Part VI.
VI
Thunder roared across the sky, sheets of grey crashing down on their heads from all sides. Mud and muck stuck fast to Kirihara's boots, tried to suck him back under every time he lifted a foot. "Are you sure we're going the right way!?" he yelled towards the beacon of red hair he was following, but the wind was blowing the wrong way and even he could not hear his voice. There was a nudge at his left shoulder, and he turned to see another of his squad mates behind him, waving him over before he veered too off course. He nodded, corrected his position and set off again, wondering where Marui got the energy to bound so far ahead, and glad he had Jackal to look after his back because it was the first mission for all of them, and it couldn't have been a worse day for it. There was no way around it, as Jackal said the moment the first drops of rain rolled in across the field. The noise would hide them well, and the rain would cover their tracks; any impediment would be on both sides, but they would have the advantage because they were the ambushing party. Sanada had been a good general-- he was still a Rikkai general, back when Kirihara first started-- and never let those under him subject to a surprise attack. He was not so careless. Not like the three of them.
Thick explosions sounded off in the distance, and Kirihara thought maybe they were too late, or too far, but then a second lit up the sky overhead and the clearing several meters behind, where they had just been crouching for cover, went up in a flash of flames before the rain smothered it damp grey and he understood the perils that was the wind. "Jackal!" Marui yelled, appearing by his side, eyes wild with terror until Jackal found the courage to laugh and confirm that he was all right, grabbing both by the arm and pulling the two of them forwards to prove it. Kirihara dared not let go of his rifle, as if it were any good out here, right now.
"They've started already," Jackal rose his voice above the competing winds and gestured out towards the Hyoutei lines, fumbling in surprise but would quickly pick up speed. The three of them were in prime position for ambush, right at the back of the Hyoutei reinforcements to pick them out before they were deployed, crippling the enemy before they even knew it. Hit and run, the key players identified and faces imprinted in the mind of each recruit responsible for the certain set. Kirihara located his target right away, the tip of his tongue pushing through in between his lips as he steadied the rifle about his knee, the other two doing the same several paces on either side of him. They would only get one shot, before their positions would be known and they would be fired upon, so all three of their shots must hit their mark. Once the head of the energy team was eliminated, the rest would fall into chaos, easy sniping for the veterans on their side. As Yanagi had debriefed them all just this morning, everything was accounted for. He saw to that.
"One..." He was seventeen years old. He had never held a gun in his hand before, had never taken a life. He missed his mother and his father and sometimes cried for them at night, even while surrounded by his new brothers, his squad. "Two..." He was the best shot in his group, the only one with enough concentration to get through the trainings without throwing up at least once their entire time, though there were plenty of when he came close. His finger shifted to the trigger, frighteningly calm in his excitement, crosshair steady. "Three!"
Three shots rang out as one, and a thousand meters away, three men dropped to their knees. "Yes!!" Kirihara had leapt up, and found Marui doing the same, pounding his fists in the air where it froze high above his head, no amount of water able to damp that blazing fire of a hair, triumphant. His face glowed from beneath sickly pale and muddied skin, eyes wild with abject terror and excitement. Tears streaked silently down his face, but whether or not he even realized, Marui did not show. As for Kirihara, he couldn't stop smiling. His throat tore open with each gasp that clawed its way out, the first time in months that he had laughed. His face hurt where his mouth stretched but he didn't care, all that ran through his head was how damn proud he was and how proud Sanada would be when they all were back to tell him the mission was a success. Jackal was yelling in his ear, tugging at his sleeve and then Marui's, but he allowed himself to ignore everything for just one moment, because for this once moment, everything was perfect. He had done well, he would make everyone proud, he was happy here, heart thumping erratically in his ears and his breath catching in his throat, time suspended.
Jackal opened his mouth again. No sound came out, but none had to-- his eyes said all there was to say. Kirihara spun on his heel, turned to Marui… His eyes shone with unnatural brightness, the corners of his mouth still lifted, stiff, a trickle of red spilling out unnoticed as he started back, not realizing his side was open and wet but not of rain. "What's wr--" he tried to say, but all that came out was a gurgle, thick red bubbling up from his throat and popped, splattering red and pink in the rain.
