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White.
Nothing but an endless sea of white. The walls, the floors… even the furniture. Every inch of it is so oppressively sterile that it'd drive a hospital to envy.
How long has it been? Days? Weeks? Months? Among the white walls there is not a single window to remind him of the day and night. No clock for him to count the hours. Time melds together into a murky mire, where nothing has an end or beginning. The only indication that time passes at all is the routine visit from his research team. Breakfast. Physical check-up. Lunch. Testing. Dinner. And sometimes, death.
Number One— no— Subject 001 had known nothing but this routine since the day he was born.
He swallows a lump lodged in his throat. The fluorescent lights above him blind him as he stares, yet he can't bring himself to look away. The stiff bed causes his back to ache and the stale air makes him almost dizzy. He counts the seconds in his head to keep himself occupied. Not that seconds matter anymore.
His stomach growls. The researcher that serves him breakfast must be late. Usually, around this time, they would be waking him bright and early for a miserable helping of supplements and oatmeal. Maybe some orange juice if he's been a good boy.
Just a little longer, he pleads with himself. Almost everything is in place. Exhaustion creates haste. Haste creates imperfection. I will get out of here, no matter what.
BZZZT
His musings are interrupted by a deafening alarm, followed by a sudden darkness. The lights flicker out. The low mechanical hum that constantly surrounds him flees, and, in an instant, all that remains is a haunting silence.
The homunculus blinks, and before he can process exactly what just happened, the door to his prison clicks open. He sits up, immediately readying himself to attack, hand hovering over the scalpel hidden within the fabric of his hospital gown.
What enters is nothing short of a nightmare.
A researcher, dressed head to toe in thick hazmat gear, comes lumbering in, emergency lights casting a menacing red glow from behind. Heaving breaths filter out through a black gas mask, the noises almost alien to the experiment's ears. His hackles raise, and with every step of the researcher's approach, he finds himself cowering back against the bed.
Then the researcher stops in his tracks, staring down the homunculus just like any other curious human. Through the breathing apparatus, the researcher finally speaks.
"Well, hello there, handsome!"
And just like that, fear gives way to confusion. Subject 001 furrows his brows together, but doesn't drop his guard. In turn, the hazmat wearing researcher lets out a familiar sounding chuckle before defly removing his gas mask.
The homunculus's eyes widen to the size of saucers, staring directly into a mirror image. Violet irises. Long, lilac hair. Puffy cheeks displaying a distinctive youthfulness, despite the heavy bags beneath the eyes.
The face peeking out from thick material could belong to no one but his original, Number One.
"Like my disguise?" boasts the original, holding out his arms. It's this moment when Subject 001 notices a pair of boots in the detective's gloved hands. "The chemical research labs are the easiest to break through. That cannot possibly be safe."
Subject 001 blinks, baffled at the detective's… everything. "Wh… Why are you— oof!"
His uninvited guest shoves the boots into his arms before letting him finish.
"Put these on," he commands, suddenly serious. "We have five minutes until they turn on the backup power. When they do, the whole facility will be on lockdown."
The homunculus silently obeys, though he still cannot hide the confusion set on his face.
"I'll explain later. For now," Number One dons the gas mask once more, "Let's get you out of here."
The next few minutes are a blur of sensations to the homunculus. A firm grip dragging him along by his wrist. Footsteps rushing through the halls. Adrenaline pumping through his veins. Shouting. Gunshots. Red lights. Red lights, everywhere.
Only one moment of clarity strikes within the haze of chaos. Within it, he swipes up an important object nestled within the leaves of a decorative plant. Number One tugs him along, and they continue.
Soon enough, he finds himself sliding down a trash chute and stumbling through old, broken equipment. With nary a moment to rest, he's guided through bloodstained lab disposables and failed experiments. A horrible stench assaults him— one he only recognizes from stolen memories of disturbing crime scenes. His boot brushes the arm of a half rotted corpse that looks just like him, and he pushes down the bile rising in his throat.
After the passage through Hell, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. All that awaits them is a metal door and a sturdy lock. Number One digs through the trash and finds a used needle.
"Perfect!" He then hands it to the homunculus. "You remember how to pick locks, right?"
