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Silence is their sole companion, as they walk their way out of there; Sousei is aware of nothing and every single annoyance at once. The remains of smudged blood on his face, the way its taste is stuck on his tongue, how muddy the ground feels underneath his soles, as if his barefoot body was attempting to drag him down, and, yeah there is, of course, the gaping wound he has to apply pressure on so he doesn’t die.
He won’t give them the pleasure of collapsing in a nameless place, of being nothing more than food for famished predators. His revenge will—a small hand tugs on his sleeve, and he looks down.
Her eyes are as dull as his own, aren’t they? Past the point of processing anything, adrenaline leaving only—what are they? Or rather, what is he? A weapon, a tool played for a fool for so long, only to be disregarded at the first opportunity? Fingers dig in borrowed clothes, causing blood to warm his palm just enough for Sousei to recall that none of that is relevant right now. It’ll be later, once he has dug a needle in his side, and there will be only a pathetic scar to remind him that his whole existence cannot be called anything human.
For now, though, he lets Momiji cling to his sleeve—earlier wasn’t she so afraid she trailed behind him instead, not trusting herself to ask for comfort he isn’t familiar with anyway?
(“What do I do?”
Nothing. The body was already cold, that chapter of their story abruptly ended before he could watch the conclusion unfold.
“Sanae isn’t waking up…”
He left the corpse—what was he meant to do with it, except stare at the blood splattered all around him and Momiji once it was done? In a way, didn’t they all die at once, the writer, the fallen hero and the innocent child?
No, in Sanae’ story, he was the villain, nothing more.
Yet, in Momiji’s, what is he meant to be?
Ah, he’ll craft a brand new story, even if he has to use Shinya’s blood as the ink.)
There is a vastness in his heart, an echo within an empty shell which only accepts rage and retribution.
Controlled rage, the kind he can stop anytime—if he chooses to.
The stain on his shirt grows, soaking the fabric into something which causes his vision to blur for a second.
“We can’t go home,” the small voice interrupts his body alongside his thoughts, causing him to halt. Just enough to suck in a swallow breath, to remind himself that if he falls, then he’ll have lost, and that’s unacceptable, “you’re hurt.”
She sounds disjointed—there are gaps in his mind too, besides conflicting memories. He recalls the car veering off road, how he had to grab her tiny body, his head colliding with the ground so hard he should have been incapacitated for longer than he was—there was blood sticking to his eyelashes, blood running down his face, and yet he effortlessly fought mere moments after waking up.
“Let’s find a place for tonight,” is all he can reply, voice hoarse as he resumes their not so leisurely walk.
Apathy has wormed its way through his soul, or perhaps the soul of someone he borrowed. Ah, for such a beautiful script, it left nothing except sourness inside his mouth. With Sanae dead, he’ll never have a proper answer to the lingering questions still remaining, what a pain.
✦✦✦
The teddy bear is missing—there was a sense of urgency, as he cradled the sleeping child in his arms, they didn’t have space for a toy. Sousei wonders what Kanae thought of that growing bond being an innocent kid and the source of her despair. Perhaps it was another part of her plan, mellowing the enemy into someone who would hesitate upon being tempted to inflict the killing blow first. Or it was simply an unfortunate move she couldn’t stop, forced to watch Momiji grow protective of the poor amnesiac in their care.
“Here, you must eat,” Momiji sits on the edge of the damaged mattress, handing out a protein bar—those are the rations the city gives to the people living in the slums, as a gesture of goodwill—most of that shit is beyond expiry date, and it reminds him more of trash being tossed directly inside a dumpster, “Sousei, I—I was worried you wouldn’t wake up after you did your stitches and passed out. I stayed by your side until I fell asleep too. And now you’re better. Right?”
Ah, that did happen.
“I’m tough.” Inhuman. A clone. Something made out of flesh and organs, yet whose purpose was only to put on a show for an adoring public. A killing machine who surely doesn’t have those anger issues everyone seems to de facto apply to him.
“Sanae was too.”
