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And apathy of limb, the dull beginning
Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning,
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ;
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay,
To him appears renewal of his breath,
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain
Sweat drips onto the floor and groans of pain and exhaustion echo through the wide room. Pipes line the walls, and a blue hue from a single hole casts the room in a cool glow. The air is moist.
“Let’s regroup and try again!” Akamatsu had said for the fifth time. While some were plenty pumped up and desperate for escape, as Ouma looked around the room he noticed the others, himself included, were nothing short of defeated. Yumeno sat slumped against the wall, Yonaga sitting in prayer beside her, Chabasira on her opposite side pouring cheers of motivation into their closed ears. Across the room, five other students sat in a similar position, breathing heavily as their limbs shake from exhaustion. And, above him, Gonta crouched as encouraging affirmations spilt from his naive mouth.
Heavy with fatigue, Saihara stood up shakily next to Akamatsu. What a curious thing he is, Ouma thought. His reluctance was shielded by his warmth towards her. Momota stood proudly beside her as well, on his own will. He too was peculiar. They blissfully ignored the storm that was so readily closing in as they trusted and smiled and moved with ambition. It made Ouma want to laugh. Whatever was at the end of the tunnel, they’d never find it. And it may be a fair assessment to assume that it would make their situation far worse.
Against everyone else’s hesitance, Ouma revealed the truth to her. While she may have been upset, he saw the looks of relief on everyone's faces. With her acceptance of defeat, they all quickly scurried off. When Akamatsu gave her fearless declarations of unity and strength, of friendship and trust, he knew for a long time she would go quickly.
And when her body hung and swayed as blood leaked from various wounds, her color gone, and the fallboard collapsed onto her, he knew what must be done.
Ouma often finds himself knowing something that others don’t. Maybe a few things. As of right now, he knows that there is someone among them lying and conning. Harukawa stood rigid at her podium, with a blank but deathly glare cold as mountain stone, as she tried to defend herself as innocent. But, beyond just that, what he really knows is that there is also a fool among them. Because, across from her, Momota is feverishly defending her upon no basis.
Trust is like a game, Ouma thinks. He knows how to play it well. Be it tried and true, or deceitful and masked, it is a dangerous one. And when Akamatsu, someone who everybody poured their faith and love into, turned out to be a killer, he thought that they would all learn their lesson. But when he looks at Momota, who protects Harukawa so valiantly, he can’t help but laugh. Maybe out of pure humor at his absurdity, or maybe out of pure frustration at his idiocy.
He looks around the room. Saihara is listening like he really is considering Momota’s testimony. The sun beams through the stained glass casting lateral designs across his face. Ouma’s blood boils. When Saihara nods and agrees to look over the evidence again, Ouma steams.
There is one thing he does not know. Which is that, after they’re all tender from watching Tojo’s body splat against the ground, when he peels Harukawa’s mask away to show everyone the person hiding underneath, Momota still has that same look in his eyes. He stays by her side and holds kindly to her. It’s baffling, really. So when he trudges back to his dorm with a tire swing in hand, marks his board, and wearily cradles a screen that reminds him of trust, he tries so desperately to understand.
Frankly, Ouma is disappointed in Saihara. After his grand reveal of Akamatsu being the culprit despite parading behind her for so long, he maybe thought that his judgement could be trusted. But there he stood, as blood cascaded down Ouma’s face, with Harukawa next to him. How disappointing. His vulnerable position amped his heart beat, which pounded loudly against the ringing in his ears. Sweat basked him uncomfortably as he rose to his feet, fighting the swelling in his vision as he tried to overcome the dizzy spell.
Against the shocked and disturbed looks on their faces, Ouma used all the strength he could muster to force out a laugh and put a carefree smile on his face. “Did I scare you? Were you gonna scream and cry in terror?”
“Wh-What are you doing?” Saihara said shakily. Beside him, Harukawa had a look of disgust on her face. How boring.
Ouma opened his mouth to reply, but the ringing grew louder. He stepped back on one foot and took a moment to breathe as the ground he was staring at spun wildly, “Oh, sorry…I’m just a little light-headed from the blood loss. Yeah, this is real blood,” He explained.
Saihara's expression dropped to something slightly more weary. “Okay, so what are you doing?”
“I got curious about something, so I decided to search the empty room next door. Th-Then suddenly, I stepped through the floorboard.” He said honestly.