"Marui!" Kirihara cried, dropping his rifle and making a lunge towards his senpai as he folded over and fell, but Jackal caught his arm and pulled him forcibly away, shouting that they had to move, that they had been spotted, they couldn't stay here. "We can't leave him!" Kirhara yelled, voice ripping through the air, limbs flailing with a savageness and desperation he did not know he possessed as he tried to get out of Jackal's hold. The trees that were their cover shattered, the ground pockmarked where bullets peppered the ground and kicked up mud. "We can still save him! He's not dead!!"
"LISTEN TO ME FOR ONCE, AKAYA!!"
He went limp. Wet green eyes turned up at Jackal, who had never once risen his voice against him. Kirihara was picked up, just like that, a sack of uselessness flung over Jackal's shoulder and carried away, the sight of Marui's body growing smaller and smaller with every step until Kirihara couldn't bear to abandon him and so closed his eyes, preserving his senpai's image-- he had stopped moving then, eyes half-lidded and smile full of sorrow and abandonment-- from behind his eyelids, hot, wet, where he would be kept safe forever.
He didn't remember much of what happened after that. The two of them had made it back to the rendezvous without any other problems. They weren't the only group to return with only half their numbers. The mission as a whole was considered a success. It was still too early to pull out, in case of any stragglers; they would not abandon their men, but their dead was another story. It wasn't unheard of for an ambush to take place upon a field of corpses, thinning the numbers on either side. It wasn't like the best soldiers were never sent to reclaim the bodies: it was friends reclaiming friends, and some were even glad to die alongside those they worked so closely with their entire time here.
Kirihara wouldn't be the one going back for Marui. Hours later, he hadn't yet stopped crying. Jackal hadn't shed a tear. "He was your best friend," Kirihara mumbled into his arms where he had curled up against a thick tree trunk, ignoring the lump of stale bread-- kicked aside and softened by mud and rain, useless-- Jackal had brought over that was his share. "And you wouldn’t even go back to save him." Jackal did not say anything, silent the entire time he picked through his rations, chewing once a second, mechanically, not tasting what he ate. Kirihara did not know how he had the stomach for it.
"How did it feel, the first time you took a life?"
Kirihara felt his stomach clench horribly, and was glad he hadn't eaten. His eyes broke above his arms as he lifted his head, looked over at where Jackal sat next to him but a bit behind, their shoulders just touching but neither could see the other's face. He probably looked horrible; Kirihara wasn't sure he wanted anybody to see his face, now, or ever again.
"He was crying," Jackal went on, a soft voice, calm, speaking to himself so that he may have whatever comfort it offered. He didn't need to elaborate on who he was talking about; there was only one person on both of their minds, and Marui would haunt their dreams for years to come. Kirihara cast his eyes down again, into the darkness that was his chest and stomach. He remembered delirious joy, intense pride for that perfect headshot, and how the adrenaline surged through his veins, ready to take down another two or twenty or a hundred, however many more it took to feel such raw emotion again. He had grasped onto his rifle with such determination after the first shot, and hadn't let go until death fell upon not nameless, faceless enemies, but on someone of his own side, his family. The closest thing he had for a brother. He imagined the joy on the other side now, of a new recruit punching the air, commander dead at his feet but his first kill just as sweetly vindictive. How messed up was that.
That look in Marui's eyes, that was regret. It was realization and understanding. That was the right reaction, the reaction of any normal person who had spilt blood by his own hands. But he had frozen, and he was shot. While Kirihara was still alive.
It should have been me.
One day, that would be him, left face down in the mud. Alone.
And he had laughed. He had been so proud of himself. The more pain he could inflict, the more people he could make suffer, as if saying 'Look how powerful I am! Fear me!' And then he would be acknowledged, his name and face known everywhere; that was what he had wanted. He didn't know as much anymore.
As if he could read Kirihara's mind, Jackal's voice broke through his thoughts: "I don't think you should quit."