And we left her corpse in a decrepit factory reeking of blood, surrounded by mangled bodies that you didn’t hesitate to rip apart while I couldn’t look away.
Or so he supposes she would say if she wasn’t a small child with a dead look in exhausted eyes.
“Yeah, she was.” That woman was insane, a pure genius who went so far for her own personal revenge that she played that charade for so long. “She chose to sacrifice herself just to make a point to those assholes. She decided she would rather die than let them win.”
There is still blood underneath his fingernails, as he rips the package open, teeth severing a part of the protein bar. Tastes no different from the blood he couldn’t wash off no matter how long he kept his head in a bucket of rainwater, trying to clean his face, only for the coldness of the water to turn his nerves into something heavy.
His revenge story includes Sanae, how could it not? She wrote the script for it, and he’s simply going to rework on the ending. It’ll be grand, and he hopes she curses him from the depths of Hell once she sees it unfold.
Momiji doesn’t appear to comprehend that answer, and he can’t quite sugarcoat it as he would have on television. She has seen the reality of their messed up story, she had to sit next to a corpse while waiting for him to appear and save the day.
(He did, of course.)
They could have killed her.
These fools would have done so without a second thought, getting rid of pesky evidence in the form of a child.
As he swallows half of the bar, not bothering to chew, he feels the rest crumbling underneath his touch—if he could go back, he’d teach them a lesson for the second time, body operating on his own, nothing but the thrill of killing over and over pulsating inside his skull.
“Every time I try to remember her, I see her body. I tried to wake her up, I really did. I shook her and I called her name over and over.”
Has she eaten? Slept more than a few hours? He supposes so. Himself passed out after caring for his wound, barely having time to bandage it above the stitches (is it how you get it done? It was still bleeding a bit, and they don’t exactly own anything, especially not spare clothes so he thought it was the right way, grabbing rags they found and using them as bandages) before his vision went dark.
With his free hand, he finds the back of his head still sticky, and he didn’t exactly have time to wash himself completely—it’s fine, he was made to endure.
“You saved me though. You punished them.” As if gathering courage, Momiji stares at her trembling fingers, tiny body shaking with something perhaps akin to Sousei’s rage. “You did well.”
And then, as if there wasn’t still blood on Sousei’s body, as if he weren’t a monster made out of a lie, she lifts a hand up, and she pats his head.
Ah. How odd. That kind of comfort—he wouldn’t have tolerated it before, when he was a puppet thinking of himself at the top of the world. He isn’t sure why he slightly slumps forward, allowing her to give a form of comfort which isn’t natural to either of them. The slums teach you how to survive, not kindness.
And yet, Momiji has always been looking out for Sousei, going as far as standing between the villains and him that one time—he grins, and he guesses the expression is empty and meaningless, merely anger against his gums, dropping what’s left of the protein bar on the mattress (that filthy house was the first place they found, and they’ll move somewhere else soon).
“We’ll crush all of them, I promise.”
That’ll be easy, won’t it? Even with a gash on his side, he managed to take down those annoying pests without even thinking about it. All he has to do is let his mind go blank—that’s not mindless rage, if it’s to fix his own story, if he writes a tale where Momiji gets her own happy ending too.
Yeah, that’s definitely justice.
“We can stay together?”
“Do you want to?” He asks, pushing the hand back down while doing his best not to cause harm—he has never hurt her, right? Everything he has done as Sousei since his rebirth, or so he would call it, has been in favor of Momiji.
(If you ignore ruining her peaceful existence, causing her mom to pick suicide as her ultimate option—those things are secondary, a subplot to the real thing. They have each other, he’ll protect her.)
She gives a stern nod, although her gaze is still lifeless.
Her smile will have to do, wobbly and tearful.
Just as he has a name, and a purpose.
They can create something out of those crooked parts, he’s sure of it.
“Then, we shall remain side by side.”
“Until the end?”
A normal child wouldn’t ask that; what is normalcy in a world like theirs, factions battling each other while using civilians as mere shields. Sousei doesn’t quite realize how out of place that sounds, not when there is a body against his, Momiji curling on his good side as to not soak bandages with her tears.