Then, Saihara shifted to something a bit more contemplative, “You stepped through the floorboard?”
The swelling and blurriness was increasing as he tried to speak, but he fought against it anyway, “Geez, that got me good. I tripped and fell pretty hard.” After he got the words out, Ouma bowed his head again as the swelling began to send shivers up his whole body, and his stomach turned.
“If you’re going to lose consciousness, do it after you tell us everything.” Harukawa said, kind as ever.
“Haha…” Ouma replied, turning his head back up despite the screaming in his body begging him not to, “I guess…there was no crosspiece supporting this floorboard, so I just kind of stepped through. What bad luck…”
Saihara seemed to quietly ponder something for a moment until a bell chimed loudly through the hallway. Its volume hurt Ouma’s ears, but he concentrated to keep his gaze careful and steady. As they shared a few other words and questions, the pair eventually wandered off towards the trial grounds, as Ouma made his way towards the men's bathroom.
As he pushed the door open, he saw Momota hurdled over the farthest sink, with blood splattered across the counter, running down his chin and dripping onto the floor. He was coughing hard, each vent of his spleen producing more blood that flew onto the mirror in front of him. Ouma stood as still as he could, peering through the wobbly cracks in his vision, as Momota wet his hand in the sink and furiously wiped the blood off of his face. What an interesting sight this is, Ouma thought. Maybe if he called out to him, Momota would help like he did Harukawa and Saihara. He wondered if they even knew. This doesn’t quite fit into Momota’s self proclaimed role now, doesn't it? Or, he could make his presence known and send Momota into a defensive panic. But as nausea begins to creep up his stomach, he simply beckons the door shut as quietly as he can, and turns to the girls bathroom.
After loudly kicking the door open and affirming that it’s empty, he cleans himself up, pulls himself together, and heads to the trial grounds, shoving any injury or vulnerability as far down as he can. But as the arguments ensue, he closely watches as Momota ducks his head, or forcefully clears his throat, and thinks to himself, maybe you’re a liar like the rest of us.
Ouma’s lungs are on fire as he dashes down the winding and twisting hallways of the school’s corridors. Although, he must admit to himself that he has it pretty easy compared to the man pursuing him. As Momota trudges down the halls not far behind him, yelling profanities and threats, the distance between them grows larger and larger until Ouma hears him erupt into a fit of sickness and collapse to the ground. He quickens his speed and tucks himself around a corner.
As he sits there waiting, he inspects the card key in his hand. The shiny plastic material reflects the lights above him. Wherever this goes, he doesn’t trust anyone with that answer. And it surely must be bad news if it can lead to another murder.
Once he’s sure that Momota’s pursuit has ended, he slowly begins to stroll around looking for where to use it. There are a few conspicuous spots he remembers deeming suspicious during his time here, regardless of not having any apparent spot where a key card could be used, but he wanders through the garden and strange locked doors in the school to attempt it. After failing each time, he ends up in the library, standing in front of the bookcase with a painfully obvious place for a key card to be swiped. If he were anyone else, it would likely be the first place they checked. But he likes to think that after all this time, he’s starting to learn that Monokuma doesn’t like to make the answer’s come easy.
Ouma knows that ghosts aren’t real–he’s never been much into religion or anything like it–but he stares at the spot where Amami had lay dead not that long ago. Then he stares back at the door that he had opened. He swipes the card in its spot, dust ricocheting behind it, and waits for a moment. But the door just stares back at him as if it's laughing. There is a growing pit in his stomach telling him where he knows he must use it, but he snuffs it for the rest of the day.
It's later that night when everyone is tucked into their rooms that he sneaks out into the backyard to try one last thing. He slowly inches himself through the ladder down the manhole, and turns to face the Death Road to Despair. Its ‘exit’ sign mocks him as he steps through its menacing entrance. The layout was just as he remembered it, seven deaths ago. The cages and bombs and fire stood intimidatingly in front of him. And, just to the left, was a keypad. He gripped the key card in his hand and approached it. Once he swiped, the electricity whirred, and he heard the bombs collapse to the floor, and the fires whistling quiet down. He glanced towards the path ahead of him, and saw all the traps sit silently and inactively, so slowly, he began his ascent.