Subject 001 nods, and Number One begins to shed his hazmat suit, revealing his WDO uniform underneath. From his silence, he's clearly expecting the other to get to business, so the homunculus takes the hint and skillfully picks the lock. Once Number One disposes of the suit, they shove the heavy door open together.
On the other side, a burst of fresh air hits the homunculus like a freight train. They enter a vast expanse of nothing but desert. He lays his shoes in the sands and takes in the sight of a rising sun on the horizon. It stuns him in place, and despite his ever present heartbeat, this moment is the first time he truly feels alive.
A hand takes hold of his wrist again, urging him to move forward. His original locks eyes with him, gaze harsh and chiding.
There is no time to waste.
They run. Sand kicks up beneath their feet as they dash through rolling dunes. The homunculus stumbles in his hospital gown, silently grateful his original had the insight to supply him with boots. The air is dry and warm, a nighttime chill slowly surrendering to the encroaching sun. Stars still twinkle faintly in the light blue sky, surrounding a moon that's simply not ready to say goodbye.
A strange giddiness simmers within the escaped experiment. Even as car engines could be heard in the distance, hinting at a seemingly hopeless chase, he can't help but grin wildly.
He's free.
The two of them reach a dirt bike parked just a few meters away from a strangely shaped cactus. Some cargo is strapped tightly to its back, along with a pair of helmets. Number One dons his own helmet, tossing the other one his hommunculus's way before hopping on. The homunculus mimics the action with hesitance, searching his borrowed memories for a point in time where he gained a license for driving this thing. He comes up blank, and a light chuckle from the other brings him back to the present.
"Hang on tight," his original demands, a note of playful gentleness in his voice. "I'd hate for you to fall off after all this."
So the other obeys, wrapping trembling arms around his original's waist. The engine purrs beneath them, and when they suddenly take off, the homunculus clings on just a little bit tighter.
~*~
"So, what should I call you?"
Number One's voice breaks the delicate silence between them. He rummages through the cargo strapped to his bike as his copy starts a fire. It'd been quite a few hours of nonstop travel for them, and only now do they rest their aching legs and addled minds.
"What do you mean?" the homunculus grumbles as he fans the flames.
"Well, it just doesn't feel right calling you Number One. And I can't go on forever without addressing you."
A scoff. "It's not like this'll last forever, right? Just call me whatever you want."
"Fine then, Whatever You Want." Number One smirks at the obvious dismay set on the other man's face. "But I have a good feeling that you'd rather not be treated like a pet."
"…"
The human tosses a spare uniform to his silent companion, and it's met with mild disgust. As if we couldn't look any more alike, the homunculus grumbles inwardly. Still, he changes nonetheless. Anything to be rid of that miserable hospital gown. All the while, Number One is faced away, unfurling a pair of small sleeping bags.
"When we reach the WDO headquarters," he says, "I'll have my men doctor up some paperwork for you so you can live on your own. I'm sure this goes without saying, but you'll need a name for that." He briefly halts his work to glance back at his escort. "If not for the sake of individuality, at least give me one for the sake of convenience."
The homunculus fumbles with the buttons on his jacket, absently staring into the campfire's flickering flames. They cast dancing shadows against the sand.
"… I'll come up with one later."
~*~
He awakens with a start. Bright white walls and fluorescent lights assault his vision. A stiff bed creaks beneath him. He turns to his side to meet the eyes of a stranger.
"Good morning, Number One." The stranger says with a smile, clutching a pen and clipboard, "I'm so glad to see you're finally awake."
Number One glances around again. He quickly surmises that he'd been taken to a hospital of some sorts, though the lack of equipment in the room sets off several alarms in his head.
"Where… am I?" he asks first, skipping any pleasantries.
"A hospital room," the stranger answers. "You had a rather nasty accident and sustained a concussion, so you've been under our care."
"Really now?" Number One glances down at his body. No noticeable changes, it seems. He can't even find any new wounds. "I certainly don't feel like I've been through an accident."
The stranger hums. "A testament to our excellent treatment, wouldn't you say?"
"And a testament to your abysmal ability to deceive. The average hospital would have no way of knowing who Number One is."
The stranger sets his jaw, catching on to his mistake.
"Now then," Number One continues, "I'll ask you this again: Where am I? And, why did you take me here?"
With a resigned sigh, the stranger slumps his shoulders and drops his insincere smile.