"Then why do you fight?" Kirihara asked miserably, shamed he could be read so easily, but he couldn't be the only one with these sorts of thoughts, not while half their numbers haven't returned, half of those never to return. He kept his voice low, just loud enough so that Jackal could head him and no one else. For all the thoughts of leaving that were whirling through his head right now, he knew dissent would not be tolerated. "…Jackal?" he prompted, after silence followed. He looked up and saw that Jackal leaned forward, shoulders cold, eyes sad.
"People fight for different reasons," he finally replied. The generalization made it sound like avoidance, but Kirihara could not blame him. "I enlisted because I had to, but I was supposed to have trained in medical. Then I met you two." There was a part of Kirihara that had always known, but hearing it was something altogether different. Jackal was not the type to be out on the field, happy with what he had to do, even if he were good at it. Marui was more similar to Kirihara, specializing in trick shots and always showing off during training. All Kirihara had a talent for was destruction.
Jackal stood up suddenly, and Kirihara almost fell over, not realizing how far he had been leaning back towards Jackal, seeking another's touch. "There are people who fight to kill," he said, voice strong and forced, eyes burning into Kirihara's, who flinched under the stare. "I fight to protect those I love. That's why stand here today: to fight for my country. I fight for my mother, left all alone at home with the only thought to sustain her being her son is out there, making her proud. I fight for my team, my friends, because if there is anything I can do to make sure you're out safely, that is my priority. That's why I left." He didn't say who. "You were still there, Akaya. I had to make sure you were safe. And that's why I'll go back, again and again so I can protect those that I love. That's why I fight."
He hadn't responded back then. He didn't know what to say. Night melted into day, pink hues pushing past the oranges and purples before blue overtook the sky. Kirihara saw none of that. His eyes were forward and since then he had sworn to himself never to look back again. "I'm going to fight," he said to himself, shouldering his burden of leftover supplies as the troop marched back to base. "I'm going to fight for Jackal and for Yanagi and for Sanada and Yukimura..." There was no more reason as selfish as fighting for himself. Instead, there was a fierce sort of love that burned, especially for Yukimura, in which he would do everything to make him proud. A single smile or a frown, no matter how brief or sincere, held so much power against him, swaying his entire mood for the day and making him sick to his stomach when he let Yukimura down, feel like all was right in the world when Yukimura praised him. He never wanted to disappoint this person that was so good to him in a way nobody else ever was, somebody so talented and amazing it was frankly an honor being in their presence. No one should hold so much power over a person. Yukimura knew, and used it to his advantage. Kirihara didn't care, so long as he got to be a part of this person's life, he would devote his own wholeheartedly.
But would you?
Kirihara snapped his head up just in time to see the streak of light before him, the stricken terror on the face of a recruit just meters away before his mouth twisted and stretched, his insides spilling out as his stomach tore to shreds, fire-- hot and orange and wet and red-- consuming his body. "Take cover!" one of his field officers shouted as men all around him dropped their packs and scattered. It was an open path-- there was no cover. Kirihara shed the bag and felt for his rifle; he had left it with another, in charge of the weaponry. But he couldn't just stay here, he would get left-- Alone. He turned this way and that, but everyone had already gone, the air screaming all around him, black closing in as if day were reverting back to night.
And then his stomach was on fire. He grabbed his side involuntarily but his fingers closed on rubbery hot wet-- he looked down and saw dark red soaking through where the middle of his body should have been, half there half spilling down upon his feet. He wretched twice and threw up water, dropping to his knees as his organs writhed in protest, no longer under the cover of skin. Intestines snaked across the mud, his stomach laying somewhere beside him, the rest too thick with red to make out. He thought that might have even been his heart, right there on his sleeve, but never more.
His heart hammered from under his ribs, feverishly, pointlessly, five times as fast, wasting the little blood he had left. He didn't feel pain. It was probably the shock, his mind stuck on the 'What happened?' even with the evidence splayed around him plain as day. He was dying, and by the peace and calmness that enveloped him, he had accepted it. Only, nobody came back for him. Nobody noticed he was missing, and the next time a person comes upon his body it would be weeks later, blood caked over his face and the rest of him too fetid and mutilated that there would be no second glance. He was dead to the world-- he had already been-- and everybody just walked on forwards, never looking back. The troop would move on, the country would win the war, and maybe months later, when his mother received the news, she would cry for him. He wouldn't know, because after death, there was nothing. And the nothing terrified him.