As he twisted through the walkway, still wearily cautious but beginning to grow sure that this wasn’t some kind of sick joke, he began to wonder what would be waiting for him at the end of this. He had a high doubt in his mind that there was any kind of exit, and he shoved any vulnerable thoughts telling him otherwise away. Something in him begged to hope, but he knew when the truth came out that there would be a price to pay for that. He continued to ponder as the exit grew closer and closer.
After what felt like miles of walking, he finally reached the end. While he wasn't sure what to expect, a large vault protected by an electric barrier hadn’t quite been it. Its bright green light reflected across the otherwise empty and bland room. There was another key pad next to the door, obvious in its presence. Before making his move though, he stood there for a moment. Maybe this really was the exit, or maybe that was just a naive thought. He doesn’t like those. So he braced for the worst and swiped the key card across the pad. The electric barrier immediately disabled and, slowly, the vault grinded open. A cold wind rushed across his face, and the vault screamed as it revealed more and more of what was on the other side. As Ouma pried his eyes open against the wind to face it, a depleting feeling of hopelessness began to gnaw at his stomach.
He stood, wide eyed, facing a world with red skies, rotted buildings, and empty streets. It was silent outside except for the howling of the wind that creaked old light posts and loose curtains through broken windows. The sky was dark, only a slight opening between the black clouds allowing a hint of sunlight to bake the waste. The emptiness in itself was alarming, but paired with the condition of the city in front of him, it was clear that something very very bad had happened here. The skies roared at him and he didn’t dare to take a step any closer as he wondered about everyone who thought they had a chance at escaping. He heard a giggle behind him, but didn’t bother to turn around.
“Wow! Good work as always kiddo! Too bad the rest of your class couldn’t see it though, I was real excited for their reaction’s…” Monokuma said behind him. “But before you get your hopes up too much, you can’t leave. I just thought it’d be fun to show you the beautiful outside world you’re all missing out on!”
“So this is the outside world, huh?” Ouma said, turning to face Monokuma, pushing his gutted exasperation down and out of his voice.
“Sure is! I was hoping this would knock some sense into all of you ungrateful kids. We really do treat you so kindly here–I mean, just look at it out there!”
“Mhm,” Ouma hummed. “But you’re right. It is a shame the others don’t get to see this. You sure there isn’t another way we can show them?”
“Well, coming up with that whole key card idea was some hard work. Why don’t you just bring ‘em here?”
“Maybe. That’d be interesting.” Is all Ouma says as he turns again to face the outside world.
“Close the door on your way out!” Monokuma says as he leaves.
Ouma stares for another moment, before dashing back through the road. As he trudged back through the long walkway, and raced to his dorm room, he quickly began staring at his collected evidence. Every piece so far had now amounted to nothing. He furiously rearranged pictures on his drawing board, looked over blue prints, flipped through his journal, but something didn’t quite add up. There was a piece to the puzzle that wouldn’t slide into place. And it wasn’t until the morning announcement chimed from the television that one realization came to him and laughed in his face.
It was a lie.
Now, he just needed proof. And, when Iruma comes to him sharing her self-proclaimed genius idea of a new virtual world, a piece falls into place for his own personal puzzle. Now, though, he’s faced with two dilemmas. He first has to conjure up a plan to disprove the lie of the outside world, and now he also has to create one to save himself from Iruma’s plot to kill him.
The air of the virtual world was cold. That was the first thing Ouma noticed when he stepped outside with Gonta following behind him. The white cast over the grass and trees solidified one idea to him—Iruma really was a psychopath, because in an ideal world, why wouldn’t the weather be perfect and sunny? He shook his head as he and Gonta explored and packed the white blanket down under their feet, winding through the naked trees. When they stumbled upon the flashback light, he watched Gonta cry and question how this could happen. He shoved down any commiseration and explained what would happen next.
When Iruma was suffocating behind him, he didn’t turn to face her. He watched the snowflakes drift around him, dancing in the cool breeze. His fingertips pricked from the temperature. Behind him, he could hear gasps of air and choked out pleads, and just beyond that, Gonta’s sobs and sorrows as his brace tightened. He held his breath through it all. And finally, he heard her body collapse to the ground. He walked away and didn’t look back, and when he was faced with her cold, limp corpse sitting in those velvet chairs, drool running down the side of her chin, he pushed down the bile and led the investigation as best as he could.