"You are in one of the most elite research facilities in the world. And you, Number One, are here as a test subject."
Number One snorts in disbelief, unable to hold back a bitter laugh. "Ha! How bold! And if I don't consent to your research?"
Ice settles into the stranger's gaze as he slips a hand into his pocket.
"I'm afraid… you don't have a choice."
A click, followed by sharp, searing pain. Number One screeches and collapses on the bed, every muscle rendered useless as high voltage shocks course through his veins. They scorch him beneath his skin for an unbearable second that lasts forever, and when the researcher lifts his hand, the pain still strikes in waves.
He twitches and spasms from the aftershocks. Unwitting tears spill from his now bloodshot eyes. Shaking, he curls up into a fetal position and chokes out a sob.
"Well, now that everything is settled," the researcher looms over the detective's trembling and pitiful form, his voice completely devoid of sympathy, "I look forward to working with you, Subject 001."
~*~
The pair rests for another night around a campfire, gazing up at the desert's night sky. Vibrant purples sweep across a vast expanse of deep blue, all of it sprinkled by twinkling stars. They huddle close for warmth, bundled up in their uniform cloaks. Number One fishes a packet of rations from his pockets and starts dividing up its contents.
"What are you doing?" the homunculus asks.
"We're off schedule," Number One mutters, "so I'm splitting our final share of rations."
The homunculus bristles. "Are you some sort of fool? Have you forgotten what I am?"
"Of course not. You're my immortal homunculus."
"Right. Immortal. Obviously, I don't need food, so don't go making sacrifices for me."
In a show of exquisite timing, a growl sounds from his immortal stomach. Within the following unbearable silence, heat rushes to his face. Number One gives him a knowing smile that does nothing to curb his embarrassment.
"You don't need food, yet you still get hungry. Curious." The original lays out the other's share on some paper wrapping then pushes it his way. "Don't think I haven't noticed what you've been doing these past few days, sneaking some of your rations into mine."
This paralyzes the homunculus. How did he…?!
"We think the same way," Number One answers without hearing the question at all, "so I'm already well aware of our tendencies for needless self-sacrifice."
The tension leaves the homunculus's body in an instant, and he lets out an irritated huff. "So you agree that it's needless."
"I do." The human looks back up at the night sky, munching on his small portion of jerky. "I suppose it's up to you, then, to save me the grief of my pointless action, and give it meaning."
With no counter to his original's insanity, the homunculus relents, mimicking the other man and taking a bite of his food.
~*~
Whenever the researchers draw blood, the syringe is opaque.
Number One notes this trend during his seemingly innocuous physical check-ups. They're careful not to injure him, and any curiosity towards his puncture wound is rewarded with an agonizing shock.
Today, they tell him that this physical check-up is different. A group of security personnel keep him bound as he's led down the winding, steel-plated halls of the facility. Just like his room, a camera rests at every corner, but unlike his room, decorative plants line the walls to bring a morsel of life to an otherwise unforgiving atmosphere.
They take him to what appears to be an operating room, with a vivisection table sitting right at its center. A rolling shelf bearing sharp tools and menacing equipment stands right next to it, surrounded by a team of researchers in white suits.
Dread festers within him, forming a heavy pit in his stomach. Every hair on his body stands on end, and soon a primal instinct commands him to run.
Reason yields to panic. He instantly tries to wrestle himself free of the vice grip still keeping him bound. The guards never let up, dragging him kicking and screaming to the table. He manages to snatch one of the sharp tools on the shelf and drive it into the abdomen of one of his captors. With this distraction, he's granted the time he needs to wriggle free and make a mad dash for the door. He hastily swings it open, taking one step into the hall, and then—
He collapses on the floor, spasming from yet another punishing electric shock.
The adrenaline dies down and reality settles in, draining any semblance of hope that remained in his body. The guards carry him back to the table, and he can't even bring himself to resist as they strip him bare and strap him down. Murmurs spread throughout the research team as they crowd around Number One, wielding clipboards and tools. They administer an anesthetic to him— one small mercy in a sea of atrocities. Moments later, drowsiness begins to envelop him, and his head lolls to the side. His gaze falls to one of his splayed out arms, where a scalpel is pressed against it.