“Until the end, you and I.”
✦✦✦
Shoes would limit his movements—how did he manage to wear a full suit when clothing feels like a hindrance? He has no need for a divine tool, or a mask impairing his vision. As he walks on metallic roofs, jumping from one to another with ease in spite of his injuries, Sousei feels free. Stronger than anyone in his way.
He isn’t free though. Not until he avenges himself, Momiji (and Sanae’s memory). Barefoot, he feels each ripple in the metal, feels the rain on his face as the sky remains full of heavy clouds above his head, as if the slums weren’t allowed anything outside of the polluted air which makes children sick, and the water you have to boil if you do not want your insides to burn into a charcoal-like mass. Sousei runs as if he had never done so before, aware of his destination, of what he wants to do.
There will be a time for retribution, for the apathy of reality.
Tomorrow, perhaps.
However, he is on a different mission today.
One which starts with his feet slamming against the ground below, mud splattering against the hem of his pants.
It’s not quite a school, although it’s a place where Sanae sent Momiji to sometimes; just so she could get a warm meal, and perhaps a couple of hours with fellow children. Rather than hanging with the guy who destroyed their roof by slipping—
“Put me down,” she whispers, and he’s reminded of the weight on his back, on how he carried her there. Just so they’d arrive faster, “you’re going to make yourself bleed to death, Sousei.”
“I heal fast,” he drops a knee on the dirt, allowing her to slide down with ease.
There have been more conversations, albeit not many, shared meals, and her stealing clothes on his behalf as there was no way to save whatever happened to his blood soaked top, “After all, I’m special.”
Artificial.
Shinya’s little side project or some shit.
He cannot wait to wrap his hands around that throat until the smile drops—he wants pleas, for the enemy to beg—he has no pity to spare, and he’ll break every bone until his mind is clear again. Maybe there will be a kiss, just to strangle screams.
Momiji’s hand slips in his own, and he’s dragged inside the unfamiliar building, finding it as boring as he imagined. Old scenery painted on a wall which was once colorful, animals whose faces have faded as the years went by, leaving only the outline of what they were—there are trails of crayons where he’s staring, nonsensical lines made by kids too young to give a proper artistic performance.
“Momiji!”
His gaze falls on an unfamiliar woman, and immediately, Momiji pulls out a smile which is only a tiny bit off.
Aren’t they fast learners, the two of them?
“You’re alright! I hadn’t seen you in a while, so I was growing worried—oh that’s your friend? The one who is living with Sanae and you?”
He gives a simple squeeze, careful not to shatter bones, as to indicate that Sanae’s fate belongs only to them.
“Y-yeah! That’s Sousei.”
It’s a good thing most of his injuries are already fading, or at least hidden. Even if his head still bleeds when he sleeps on it wrong, who would see that through dark strands? He gives a pleasant smile, not quite the innocent sort, although they don’t need this to be a masterpiece, merely something believable.
“We lost Momiji’s teddy bear,” how did he talk, when he lacked memories, was his voice kinder, softer even? Ah, even so soon, those days are fading, leaving merely the last moments, the tainted ones, “is there any spare toy she could bring home?”
“It’s my fault, I dropped it and we couldn’t find it again. Even if Sousei helped me look for hours.”
What makes a good story? Is it the mystery lying in the ending, or merely the characters?
Is there a formula you must apply to obtain praise from the watchers? As he muses over this, the woman in charge of the rundown place guides them to a plastic table, the kind you use when camping, not that Sousei ever recalls going camping—at least Soushi did, right? While filming, there must have been days where he was sitting on an uncomfortable chair while eating a cold meal, limbs growing numb from hours in the cold.
Urg, digging too much into his own mind is akin to slicing his head open on the ground again.
He knows it happened, kind of.
He recalls certain parts, although that stuff has probably been tampered with to the point where half of that shit is fake anyway.