Then, there's a fire burning wildly in front of him, and the heat blasts through the room and onto Ouma’s face. He stood there, watching, as it roared and consumed all that was in its path. The court is filled with dread and despair. Most cower beneath it, but Ouma stands tall and laughs in its face.
Whether or not the remaining competitors wanted to accept the sad fate that another student had succumbed to, Ouma didn’t need to hear them berate him for it all. A waste of time and precious breath, he thinks. When the rug is ripped out from under him, what more is he supposed to do? That's what he pounds into his own skull, anyway, as they all fire against him. Momota in particular is truly distraught. He has a childlike anger as he yells stubbornly, that would only be made more picture perfect if he were stomping his feet.
Try as he might all trial long, Momota could not deal a hand better than Ouma’s. Whether he argued the impossibility of Gonta committing a murder for any logical reason, or some concrete sealed idea he made up, there was a weakness in every fighting word he shouted, and like a predator on prey, Ouma eyes it and attacks. And now, when Momota charges at him, steam in his eyes, Ouma sees one loud and clear. He hits him where it hurts, and they all rush to Momota’s side. Saihara had said something to him, something cruel he thinks. He tried his best to close his ears and block it out. It didn’t matter, anyway. Everyone’s angry, but that's okay. It's only helping the train chug along its tracks. Ouma likes to think he’s conducting it rather well.
After laying out a few more parts for his plan, Ouma sits by the vault. In the distance, he can hear the rest of his classmates swinging their electrohammers at the bombs and traps down the road. He’s rehearsed his personal script many times now, but even he gets stage fright sometimes. Anticipation bubbles in his stomach as he waits for them to approach.
After Ouma reveals that he’s the mastermind, he observes something interesting. He watches everyone's faces grow dark and their voices quiet as dread fills the room. He knows that feeling. He’s been inside of it. Like when Monokuma told everyone why they were here, or when the first execution began and their circumstances set in. It’s a feeling that blankets you, like being immersed in water. It pools in your stomach and works its way through every nerve in your body until it can plant itself in your head. How interesting it is to see this from the opposite side, for the first time. Well, maybe not the first. When he revealed Gonta as the culprit, he watched it happen too. But when Gonta’s cries told everyone that he had no recollection of the incident, Ouma begrudgingly felt it himself. They all cry and sob and question how this could happen, as he suspected they would. For all the hope he had put in Saihara, what a detective he was, Ouma thought, as his shocked expression followed him to his knees. He scanned the room for any particularly confused cast. But the shock was equal on all of their faces.
A quiet buzzing rang through the hangar. Ouma sat planted against the wall with a notebook in front of him. Yellow and green lights colored the room in a sick glow as he shifted uncomfortably against the concrete floor. And across from him, the hydraulic press stared, its presence loud. Every once in a while, he’d hear loud coughing ring from the bathroom beside him. And when the stretches of silence grew longer and longer, his unease would follow suit. But they’d return again, each one more aggressive than the previous. Maybe he should have grabbed cough drops, Ouma thought to himself. There used to be banging and curses from the door as well, but those were short lived when Momota’s hope had fizzled out.
How strange that was. For all of his determination and insistence on never giving up, Ouma had to wonder if he had succumbed to that fate yet. Maybe he was waiting for his time to run out, or maybe there was rage building inside of him that would burst out all at once when it happened. What it was, Ouma wasn’t quite sure. But he knew the mastermind was conjuring up a plan to destroy him wherever they resided. He told himself he couldn’t wait. As his pen moved furiously against the paper, he laid every trap he could think of for when that moment struck. It was just a matter of time.
But being in solitude for so long does peculiar things to the brain. Ouma tried his best to repel any reminiscing or regretful thoughts. They itched at him aggressively, a hand begging to be dealt with, but he shooed them off as best as he could. Sometimes when the night time announcement chimed, they would seep into his head and solidify themselves. But he’d squeeze his eyes tight until darkness penetrated anything that was there.
One night though, he heard gentle whispering from the bathroom. Initially he thought maybe the solitude had finally driven Momota insane, but upon closer listening, it was clear some of the speaking was definitely a female voice. It was hard to make out who it was or what they were saying, but he knew his plan was begging to roll. He spared another glance at the press and sighed.
Momota was very gentle as he guided him up the stairs leading to the control panel. Even as his mind was growing foggy, that was something that stood out to him. As if he thought that after all this time, Ouma deserved a touch that was gentle. He laughed to himself as they trudged up each step together.