The scalpel pierces his skin, and out spills a sickeningly bright liquid. He stares and stares with half-lidded eyes, just barely able to register his abject horror before everything goes black.
~*~
"Ahhh…" Number One flops backwards into the plush sheets of a freshly made bed, melting into them like puddy. He'd just gotten out of a nice meal and a hot shower, and now he floats among the heavens. Another satisfied sigh escapes his lips as he performs a long, catlike stretch.
"You seem to be having fun," the homunculus comments as he ties his hair up into a messy ponytail. Number One hums.
"It's been a long while since I last slept in a bed."
After several days of desert travel, the pair find themselves in a small oasis town, resting at a cozy inn. They spent their day replenishing fuel and supplies before booking a room and gorging themselves with a proper dinner. And now, Number One lay splayed out on a luxurious bed, dressed in newly bought nightwear— an oversized t-shirt from a souvenir shop and boxers, to be exact. His homunculus lingers nearby at a vanity, dressed in a matching set.
"It's a nice bed and all," he replies, "but why on earth did you decide to purchase a single-bed room?" He steps away from the vanity to stand at the bedside, hands placed squarely on his hips. "Did you simply forget you had company?"
Number One bashfully looks away. "Well, no… It's just, we might've indulged a bit too much on our spending today. I ended up getting the cheapest room."
A deadpan expression sets on the homunculus's face. "There is no way the WDO's Number One is short on funds."
"Short on cash. I can't go around using my card. At least, not until we're close enough to the WDO. The UG can track those types of purchases."
"… You have a point." He joins his original on the bed, slumping down onto it face down before letting out his own satisfied sigh. His voice is muffled by the sheets as he grumbles, "I couldn't care less about sharing a bed anyway."
Number One closes his eyes and sports a confident smirk. "I figured you wouldn't. Besides, if this is an issue, I'll make sure you have your own place to sleep when we reach our luxury cruise liner."
"Luxury cruise liner? Somehow I doubt that."
"It'll be incredible, I promise," Number One says with middling sincerity.
"Well, either way, I don't mind sharing. That being said," the homunculus suddenly shoves his original aside, eliciting a yelp, "you should be more considerate and quit hogging up all the space."
An amused chuckle slips out of Number One's mouth, but he relents, rolling over on his side to offer more space. Faced away, he feels the bed dip behind him as his homunculus crawls under the covers. He follows suit, letting it shield him from the frigid nighttime air.
Drowsy mutterings of "goodnight" are shared between them before they let their exhaustion drag them into slumber.
…
It's still dark when Number One awakens to the feeling of arms wrapped tightly around him. Fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt, grasping for dear life. Shuddering, frantic breaths hit the back of his neck, accompanied by the faintest of whimpers.
A nightmare.
Panic freezes him in place as he wracks his brain for a solution. He's no stranger to nightmares, of course— it's practically part of his job description— but to comfort a fellow victim is an entirely different challenge.
So he takes a deep breath, and recalls just who this pitiful victim is.
What… would I want?
Too much movement would startle him awake. Speaking to him would do the same. He knows just how much he hates being swaddled. Honestly, he barely tolerates sleeping next to someone. The only time he really feels comfortable touching another is…
Suddenly, the solution is clear. He takes one of the hands gripping his shirt in his own, and gives it a gentle squeeze.
From that alone, the breaths on his neck become steady. The shuddering comes to a stop. The grip on him loosens, but it never lets go.
Number One, too, never lets go.
And when the first rays of morning sunshine peek through the window, they wake up as usual, and say nothing.
~*~
Surveillance cameras watch over every square inch of Subject 001's bedroom. They're posted at every ceiling corner to ensure he never tries to escape. They're even posted in the connected restroom, because the homunculus's right to privacy was waived since the moment he came to exist.
But, there still remains one stubborn little corner of the restroom where the cameras never touch— a blind spot just between the shower, the shelf, and the wall. Nothing here can facilitate his escape, so the blind spot never proved useful.
That is, until today. Today, it shall be the birthplace of liberation.
He curls up into the corner, digging into the single pocket sewn into his gown. Inside is a stolen scalpel, and when he pulls it out, he clutches it tight in his hands as if the thing would run away if let go.
The one thing these researchers hold over him is their electric shock tool. From the way it works, he has no doubt that the device itself is an implanted microchip. Not only that, but the chip must be large enough to be seen with the naked eye. Otherwise, it'd take more than a primitive remote control to activate it.
