crumpled to his knees, his eyes wide and face pale as he bowed over the dark red pool that spread further and further across the asphalt as every strangled breath he tried to draw brought another spout of blood from his split throat.
What had he done?
He’d carried out his assignment.
What had he done?
He’d killed his best friend.
What had he done?
Exactly what he’d wanted.
What Nagi wanted was to kneel at Yuito’s side, to put his arms around his shoulders and plead for forgiveness, to shut the hole in his neck before any more of his life splashed out of it and onto the street. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream.
He remembers screaming.
But it was as though he were locked behind a window, beating his fists frantically against glass that wouldn’t give, against lips that wouldn’t part and limbs that wouldn’t move, and the scream that finally broke the brutal silence wasn’t the one that hammered against Nagi’s throat but Hanabi’s - a formless, mournful wail conflagrant with white-hot panic.
At once the rest of the platoon was upon him, and Nagi’s back hit the pavement as Luka appeared above him and dropped the weight of his hammer to force him to the ground and hold him there. His orders rang shrilly inside his skull, pierced him, pressed him to fight back and secure the target, but the others’ shouts deafened them. Nagi watched, unable to will himself to move, as Yuito slumped forward.
“This can’t– This can’t be happening…!” Hanabi said, catching and supporting Yuito with a gentleness as though she were almost afraid to touch him. “There must be something we can do, right? We can save him, can’t we?!”
Tsugumi’s eyes shone scarlet for a moment, and then her hands came up falteringly to her chest. “If we brought him to a hospital, right now… If he were treated this very instant, then maybe, but…”
“But this country wants Yuito dead,” Gemma finished in a voice breathlessly strained. “Nagi was sent here to kill him; they’re not going to just turn around and fix him up. …Damn it. Damn it!”
He remembers someone’s face.
“Yuito.”
The name came out reflexively, and Nagi only became aware that it was his own voice that had bade it when everyone’s eyes turned to him. Everyone’s - even the lightless, darkly circled red pair masked with sweat-matted black hair.
“Yuito,” he said again, of his own volition now. “Yuito,” he said yet again, lost for anything more. No words in any language would be enough to apologize. No explanation could justify what he had wrought. Never could he dare to ask for forgiveness, knowing too well that Yuito would give it freely no matter how undeserved it was.
“Yuito,” he said once more, because there was nothing else he could say.
And Yuito’s chin lifted just slightly, just enough that pain raked across his pallid features, and a mouth that gaped and gasped for breath that couldn’t reach his lungs stilled for but a moment. His lips came almost together, separated once more, and then stretched at the corners as his jaw briefly tensed.
‘Nagi.’
Without warning, a spray of gunfire rained down from somewhere above them, and Nagi found himself teleported out of range of the barrage as Gemma’s sclerokinesis shielded the other three.
“All units, advance!”
All at once the deserted street came alive with dozens of suits of heavy red armor swarming out from alleyways and cover, each pair of hands training the barrel of an assault rifle on the psionics, and in an instant they were surrounded by NDF soldiers.
Distress curtained Luka’s expression, and in a flash of bright green he disappeared from his perch over Nagi and reappeared beside the others, his tone urgent, “Tsugumi, find us a place to teleport to!”
“R-Right…!”
At the same time, an icon indicating a brain talk connection blinked at the edge of Nagi’s sight, and a voice followed, “Nagi Karman, your mission is incomplete. Proceed with retrieval of the target.”
The words speared Nagi from the base of his skull through to his forehead, clawed down his spine and through every nerve ending, and the window once more slammed shut in front of him and severed him from himself.
He remembers terror, despair, screaming. He remembers a person’s face.
He remembers Yuito’s face.
He remembers Yuito’s face, wan and ashen and twisted up in the panic of suffocating, drowning in his own blood.
He remembers Yuito’s face, painted over with a pale imitation of acceptance and with sorely unwanted forgiveness.
He remembers Yuito’s face, his mouth slowly, carefully, soundlessly shaping out the syllables of his name.
‘Nagi.’
“Nagi?”
Luka still waits for a response, but in the fugue of everything else he’s remembered, Nagi no longer recalls what he was asked.
Sorry, he should say, what was the question? But when he opens his mouth to respond, a different set of words comes tumbling out:
“I killed Yuito.”
The heaviness that already blanketed the room grows thicker and colder, and Kagero heaves a sigh.
“Ah, well,” he shrugs. “So much for bliss.”
“I take it your memories are back in order,” Arashi says as she reclines her cheek against the back of her hand. She hesitates for a moment, uncertain, but eventually sighs and continues, “Well, I won’t say that’s fortunate, but it is convenient. So, if you know anything about Chief Sumeragi’s goals, we’d love to hear it.”
“Hey, give the guy a minute to breathe, why don’t you,” Shiden admonishes, and Arashi lifts an eyebrow.
“Every minute we spend hanging out here is another minute we give Chief Sumeragi to do who-knows-what with Yuito’s brain - to say nothing of what’s going on in Togetsu - but hey, sure, I’m always down for a break.”
“Arashi–” Kyoka begins, but before she can get any further, Nagi interrupts.
“He didn’t say.” The words are hollow with guilt, grief, and bitter lament. It pinches his brow, draws up his shoulders, and spills down into hands that clench into fists. “Chief Sumeragi didn’t tell me anything. He just told me to kill Yuito. And I just did it.”
“The one who killed Yuito, wasn’t ‘you,’” Tsugumi reasons, and though her tone leaves no room to doubt that she believes what she says, nor does it disguise how close she is to tears. “You were turned into someone else’s weapon… That’s not your fault.”
“I think it’s just the nature of loss,” Gemma adds, his gaze locked to his hands folded loosely in his lap, “that the more painful it is, the more you want to believe that there’s something you could have done to change it. But all blaming yourself does is make you miserable. And I’m sure,” his palms come together, fingers linking, “that that’s not what Yuito would want for any of us, least of all for you.”
Nagi presses his lips together. He can’t accept that sentiment, not knowing so clearly, so indisputably that his own conscious choices had begotten this outcome, that Yuito would still be alive to stand beside them and tell them all himself what he wanted if only he’d chosen differently, if only he’d spat in the faces of the people who told him he’d die for disobedience and invited them to make good on their threats.
And he has no doubt that they would have killed him. But then, at least, he wouldn’t have had to live to tear out his own best friend’s throat.
“Hey, guys!”
Nagi’s still grappling with a response when a young woman in OSF operator attire - and with a remarkable resemblance to Seto Platoon’s Wataru - swings around the archway on the far side of the room, all urgency.
“Major General Karen reappeared on GPS,” she says, “and he’s rapidly approaching our location. We’re talking mere seconds until he’s on our doorstep!”
“Karen?” Fubuki repeats, his brow deeply furrowing, and he hesitates for but a fraction of an instant before moving towards the hideout’s entrance. “I’ll speak with him. Until we’re sure what he’s here for, it may be best for the rest of you to stay here and–”
“That’s not happening,” Shiden immediately objects as he rises from his seat and starts for the door at a stride that outpaces Fubuki’s. “The Major General wasn’t exactly friendly to us the last time we met, and Kasane and Hanabi are still outside.”
Luka moves as well. “I agree. We don’t know what my brother’s intentions are; we can’t be too cautious.”
The others seem to agree, quickly checking their equipment and following after Shiden, Fubuki, and Luka, and as they all funnel out through the shelter’s door, Nagi can’t help but fall into step behind them. Before he clears the threshold, though, Kyoka stops in the doorway and turns to address him, her expression harrowed and distracted, “Nagi, you don’t need to worry about all this, okay? Stay here and rest a little more.”
Not in phrasing, tone, nor context does the comment come across as a rebuke, but it stings like one all the same: Stay out of the way. You’ve done enough damage. It stings enough to steal all the wind from his sails, enough for him to answer with a small nod and a murmur of acquiescence–
“Hanabi!”
–but not enough that he can obediently turn around and go back into the hideout when he hears Kasane, alarmed, call out, and as Kyoka’s attention snaps forward, so too does Nagi’s.
Hanabi hits the ground hard enough to go tumbling head over heel, her staff slipping out of her grasp and skittering across the bare dirt as she coughs, arm wrapped around her middle, and scrambles to recover her footing. As she does, Karen Travers lowers his leg from his kick and turns upon the others with a glare that at once calls to Nagi’s mind his memory of Kaito Sumeragi’s expression: cold, merciless, and decided.
“He’s after Kasane!” Hanabi warns, and Karen’s eyes narrow.
“Stay out of my way.”
He vanishes and reappears in front of Kasane, his hand lunging for her, and at the same time that she dodges aside, Luka materializes between the two with his hammer poised to swing. The blow doesn’t connect, but it does force Karen to fall back to a less threatening distance.
“Karen!” Fubuki calls, bewildered. “What are you doing?!”
Karen doesn’t look to him. “I don’t need to explain myself.”
“You’re here to copy my power again,” Kasane presumes as she circles around to position herself closer to the rest of the group, knives hovering at her side as she does. “Why? It wasn’t all that long ago that you copied it in Mizuhagawa.”
An idea flickers in Arashi’s eyes. “Don’t tell me it’s because Yuito died?”