Momota gave him a concerned glance. “You okay, man?”
Ouma chose to say nothing. When they reached the top of the stairs, they both were spent. What a pathetic sight they must make to see, Ouma thought to himself. He stifled another laugh. The glow of the room was pulsing with his heartbeat, which attacked his chest violently as the poison raced through him. He had braced for this, so surely he was ready. Surely.
He turned to Momota, who was staring at him sadly. “Are you sure you’re gonna be able to do this?” He said, eyes darting towards the panel.
“Nervous I’ll kill you, Momota-chan?”
“A little,” Momota replied honestly. His frown deepened when Ouma shakily braced himself on the panel, allowing his weight to fall on his arms. He bowed his head as the pain of the poison ricocheted through him. Being honest with himself, Ouma had to admit he didn’t blame him. Death was all around them since they’d arrived at this school. How interesting it was to experience it first hand. Ouma assumed preparing for it would take away the fear when it happened, but whether that was just a naive thought or a lie he used to comfort himself, he couldn't tell anymore.
“Get down there, Momota-chan. I’ll try my hardest not to squish you.” Came Ouma’s reply. Momota hesitantly followed his directions, trudging down the stairs like a man through a sandstorm and delicately laying his jacket down upon the metal slab. Ouma kept his head down through it, trying to swallow the pain until Momota called out, affirming he was ready. With as much calculation as he could muster, Ouma pressed both buttons of the camera and control panel at once. The hydraulics roared to life, filling the quiet room with drowning noise as the unstoppable force echoed loudly, and he carefully watched it descend. While Momota kept his eyes closed and his expression careful, Ouma had no doubt he was terrified.
Just as he grew out of sight, Ouma slammed both buttons at once. The press yielded shut, and the noise drained out of the room, allowing a relieving silence to return. Having used most of his depleting energy, Ouma’s condition was growing far worse as he backed away from the control panel to slump to the ground. He forced himself to breathe in short, quick gasps, fighting the sharp pain that penetrated his lungs.
It took Momota awhile to reach the top of the control panel. Ouma heard his gruff breathing and heavy footed steps but didn’t regard his presence as his face pressed into the cool metal of the ground beneath him. He heard a shift of fabric beside him as Momota crouched down to press a hand to his forehead. “Shit man, you okay?” He said.
Ouma forced himself up on his forearms as Momota withdrew his hand. He crawled to allow his back to slump against the iron bars behind him. They uncomfortably rattled against his knobby spine like a xylophone, but the cold sweat and tingly pain racing through his body hurt far more than they did. He knew his act was next. Through dreary eyes, he looked at Momota. His face was drenched in apparent nausea and unease. “I’m peachy,” He managed to slur out. “Just give me a sec.”
“Y-Yeah man, whatever you need.” Momota replied shakily. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, before sitting next to Ouma against the rails. He left a courteous distance, but was uninvited regardless. It irritated Ouma, but he didn’t have the strength to bat him away, so he let his company remain. They sat in silence for a moment as Ouma stared into the press. He paved his own death march, and now it was time. But he fought all game long to be strong and brave and hide any vunrebilites–so now faced with his final moments, he let go and decided to let the fear in. He was terrified. He pried his eyes shut. “Tell me a story.” He said.
“A story?” Momota questioned.
“Yes, a story.”
“What kind of story?”
“Stop asking questions.” Ouma replied breathily.
“Uhm,” Momota stammered, “I’m not sure if you know this story, but I committed identity fraud to get into my astronaut exams,” He said. “I used some guys I.D and paperwork to get into the exam room. I spent all of my savings on paying him and taking the tests. My grandparents were pissed. I got caught, but I scored 100% on everything. They almost took me to court, but they were so shocked by how well I tested that they offered me an internship.” Momota laughed. “I thought you might like that kind of story."
“Wow, Momota-chan,” Ouma droughted, “You’re such a liar.” He gave up his spot against the bars to return to the ground, once again basking in the cool floor. He felt Momota tense up as the top of Ouma’s head pressed against his leg, but he didn’t move. “See, I told you lies can be a good thing.”
Momota let out an uncomfortable laugh, “Yeah man, I guess you were right.”
“I know.” Ouma said. His body began to shake. “We need to go.”