That means it's large enough to be physically removed.
The plan is simple, then: pry the damn thing out, and mask it with a violent suicide. The research team will most certainly check if the chip is still in him by shocking his corpse, so he'll keep it in his body for a little longer by swallowing it. Subject 001 looks down at his own body, skin perfect and unblemished, all the evidence of his suffering wiped clean with every revival. Yet, even though the body heals, the phantom pains still linger. It truly isn't fair.
But now is not the time to dwell on such trivialities, he tells himself. There's a microchip to locate, after all. He examines his body again, searching for the chip through the process of elimination.
He counts out his arms and legs as recollections of surgical dismemberments flood his mind. He dismisses his digestive system as well, with how freely the researchers disembowel him. It couldn't be the heart or chest either. He's accumulated countless careless wounds there.
That leaves the head. It's obvious, now that he thinks about it. The researchers treat his head so carefully, even when they kill him. The gunshots are always aimed in a specific way, through the mouth to blast out his brains through the back. So, perhaps the cheeks? But the skin is quite thin there, and they've torn those apart to remove his jaw just a few days ago… His nose? No, that's been broken several times before. As he slowly narrows down his options, he finally finds the one place that remains untouched:
His eyes.
A chill crawls up the base of his spine as he attempts to swallow the growing lump in his throat.
Behind the eyes. It has to be there.
The room is spinning. The scalpel rattles in his trembling hands.
All he has to do is… feel around for it and scrape it out. If he stabs through the wrong one, he can just try the other. Easy.
He curls into himself. His heart pounds loudly in his chest. Nausea overtakes him.
Just scrape it out. It'll be over in no time.
He takes a deep breath, tightening his grip on the scalpel.
"Emotions… must be discarded…"
He brings it up to his left eye, hand steady and sure.
" … to reach a perfect solution…"
He prays his guess is correct. He prays that this will be worth it.
"… through a perfect deduction."
When he drives the tool inside, it takes everything to hold back his screams.
~*~
"I've decided on a name."
The sun shines dimly through rolling white clouds, an overcast sky accompanied by a gentle sea breeze. Seagulls fly and cry overhead as crewmen shout down below. The traveling pair lean against the metal railing of a cargo ship— notably not a luxury liner— and watch the ocean waves crash against its hull. Without looking away, Number One lets out a thoughtful hum in response to the other man. "Have you now? Care to share it?"
"… Makoto Kagutsuchi."
Metal groans as the water rocks the massive ship. Number One's lips curl up into a small smile.
"It has a nice ring to it. 'Makoto' feels especially fitting for someone as insincere as you."
Makoto elbows his original, earning him a chuckle.
"In all seriousness," Number One continues, "it's a nice name." He pushes off the railing and stretches his arms. "Though the surname raises a few concerns."
"Why do you say that?"
"The god, Kagutsuchi, burned his mother to death upon being born." The detective turns to lean his back against the railing, now looking directly at his companion. "Aren't I technically your mother? I can't help feeling a little threatened."
Makoto's face contorts into a grimace. "Don't ever call yourself my mother again."
Number One laughs openly at Makoto's dismay. It's light and free as the breeze combing through his hair. A rare sound for a man like him. Makoto's heart races at that, for some reason. He turns his attention back to the sea.
"There's nothing to be afraid of. My resentment lies solely with those who created me."
The call of distant seagulls fills the silence between them, and Number One throws his head back to gaze up at the sky. A shadow looms overhead as the clouds turn gray, the scent of rain tinting the air.
"When we reach headquarters, you'll have your revenge."
Makoto tightens his grip on the ship's railing.
"I know."
~*~
It still doesn't feel right, looking at his own reflection.
Makoto swipes aside a strand of wet lilac hair to get a better look at himself. The mirror is cracked and foggy, its image distorting the stolen face in front of him. Still, it faithfully displays the deep-set bags beneath his eyes and the furrow of his brows.
After a long trip at sea spent hiding amidst cargo containers and swiping non-perishable food, the pair finally reached a port city just a train ride away from the city housing the WDO headquarters. With very little funds left, they find themselves sharing a room in a cheap, seedy motel. Despite the grimy atmosphere, Makoto greatly appreciates the chance to get a good shower.