The suggestion brings realization over Kyoka’s features as well, and she brings her hand up pensively to her chin. “Because Karen copied the Red Strings in such a state,” she furthers, “that it couldn’t be activated unless it resonated with Yuito’s power…”
Nagi’s never felt more lost, but he at least can tell that something about the direction of the conversation has taken some of the hostility out of their apparent enemy’s posture.
“…I see,” Karen says after a long pause, and he folds his arms across his chest. “If you already understand that much, then talk may be faster. I’ll cut to the chase: Yuito’s death was due to my miscalculation. Give me the Red Strings and I will take precautions to avoid this outcome.”
“Precautions…” Tsugumi echoes, her brow creased deeply. “You mean… going back in time, and changing the past…?”
“The details aren’t important,” Karen dismisses, but Shiden doesn’t accept the response.
“The hell they aren’t! You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and then blow us off when we ask questions!”
“And in the first place,” Kasane adds, “the Red Strings is my power. If I want to use it, I don’t need you to do so on my behalf.”
He lifts his chin. “You wouldn’t have the first idea where to start.”
Fubuki shapes his words slowly, carefully, as if struggling to bring them through his throat, “Karen… why does it sound like you’re so used to this? Gravikinesis, time travel - how do you even know about Kasane’s power?”
“You’ve already used the Red Strings,” Luka supplies, eyes widening with the understanding. “All the cryptic things you’ve said, all the actions you’ve taken that seemed inexplicable–”
“Enough,” Karen sharply interrupts. “I didn’t come here for chitchat. I will take the Red Strings whether you consent to it or not. I’ve given you reason to make this easier on yourselves, but if you insist on being difficult…”
He moves to take a step forward, but before his foot reaches the ground, he stops, raises his arm, and encases himself in a sclerokinetic shell as Hanabi’s staff collides with his forearm and veils them both in flames.
“I won’t let you!” she says, heat tousling her hair and light dancing in her damp eyes. “If everything up until now happened because you were okay with it happening, because it didn’t affect your plans enough for you to stop it…!” She ducks nimbly out of the way of the first that Karen throws in retaliation and sweeps at his feet, pushing him back. “If you’re just going to make us all go through all of that again, then I won’t let you! If you’re going to undo everything Yuito worked towards and make him suffer through all the hardships he overcame all over again, then I won’t let you!”
“Hanabi’s right,” Kasane agrees, a SAS connection manifesting at her back and fire bathing each of her knives. “It’s painful to lose both Yuito and Naomi, more painful than I know how to describe… but that pain is no excuse to play god. You don’t just get to decide that someone’s death was unacceptable and change the whole world to suit your own whims!”
Weapons come loose from their holsters, abilities activate, and feet slide into stance for combat, but before the fighting can break out in earnest, a violent wind rakes over the area with nearly force enough to topple some of the lighter psionics.
It’s Gemma who first spots the source of the sudden gust, and confusion at once knits his brow together. “Nagi?! What are you–”
Nagi stands with his hands taut at his sides, his lips set into a firm line, and wind still whipping around him, and he shakes his head. “I don’t get it,” he says. “I think I probably understand less than zero percent of the situation right now. I don’t know what’s going on at all. But!” His shoulders round, and indignation flashes hotly through him. “I can at least understand that Major General Karen is saying he’ll save Yuito! So why the hell are you all trying to stop him?!”
Kagero raises a hand in an urgent, entreating gesture, “Look, I know you don’t get how all this works, Nagi, but the guy’s not just going to wave his hand and poof, Yuito’s alive again! Changing the past means destroying the present!”
“Let it be destroyed, then!” Nagi snarls, the wind lashing out all the more aggressively. “There’s no way the world is meant to be this way! If it has to be destroyed in order to make things right, then destroy it!”
At this, Karen gives a dry, hollow chuckle. “Finally,” he says, “someone who speaks the same language. Listen: I need approximately ten seconds of uninterrupted contact with Kasane in order to copy her power. Handle interference as you see fit.”
And the looks of shock, of disbelief and dismay that Nagi finds on the faces that turn to him give him some pause. He doesn’t know, after all, just what it is that he’s getting involved in. With so little of the bigger picture in view, he doesn’t know how much of a splash of black tar his actions may be on the canvas. He doesn’t know how close he may be to digging the floor out from under his feet and plummeting himself deeper yet into regret.
But Nagi knows terror. He knows despair. And he knows that one side asks him to accept that suffering and live alongside it forever while the other promises to make true his dearest wish.
He exhales slowly, loosens his limbs, lowers his center of gravity. He hones the very air around him into blades.
“Got it.”
Nagi chooses his wish. He chooses to overwrite the wrong of Yuito’s death, even if it means consigning the world itself unto oblivion.