Momota looked like he was going to be sick. His breathing intensified, but he did not object or intervene. Instead, he gazed ahead, with nothing behind his sunken eyes. Ouma braced himself on his forearms, pushing up, but like a rubber band stretched taut, they collapsed underneath him. He let out a groan as he hit the floor.
“Hey, I got it,” Momota eased, scooting over to Ouma. At first, the glare he gave Momota was deadly. But, for a moment, he reveled in the quiet room. The buzzing lights. There were no other eyes in this room besides the ones staring at him like they cared. And, with his foot in the door to death, there was no real threat. So, for what felt like the first time, Ouma dropped his eyes to the floor, relaxed his muscles, and let himself be picked up and carried to his grave.
Momota held him close. He was warm like a fireplace. Ouma closed his eyes and basked in the heat. He couldn’t tell how long they had been walking. Maybe thirty seconds, or maybe five minutes. The time dragged through his head as every gentle footstep Momota took sent needles through his numb body. But then, Momota stopped. And despite the limbo of time, and the blackness behind his eyes, Ouma knew exactly where they were standing. Momota clutched him like some delicate thing–like he was being protected from a monster. Bringing Ouma’s head closer to his chest, Momota’s heartbeat pounded against his ear. It was fast, and loud, and an insulting reminder of what he was about to give up. He took notice of his own, shakily bringing a hand to his own chest. It was cold and weak–a low and uneven rhythm. He pulled his hand away. While the pain was agonizing, it was easy to rest in that moment. To brace, or hide, from the moment ahead.
They stood like that for a while. It almost felt as if they had found their own tranquillity in the center of the Earth, where nothing else existed but them. Nothing existed outside of this room. Like they could stay there, in that still moment, forever. Maybe Momota could. But Ouma knew they were running on borrowed time, and that the clock for the electro-bomb was ticking with every second they spent in limbo. He began to slowly wiggle in Momota’s grasp, “C’mon, Momota-chan. It’s time.”
He felt Momota swallow, hesitate, and then slowly began to move closer towards the press. “Wait,” Ouma interrupts, and Momota’s movement immediately comes to a halt. “I want this off,” Ouma says, beginning to tug at his shirt.
“Uh, why?” Momota questions as Ouma fumbles with the buttons.
“I need you to hide it somewhere,” Ouma replies breathily. “Like collateral.”
“I don’t think you will ever make sense to me.” Momota says, and then stops at what appears to be the gravity of his words. He exhales sadly. “You want some help?”
“I got it,” Ouma says quietly. His cold hands struggle with the straps and buttons for a while longer, but neither of them seem to mind the extra waiting. Once the final button is undone, the shirt parts in the middle to reveal Ouma’s bony pale chest. The air gets colder. “Okay,” He says, “Put me down.”
Momota moves slowly. At least, it feels slow. Crouched down and careful not to disturb the star-pricked jacket, he carefully sets Ouma down on the metal slab. He peels the jacket off of him, watching his shaking intensify before he lays himself down. “Do you need a second?” Momota asks.
Ouma stares up at his warped reflection in the silver metal above him. While it's not polished enough for any real noticeable features to be made out, he can clearly see the outline of his face, his pale white skin, and his hair sprawled out beneath him. He shuts his eyes tight. “No, Momota-chan,” He says, “Just do it.”
With a defeated trace in his posture, Momota stands to make his descent back to the control panel, but stops. “For what it's worth man, I’m sorry we could never see eye to eye. I wish I could’ve known what you were up to this whole time. I just,” He runs a hand through his hair, “I just wish things could have been better. And you were interesting. If that’s really important to you.” And he stays stopped in his tracks to wait for a reply. But Ouma can’t tangle through his head to create one for him, and an honest truth, or an acceptance of his apology feels a bit too much like a final omission of his death. So instead, he says nothing.
After the moment passes, he hears Momota continue his journey up. His footsteps halt again and a beat passes. “Uhm,” Momota stammers, “Do you want me to count down or something?”
“No,” Ouma replies flatly. He opens his eyes one more time. He looks at his reflection, then downward at his blanketed death bed, then turns his head to the metallic landscape. “Goodbye, Momota-chan.” He says.
And, he swears he hears something like a sob. “Goodbye, Ouma.” Another beat of silence. And then, the hydraulics whir to life. Ouma braces for the pressure, and the relief of the blackness that comes after.
May strike to those whose red right hands have bought
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep