Chapter Text
Epilogue: Ballad of the World Beyond, Sung from a Forgotten Body
[???]
You were sick of seeing your face in the mirror, so you smashed it to pieces.
It wasn’t easy. Height is still an issue, and your legs gave out when you tried to climb to your tiptoes. The medical instrument next to your bed made for a good projectile, but, problem: there was glass in your bed. Goodie.
The sound brought in a nurse who cleaned up the mess. She took your vitals, disconnected the wires that snaked through your hair, and went on her way, kindly leaving you with nothing to do. At least you don’t have to look at not-you in your bland hospital gown anymore.
The room is a single, but you know the others are here. All fifteen of them plus you, because if you’re here, they must be too.
But she won’t let you see them.
She smiles when you ask.
“It’s cute how you think they’d recognize you after all that,” she says. She’s dressed the same as you but is mobile in a chair. “I hardly recognize you myself, you know.”
You roll your eyes and ask again, but she dismisses the question with a flip of a page she’s got on a clipboard.
“I’m under obligation to repeat my final words of the game. ‘The winner’s prize was to be their price paid to enter,’” she reads. “‘As all participants were declared a victor, the prize has been equally distributed among all participants. This condition was agreed upon by the participants who made it to the end of the game. There would have been no loss on return if only two participants had won.’” She lowers the paper and smiles sweet as vinegar. “I hope you’re happy with their decision.”
You prefer not to tell her, and imagine throwing your pillow in her face would make for a good homecoming gift.
The nurse rolls in a TV for your viewing pleasure, old-school VHS-style, but you refuse to watch. You don’t need to know how it ended. You can ask the others when you’re reunited. They’ll probably have lots of questions, especially the ones who died. Waking up was super disorienting, and you made it pretty far in the game. Kayday will probably cry. She’ll think it’s hell that she survived after killing Ranmaru. And if Tsumongo’s conversation with you is anything to judge by, she won’t fill them in on the details…
Wait.
Tsu—Tsu—
mug…
…who?
The remote is in your hands, and the tape is rolling.
You watch as the cameraman falls out of a locker and makes their way to the gym. The view pans around the room. Everyone is there except for one; the cameraman himself: Beepbot, his eyes recording from the very beginning.
That isn’t right.
You watch as introductions are made, as Kakto excitedly exclaims how spectacular it is to be in a room full of Ultimates, as Hamako says it’ll be a big pain, as Engie ensures they will be protected by a higher power.
No!
You watch as the cubs barge in and threaten with cuteness and cruelty, while Goku stands tall and declares that he will protect everyone.
Your hands fly to your mouth. What is wrong with you? Why aren’t you getting it right?
You watch as the camera focuses on the person you know the best. The person you’ll never forget. The one who made promises without words, and who remembered to save you across the timelines. His name is—
His name is—
The nurse finds you screaming.
They screwed you. They completely fucking screwed you. The Mastermind said that only two winners would be paid the prize in full, but since the survivors broke the killing game, the same amount of prize was to be distributed equally amongst everyone.
You assumed the prize was money.
You assumed wrong.
The killing game took your memories twice. Once as collateral when you joined. And now at the end, when they couldn’t pay you back.
You take in a deep, calming breath, and slowly let it out.
In and out.
In and out, and in and out and inandoutandinandoutinand—
The bedsheets fly as you scramble towards a stack of paper as perfectly placed as that damned mirror. You take it anyway, and copy down the names from the video subtitles. If someone is in focus, you can retain the shape of their face and the sound of their voice. But move off screen, and a timer starts; it’s a few quick seconds before they fade from your memory.
Soon, it’ll be like the killing game was nothing more than a bad dream.
No. To hell with that. These are your friends. Your memories. You grab onto them with both hands. The game may have taken their names and their faces, but you still have your code. You’ve communicated under worse circumstances. Death is not at your door this time.
You think back and remember something happy. You were playing with butterflies hiding among the ceiling lights. Step through it: how did you get up so high? You were riding on someone’s shoulders; that had to be Ten. You look down at your notes: number ten is Gonta Gokuhara.
Okay, good. Even though you forgot his name, you still remember the event.
Next, why were there butterflies? It was… a place that Ten tended to with his entire heart and soul; his lab. You were there for a pretty bug party to celebrate his recovery.
Again, good. You still remember his talent, or at least, the kindness and the passion that are core to his person.
Back to the questions. Was it just the two of you in the room? No, others were there too. One of them took some convincing, but in the end, Fourteen danced among the bugs, and Twelve invited them to play in her hat.
Yeah, yeah. That sounds right. That feels right.
You try another.
You think back to the moment you knew it was Game Over. You and your Partner found the long-dead Three in your lab. It was definitely a fluke; you weren’t supposed to find her yet. Her death was probably going to be used to frame you, but instead you used that awful incident to force the Mastermind’s hand.
It’s a little easier to remember the details this time.
What else… what else…
After the initial shock of finding Three, you snuck away from your classmates to recruit a tradesmaster. She would drool if she heard that title. Yep, it was Sixteen. You gave her the notes you wrote the night before: proposals for half a dozen different ideas to save your life. She balked. You bickered, but she called your bluff. Said your insults weren’t delivered with your usual gusto. She got quiet and got to work.
Next, you went to trial and got murdered. The black and white bear collared and drugged you. You woke up tied and bound in the virtual world with the Mastermind leering at you. She told you to fear death, and you laughed in her face. You had a backup imbued with your soul, and you had your Partner. They would take care of the rest.
The Mastermind logged out dissatisfied because you weren’t begging. You felt the poison soon after. Your memory stops there.
You set aside your notes and return to the video, watching from the beginning until the moment of your death, and then the camera skips, and the day is reset without you. There’s your dead body over there in the closet, yet you still show up to the courtroom, guns blazing, bravado to the max, telling your story. At least five times you rewatch the trial and hotel scene with your other self, knowing full well that he never had a chance. You never gave him one before, so you give him your full attention now.
The video plays to the end. Static covers the screen when you finally sleep.
A lot of time has passed since you first woke up in this room. It has to be at least a week, right? You’re not really sure. You don’t track meals or when the nurse comes to assist and offer physical therapy. The killing game video was already edited to skip over periods of sleep, so your sense of time is off. You don’t bother asking the nurse, either. It’s clear she’s not one of you.
You rewind the tape and start at the beginning. Now that you know how it ended, and that you’ve seen the secret of the so-called ceiling collapse as it unfolded, you can thank the ones who brought you here. It was the right decision to play for a total victory, even though you can barely keep things straight anymore.
You draw their faces. It’s impossible to do without looking at the screen, but you try your best. By the time you reach the second trial, you realize the futility of it—if your face isn’t the same as it was in the killing game, theirs won’t be either.
Doesn’t matter. You draw until the video ends.
You rewind the tape and start over, this time muting the volume and focusing on their mannerisms. The twitches of eyes, the smiles, the looks of fondness and determination, these things won’t change. Regardless of what they look like, they will act in the way that resonates with who they are. You add notes under your drawings, and whisper their names when they flash across the screen.
You rewind the tape and start again, closing your eyes and listening to their words. Not necessarily the sound of their voices, but their attitude and their cadence.
When your Partner gives his final speech, your eyes snap open and you take in everything he is. You can’t help yourself. You never could. You trusted him from the very beginning when you let him kiss your wrist and give you his sock. He’s magnificent, and you’re greedy.
You keep the video paused on him so you can fall asleep together.
Someone comes to visit after you watch another iteration of the killing game. You can walk again; that’s how you know a lot of time has passed. The moment you could, you tried the door, but it was locked. Unfortunately, they had the foresight to remove anything that might be used as a pick.
The person remains by the door with a smug expression.
It’s that Bitch number Eight. The Mastermind.
“The detective was right,” she says. “This is the perfect ending. Now what was his name again? Hmm. Hmm. Ah! It was Shuichi, wasn’t it?” You keep your expression indifferent.
“You’re cleared to leave tomorrow. Most of the others already have, but you’ll never find them again. Once you step outside this building, you won’t be a celebrity. No one will know your face. You’re just a normal person with fantasies of the best killing game to date.