He drops his towel and reaches for his nightwear, but nearly jumps a meter in the air when the bathroom door clicks open.
"Ah! Who—?!" He whips around to meet the widened eyes of Number One.
They both blink.
Then the detective blushes profusely, stammers out a hasty "S-sorry!" and leaves, slamming the door shut.
… Makoto can't help but giggle. From the other side of the door, Number One cries out, "Don't laugh!" which, of course, only makes Makoto laugh more.
"Oh, come on now. What's the big deal?" Makoto taunts, leaning up against the door. "Doesn't this body belong to you?"
"It's— It's not the same!" Number One sputters. "And don't say it like that!"
After another fit of giggles, the satisfaction of seeing his original so flustered begins to fade. "Okay, okay, I'll stop."
A strangely weighted silence hangs between the two, and Makoto starts to nervously shift where he stands.
"Have you… ever been curious about it?"
Something moves from the other side of the door.
"About what?"
"Just how… similar we really are." Makoto rubs his arm. "Sometimes I wonder if there are more differences between us than our blood color."
"… I can't say I haven't thought about it before."
Another pause.
"Would you like to find out?" Makoto finally asks, almost too meek to hear through the door. Number One hesitates. His quiet wavering grows more and more unbearable with each passing second, but mercifully, he replies.
"O-Okay. But only because my curiosity will bother me if I don't."
…
Later that night, the two of them lay in bed, as far from each other as possible. They're both covering their furiously blushing faces behind their hands in shame, even though they hadn't done anything besides look at each other. Something about it still felt… dirty.
"We… really are the same…" Number One mutters into his hands. Makoto awkwardly clears his throat.
"… Y-Yeah…"
~*~
"Hey, shouldn't Subject 001 be restrained?" A concerned researcher scolds the guard standing nearby.
"Oh him? Don't worry about it. He's not going anywhere," the guard replies. "He's been nothing but obedient these past few days. The head researcher hasn't even had to shock him recently."
"… Really?" Doubt festers within the researcher's eyes. She pulls down her glasses. "He's been causing trouble for us from the beginning. What changed?"
"Psh, do I look like I know?" The guard leans back against the wall. "I'm just grateful I don't have to wrestle him onto that torture table of yours anymore."
"It's not a torture table. It's a vivisection table."
"Sounds worse."
It is, Subject 001 wants to say, but he keeps his mouth shut.
"Anyway," the guard casually continues, "I heard he went and offed himself the other day. My buddy said it was brutal too, like that shit you see in horror movies." He thoughtfully scratches his chin. "But it bothers me. Isn't he immortal? What's the point?"
The researcher shakes her head. "We wondered the same thing. But, whenever we ask him why, he clams up and starts shaking."
"Hmph." The guard locks eyes with Subject 001, and for a second, the homunculus catches a flash of sympathy. "Maybe you broke him."
At that, the researcher, too, turns to the homunculus. Subject 001 blankly stares back, retaining a perfect poker face to conceal his burning rage. For now, he has to be a good boy, lest they try to shock him. Of course, the shock is of no concern for him. Not anymore. The chip is long gone by this point. Now, it's just a matter of playing nice and not getting caught.
The researcher returns to her work and shrugs.
"Well, a broken Number One is more useful to us than a working one."
~*~
Makoto stares outside the window of Number One's rental car, watching the streetlights pass by in a blur. A sunset bathes the city in shades of pink and orange, purple bruising the sky's highest points. The streets are busy with pedestrians and honking cars. Electric billboards flash advertisements for products both he and Number One never bother to keep up with.
The WDO Headquarters are only five kilometers away.
A comfortable serenity blankets the pair, both men quietly taking in the nostalgic views of the city they grew up in. Neon lights, polluted air, and buildings that reach to the skies… It's home alright.
At least, to one of them, it's home. Still, Makoto's stolen memories tug at his heart all the same.
He turns to his original, who's been humming along to a catchy radio tune. "Can I ask you something?"
"Go for it."
"Why did you save me? Why are you doing all of this?"
"…" Number One furrows his brows at the question, staring ahead at the road for a moment before scoffing, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "Isn't it obvious? I saved you because you were in trouble."
"There are millions of people out there who more urgently need your help. You and I both know I would've found a way to escape that lab on my own."
"Makoto, I know for a fact that if I left you to it, you would still be in that lab right now."
"What do you mean by that?" Makoto narrows his eyes. "Are you doubting my ability? Do you think the copy can't do the same as his original?"
Number One stops at a red light, drumming his fingers against the wheel. He slumps back against his carseat with an exasperated sigh. "What I mean to say is this: You're a very cautious man. I know this, because I'm the same way. You'd take your time laying out every little piece of your escape plan until everything was perfect."
"But I'd still escape."
"And you'd also prolong your suffering."
Makoto falls silent.
"I saved you because I wanted to, Makoto." Number One looks his way, his visible irritation accompanied by a softness much too alien on his face. "Do I really need more reason than that?"
The light turns green, and the detective turns back to the road. An uncomfortable warmth invades Makoto's chest, so he goes back to staring out the window, watching the streetlights pass them by.
~*~
"Well, here it is. All the paperwork you need to start a new life. The envelope contains some starting funds as well."
Number One lays out every piece of doctored evidence that Makoto has always existed on his mostly unused office desk. Makoto stares in awe. If he hadn't already seen it before, he'd almost be impressed with how swiftly the WDO can conjure up a lie.
"I… I should've said this earlier, but…" Makoto scratches the back of his head, unable to look his original in the eyes. "… Thank you. Not just for this, but for everything."
"Don't mention it." The detective is already donning his hat and cape, making a beeline to the exit. "I wish you the best of luck. Goodbye, Makoto—"
"W-Wait!"
Number One stops in his tracks, but doesn't turn around. Thrown off by just how desperate he sounded, Makoto struggles to gather his bearings before he continues.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
"… My next mission."
Makoto bristles. He saw this coming from the very beginning. He's not even sure why this bothers him so much.
"Let me join you."
The detective shakes his head. "I… can't believe I have to say this to you of all people, but I work alone."
"You saved my life. And you know more than anyone that I don't like leaving a debt unpaid. Let me come along and make it up to you."
This time, Number One glances over his shoulder, and his eyes are cold. "And you should know more than anyone that I don't expect anything in return. Your thanks is more than enough."
He starts to leave again, and Makoto clenches his fists. It can't end like this. Not when the very thought of parting ways brings an unfamiliar pain to Makoto's chest. Whatever this feeling is, he wants nothing to do with it. His utterly aggravating original will surely come up with a counter for every one of his pleas, so it's time to bring out the big guns.
"You're going to Kanai Ward next, aren't you?"
Number One stops again, halfway out the door.
Hook, line, and sinker.
"You're going to try and stop them from creating more homunculi." Makoto digs into his pocket before pulling out a small flash drive— one he prepared before ever leaving the research facility. A little piece of blackmail, nestled cozily within a decorative plant. "I have pertinent information on the case. But I have a feeling that you already knew that."
The detective startles and hastily starts patting down his pockets. Makoto smirks.
"Do you think that I didn't notice? I saw you rummaging through my things. You were gonna use this in secret, weren't you?" He takes a step forward. "Well I took it upon myself to swipe it back."
His original stops searching his own pockets and drops his hands in defeat.
"You told me that I would get my revenge, right?" Makoto waves the flash drive in the air, taunting his original. "Then why don't you own up to that statement, and see it through to the end?"
A pause. Slowly, Number One steps back and closes the door. He remains turned away, his shoulders slumped down. "… I was hoping you'd move on. Maybe find yourself a more peaceful life than this."
"Please. Be honest: Would you take that offer in my position?"
A heavy sigh escapes from Number One, and the answer is clear. Makoto basks in his victory as he watches the detective run a hand through his hair.
"Our next destination is Kanai Ward." Number One begins. "We'll be investigating Amaterasu Laboratories and putting a stop to their inhumane research. For the duration of the mission, you'll be referring to me as Yuma Kokohead." He glances over his shoulder. "Understood?"
The smirk on Makoto's face widens into a grin. "Of course… Yuma."
"Then gather your things, and don't hold me back."
Barely able to hide his glee, Makoto obediently gathers his paperwork and joins Number One at his side. As they walk down the halls of the WDO, he notes the subtle upturn of the detective's lips, betraying a hidden truth.
~*~
