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Was this what dying was like?
Mighty felt himself floating through the pitch black cosmos. Did he still have a body anymore? Did he still have his arms and legs after the great white flash? Did any of these questions really matter anymore?
None of it mattered. Even with eyes that shouldn't exist any longer, visions of the stars around him still greeted him as he took in the endless vast bounty of cold dark space. He had already done what he had set out to do: Begin, proceed with, and conclude his final mission. Why did he feel like there was something else he wanted to do or see, but couldn't any longer?
His eyes closed, but it changed nothing. The ceaseless expanse of all conceivable existence remained the same with eyes opened and closed. Thoughts of home began to return to him, one at a time. Eyes that shouldn't exist began to produce tears that went nowhere. The warm cups of his grandmother's tea and bowls of miso soup with rice and prepared veggies. The warm and tender hug of his baby brother, already ten years old and gathering more than his first bomb star. The smiles of friends and coworkers.
Some part of him screamed that this would happened.
Not even death spared him from seeing greener and far more luscious grass on other plots of existential land. Hopeless, bitter feelings welled within him. Regrets of regrets, chaining together to form uncountable ouroboros of mental anguish. If he still had a face, it would be as plain as always. He always was good at maintaining a proper resting face; A smile would come off even less sincere than normal, but a suitable scowl would be too honest with the people in his life. Neutrality of neutralities coalescing into a perfectly mediocre expression most suited for everyone else.
The regrets always came and went, never staying around long enough to burn him out of caring but never quite leaving him alone long enough to avoid misery for too long. The first time he ever saw Birdy standing alone amongst the wreckage of the Higehige-dan facility Mighty destroyed himself in was initially surreal before it eventually gave way to a soul crushing mournful loss in its own way. The bird who cared for the image of Mighty slowly grew on him after death, as did the girl and the dodonpa and his inane robot.
He began to feel himself slowly thinning out, realizing the dissipation was about to kick in once more. Before his essence could finally disperse and cure Mighty of horrid reunion for another moment, a small noise left him. A short, concise, and utterly emotionless laugh. Dripping with disgust, writhing in utter contempt, and so thoroughly tainted by sensations before, during, and after life that despite its brevity, it could tell a bloodstained epic in its own right with the weight it carried.
Actively closing his eyes did nothing, but the feeling of his ethereal form slowly dispersing was a true closure of his immortal windows to the soul.
Soon enough, the sensation of formation had ceased and Mighty, for now, was no more.