“And that desire to break the game from the outside? I think you now understand that it’s plainly impossible. That’s why the terms were agreed to. Nothing to say to that? Surprising, coming from you.
“Wanna know something fun? I lied before; the losers wouldn’t have been stuck inside the simulation. They would’ve been brought out, but their memories completely wiped. And never having known they’d taken part, they’d unknowingly and emphatically root for their own deaths as they rewatch the footage of the game. There’s poetry in that, but I like this ending better. Everyone suffers. Nobody wins.”
She goes on and on until you curl up on your bed. She leaves satisfied in knowing she finally broke you. When the door clicks shut, you jump out of bed. Easy. She must have forgotten that you’re a liar, above everything else.
The next day, you dress in the boring clothes left in the closet, and begin your search. The city is unfamiliar, but you use the money so graciously given to you to buy a map. The pocket change is the only thing you’ll willingly accept from the gamemasters, and only because it’ll be funny when it leads to their downfall. You accept the clothes too, because you can’t very well run around town in a hospital gown. Getting arrested is not part of the plan.
Locations are going to be important. You’re taking a major leap, but the Mastermind confirmed you’re in the same city, so it’s a start.
You visit the arboretum to see the bugs at 10am. You buy a ticket for a piano recital at 11. A street fair with a magic show is at noon. You don’t know where to go at 1pm—your hour, 13:00—so you try a casino some days, a pool or hotel the others. You even frequent the nearby detective agency at the ungodly hour of 1am, but it’s always the same; you don’t see anyone who looks like they are also looking for you.
The notes you make of your code and its associations are meticulous. It’s slow going, moving through the city like this, and eventually you’ll have to revisit places you’ve already crossed off because you don’t know if your Partner is maintaining the same list in the same order.
You don’t know if he’s engaging in this insane city tour at all, but it’s all you’ve got.
You get a job at the arcade because your search is expensive. On your break, you enter both your and your Partner’s in-game initials when you win the high score. Of course, you have to check your papers to get the names right. Annoying.
You make plans to buy a notebook to more properly record your memories at some point. The pages from the hospital are worn from constant examination.
The art class is always full at six in the morning, but today in the window is an oil painting of three silhouettes. One is holding a stack of old books, another a paintbrush and palette, and the other, a handful of flowers and bugs nestled inside. Pink question marks are painted over the faces. The style looks familiar.
You opt for some new clothes. A black tank under a white collared shirt. You roll the sleeves to your elbows and keep it unbuttoned.
The planetarium isn’t open at 2am, but you loiter out front until a security guard raises an eyebrow.
“What do you think of the rain?” you say.
The guard looks questioningly towards the cloudless sky, and you continue on your way.
You begrudgingly visit a costume store at eight, and end up buying a purple marker. You’re not a fan of tattoos, so you apply it to the skin on your wrist everyday.
You sign up for an aikido class at 2pm and get your ass kicked. You get on the waitlist for a history exhibit, and line up at 7am when it’s your turn. After, you go to a nail salon and get black tips. Your Partner probably doesn’t know about Nine’s penchant for nail design, but this, you do for yourself.
You really should invest in that notebook.
You stay at a science museum for two hours in the evening. No one there cares to discuss the rain with you.
The laundromat is empty at 3am.
There’s no assassin’s club in the city. Not that you want to visit, really.
The tennis courts are under renovation.
You decide to get the notebook.
Your first repeat trip is at 1:03am.
The facility you woke up in turns out to be a regular hospital. Nothing about it screams ‘killing game participants were here,’ yet somehow they pulled it off. There’s a park out front, so you lay down a blanket near a tree and start to copy your notes onto a fresh page. You kick your feet in the air as if you were outside the dorms. You want to twirl your hair like you used to too, but the length makes it harder now.
It’s quiet, and it’s nice, until soft footsteps through the grass alert you to the fact that you aren’t alone anymore; someone is coming your way.
Not completely odd—it’s a nice night, afterall. And given your recent string of outings, you’re used to meeting a few night owls. You always start with your opener about the rain, and they usually leave you alone.
The person stops in the middle of the grassy field far from your tree, and lays out a blanket of their own. Their attire is dark and somewhat formal—you’d peg them as a stiff, but one bright pink sock sticks out from under the pant leg. Just the one sock, though, so maybe not a complete stiff, but someone in need of serious fashion help, nonetheless.
You move on from the tragedy of their socks and keep copying your notes. The page with your Partner’s face is starting to fall apart. You don’t remember what he looked like anymore, and you refuse to look up media of the killing game, so you focus on tracing the image you drew in the isolation of your room when you realized you were still alive.
It’s one minute before your 2am alarm by the time you finish the picture. You pack your notebook and prepare to move to the next location on your list. The person in the field is stargazing. You look through the canopy of your tree towards the sky too, wondering if there’s something special about tonight. Or, it could just be the person fell asleep with their eyes open.
The alarm goes off, and the person startles, frantically looking around. If they weren’t awake before, they are now. Whoops. They probably didn’t even realize you were there. You poke out from around the tree to make your presence known, then you realize you never asked your usual question. You were distracted by their terrible socks. The way they’ve got a hand on their heart in shock almost makes you think better of it, but saying something irrelevant would be better than straight up leaving after you did this to them.
“What do you think of the rain?” you say as you cross the lawn to their spot.
They scramble to stand to meet you. “Huh?”
“The rain. What do you think of it?”
“It’s… it’s not raining.”
“That it is not.”
“Then why ask about it?”
“Just cause it’s not raining, doesn’t mean you can’t have an opinion about it.”
They hold a hand over their mouth, as if trying to figure out the trick behind the question. There is no trick, but there is only one correct answer. And only one person who would know it.
“Well then…I guess I’m indifferent to the rain.”
The city lights dim, just a bit, and not for long, but enough to take you out of the moment. The structures and buildings that so prominently rule the city vanish, and in their place, a room constructs itself around you. A familiar room. One that holds mysteries, and whiteboards, and discussions of forgotten clues left behind.
You blink, and the city is back in place.
“...Huh.”
Your legs wobble, and they offer you a seat on their blanket. You take note of their one pink sock again, and see the other hanging out of their pocket. You sit down.
“W-What about you?” they say. “Do you, um, like your job?”
You’re in the room again, watching their lips move as they admit their desire to be anything but the ultimate detective.
Is this… Do they know what they’re doing to you right now? It’s on purpose, isn’t it? They’re seeing it too, right?
“I… I love my job,” you breathe.
They look hard at you. “No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t,” you agree.
The grass falls away, replaced by something softer with give. A bed. Your bed. It’s midnight in the academy and you are not alone.
“Want to know my most closely guarded secret?” you ask.
They hold out their hand and change between a fist, a downward palm, and a peace sign. Rock. Paper. Scissors. “I think I already know it.”
The city is gone. Your Partner is right beside you.
“Do you also know what I’m about to say next?” you ask.
“Yes. But, I want you to say it anyway.”
You smile at that one. The cheek of this guy to make you admit it again.
You lean across the bed to touch his face. It’s different, but you see him as he is, and as he exists in your memories.
“I love you. I love you. I love you,” you say.
A blush rises in his cheeks under your fingers. Beautiful.
“That’s not what you said the last time,” he mumbles.
“It’s a different game now, Partner. No lies. Only truths.”
He says your name.
You want to say his name, too. You know what it is. You remember it.
You open your mouth to speak, and the most obnoxious sob escapes your throat, and you bury your head in his chest to hide your tears and your reddening face. You’re not sure which display of emotion is more embarrassing, but frankly, you don’t care. You don’t care about the lie of your name and the lie of your past. You used those lies to solve the litany of mysteries in the killing game, revealing the truth and setting yourselves free. There is still work to be done to destroy the game for good and find your friends, but now, in this moment, with the two of you laughing and smiling together in your reunion, you know what absolutely is not a lie: the warmth of his hand in yours.
Ballad of the World Beyond, Sung From a Forgotten Body
[The End]
