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The sound of the door creaking long past visiting hours told Eto everything she needed to know.
On the other side of the glass was someone too clean to be considered a man. He was more a beast, and an old one at that: clad in a white cloak, with white hair and silver eyes.
The silver of his eyes was different from the ones that plagued her memories, that threatened to upend her own plans. The reaper’s eyes did not gleam like a star whenever she appreciated their value, nor did they gleam with any sort of potential for change. They were rigid in their color, and they would never shine under sunlight. The reaper’s eyes were dull, lifeless, devoid of anything resembling humanity.
Upon Arima’s appearance, she draped herself across the one chair provided for her, smirking bitterly.
“Well, well,” she said, looking him up and down. “Someone’s up past curfew.”
He took the only seat on the other side. “You’ll be transferred to Cochlea tomorrow.”
Not even banter. So boring. So predictable. “So your tantrum’s finally coming to an end, then?”
He took out a book— a weathered copy of Dear Kafka, complete with the original cover— and used the sliding drawer to transfer it across the glass. “I found it in my office and wanted to return it.”
She stared at the drawer, not making a move for it. “So that’s it, then, hm? Closing off all the threads so that you’ll be loved and remembered by everyone? Is that how you’re doing this?”
(hypocrite)
Eto recognized that copy anywhere; it was the author’s copy, the first of many things Arima stole from her. In her eagerness for his approval, she had rushed to their shrine— his shrine, in truth; nothing was ever truly hers, and when it was, it was stolen from right beneath her nose— and asked him to read it. He simply said he would do so, and she was left wondering if he did for thirteen years.
And that was Arima in a nutshell, wasn’t it? Stringing people along, using his overwhelming strength and achievements to make them believe that they could meet even a fraction of his expectations.
She stood up. “Keep your stupid book.” With as much force as she could muster, she shoved the drawer back across the glass. Even under RC suppressants, the room quivered. “Leave me alone.”
He looked at the book, expressionless, but she could hazard a guess. Confusion, resignation, some anger. Emotions he could never hope to express after being surrounded by a bunch of yes-men his entire life, and when someone said something different, he couldn’t comprehend nor believe them to be right.
“I liked it.” Arima held up the book for her to see again. “It was a bit vague, but I liked it.”
Eto clicked her tongue. She wanted his praise least of all. “If you’re done trying to kiss down to me, you can leave; I’m busy.”
He went to the door, but before he left, he turned around. “He’s a good choice. Well done.”
She froze. Words of praise from Kishou Arima. The world really was ending if it was coming to that.
She remembered craving those words when they first met. Something, anything to make him look her way, just for a bit. A small gift of light from God.
But she soon realized that the Reaper liked to dress in His robes. He always pushed her to get stronger, so she cannibalized more. She fought him more in secluded areas, where neither the public nor V could ever find them. He was training her, grooming her, for a greater role she would never obtain. She was his quinque, yet no matter how many sessions they held, no matter how many ghouls she devoured, she kept losing. The tower of corpses grew higher, yet heaven seemed further and further away.
He kept proving that she was weak, that she would always be weak. That she would never amount to more than that spoiled little vermin that ate nothing but hamburger steaks and, because of that, couldn’t protect the one person that mattered.
“You really are so empty!” Eto all but shouted, throwing her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Your strength is just another illusion to fool people into thinking you know anything. It makes me sick. You make me sick.”
Arima stole her agency, her life, everything. He even stole her motive for his own petty, selfish means. To him, ‘a world for ghouls’ meant slighting V and nothing else. He didn’t care about ghouls, otherwise he would spare them. He didn’t care about humans, otherwise he would try to change them. He only cared about his strength and his temper tantrum: a tantrum that slaughtered ghouls, humans, and plagued everyone who thought he was a character worth admiring.
The childish God of Tokyo turned the doorknob.
“He’s not gonna kill you,” she called, flopping onto her bed.
The heir— her pride— was spiteful like that, and had made his choice. He had chosen Arima, not her. If Eto was lucky, maybe he’d turn that blade around on her. Get to her first before V or Cochlea’s compactors did. It’d be the greatest mercy she never deserved, and she’d get to see those gleaming silver eyes again.
The door shut, and she was alone again.
(trash. just die.)