As he sits there, on a wooden bench which has seen better days, uneven underneath his body, Momiji continues her little talk with the—is she a helper, some kind of teacher? Either way, there are many nods and ‘oh no, that’s such a shame, you loved that bear!’ leaving Sousei time to put himself back together. There aren't any children around, and it’s a relief, as he doesn’t think he could handle noise or anything right now.
That freedom, that pretend happiness they show to the world, it remains fake, doesn’t it?
Until he takes control of it all—he will crawl his way out of fate’ grotesque body, creating something impossible to overthrow this time around.
(The Neo-rangers don’t matter to him.
They’re merely temporary allies he’ll seek soon enough.
They can provide shelter for Momiji, in spite of being as pathetic as the people they try to imitate.
He can use them for the time being, that’s all.)
There is a box of opened cookies on the table, and a bottle of orange juice with plastic cups stacked so people can get something in their stomach. If he were to ask, Sousei guesses he could have a proper meal there. Something warm.
Instead, he opens the bottle, filling a glass for himself, and another for Momiji (off on a little adventure into a backroom where they probably store donations).
Not having her in his line of sight causes him to grit his teeth together, which, in return, reminds him he is still recovering. Or so he should be. For his body is stronger than ever, as long as he turns his brain off.
Once again, he doesn’t have anger issues, it’s merely his stunning sense of justice guiding his body akin to a something holy and unstoppable, you know?
The orange juice tastes extremely chemical, still it’s not expired, for once. The slums, where people have to deal with deformed or stained clothes thrown in a donation bin while people pat themselves onto the back. Not to mention the food laying in cupboards for months, only to be given to a local charity that the rangers probably sponsored to gain positive attention—that’s all a ruse, a careful marketing scheme.
Sousei’s teeth leave a dent in the plastic cup, and he feels nothing at all.
That won’t happen again, Momiji will get everything she wants, just like Sousei.
(Except for Sanae, right?
Enough of clones and spares.)
“Sousei!” He lifts his head, realizing blood is dripping inside the cup, red melting into distilled orange (more water than juice for sure), one drop after another. Did he bite his tongue? As he runs it against the roof of his mouth, he realizes torn plastic ripped his lower lip open. “Don’t do that to yourself, I’m here.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
She gives him a stern look which pales in comparison to how she was a couple of days ago, yet it’s something. She climbs onto the bench, sitting on her knees, grabbing a napkin to tap the corner of his lips lightly.
“You’re the careless one, just so you know.”
For you, he ought to reply, I’ll kill everyone in our way.
For our future, I’ll carefully pry apart people’s bodies until guts and flesh are separate entities.
Instead, Sousei shrugs, not quite feeling (anything) like painting a fake smile over his lips.
That’d make the bleeding worse.
“Then you have to keep an eye on me.”
“Of course. Until the end.”
“Until the end.” Isn’t this their new everlasting promise? The words they’ll say every time? Ah, it doesn’t sound so bad, he supposes. “Did you find a suitable toy?”
“Here is the new bear,” she announces, putting the napkin on the table after wiping her fingers with the clean part of it, “can I keep it?”
Well, that thing—missing an eye, the fur tattered in some parts—nothing like the companion she had before.
They can rip the other eye off, find a prettier pair. Cutting off damaged fur, sewing patches of a brand new one into a makeshift surgery—”of course.”
“Thank you, Sousei, you’re the best.”
As she takes a sip of her drink, bear on her lap, Sousei tells himself they’ll be just fine.
He is, in fact, the best.
The savior—villain to many, hero to one.
“Take a cookie, we’re going to visit our new friends after that.”
“Oh. Will they welcome us?”
She sinks onto herself a bit, chin resting on top of the bear’s head. Must be itchy, and it should be soft, should be perfect.
“They better. After all, they need me.”
“What about me though?”
“As if I would leave you behind.”
Where would be the cheers, the attention he needs to exist as Sousei—as she leans against him, hair brushing against his arm, he exhales softly. He can craft any excuse he wants, he needs her as much as she needs him, right now.
Yeah, this is going to work out.
As he finishes his drink, orange juice mixed with his own blood, he wonders if Shinya’s will feel the same against his lips, once he rips him apart.