Everything was cold. So cold. He hated the cold. He closed his eyes.
This isn't how it happens.
Opened them.
Yukimura stood before him, eyes unkind, disappointed. "Akaya," he spoke, and the pity in his voice stabbed daggers into his body. What was he doing here? For the first time, Kirihara thought maybe he was dreaming. Yukimura tilted his head, and from behind his back, brought out a shoulder-fired missile, the end of which was still smoking "Let me put you out of your misery."
No! This isn't--
His ears filled with white as fire bloomed and expanded from behind his captain, casting the figure into an anonymous black. This isn't how it-- Then there was nothing, his mind floated for a brief moment before his consciousness scattered, devoid of a body attached to this world.
Part VII.
Thunder roared across the sky, sheets of grey crashing down on their heads from all sides. Mud and muck stuck fast to Kirihara's boots, tried to suck him back under every time he lifted a foot. "Are you sure we're going the right way!?" he yelled towards the beacon of red hair he was following, but the wind was blowing the wrong way and even he could not hear his voice. There was a nudge at his left shoulder, and he turned to see another of his squad mates behind him, waving him over before he veered too off course. He nodded, corrected his position and set off again, wondering where Marui got the energy to bound so far ahead, and glad he had Jackal to look after his back because it was the first mission for all of them, and it couldn't have been a worse day for it. There was no way around it, as Jackal said the moment the first drops of rain rolled in across the field. The noise would hide them well, and the rain would cover their tracks; any impediment would be on both sides, but they would have the advantage because they were the ambushing party. Sanada had been a good general-- he was still a Rikkai general, back when Kirihara first started-- and never let those under him subject to a surprise attack. He was not so careless. Not like the three of them.
Thick explosions sounded off in the distance, and Kirihara thought maybe they were too late, or too far, but then a second lit up the sky overhead and the clearing several meters behind, where they had just been crouching for cover, went up in a flash of flames before the rain smothered it damp grey and he understood the perils that was the wind. "Jackal!" Marui yelled, appearing by his side, eyes wild with terror until Jackal found the courage to laugh and confirm that he was all right, grabbing both by the arm and pulling the two of them forwards to prove it. Kirihara dared not let go of his rifle, as if it were any good out here, right now.
"They've started already," Jackal rose his voice above the competing winds and gestured out towards the Hyoutei lines, fumbling in surprise but would quickly pick up speed. The three of them were in prime position for ambush, right at the back of the Hyoutei reinforcements to pick them out before they were deployed, crippling the enemy before they even knew it. Hit and run, the key players identified and faces imprinted in the mind of each recruit responsible for the certain set. Kirihara located his target right away, the tip of his tongue pushing through in between his lips as he steadied the rifle about his knee, the other two doing the same several paces on either side of him. They would only get one shot, before their positions would be known and they would be fired upon, so all three of their shots must hit their mark. Once the head of the energy team was eliminated, the rest would fall into chaos, easy sniping for the veterans on their side. As Yanagi had debriefed them all just this morning, everything was accounted for. He saw to that.
"One..." He was seventeen years old. He had never held a gun in his hand before, had never taken a life. He missed his mother and his father and sometimes cried for them at night, even while surrounded by his new brothers, his squad. "Two..." He was the best shot in his group, the only one with enough concentration to get through the trainings without throwing up at least once their entire time, though there were plenty of when he came close. His finger shifted to the trigger, frighteningly calm in his excitement, crosshair steady. "Three!"
Three shots rang out as one, and a thousand meters away, three men dropped to their knees. "Yes!!" Kirihara had leapt up, and found Marui doing the same, pounding his fists in the air where it froze high above his head, no amount of water able to damp that blazing fire of a hair, triumphant. His face glowed from beneath sickly pale and muddied skin, eyes wild with abject terror and excitement. Tears streaked silently down his face, but whether or not he even realized, Marui did not show. As for Kirihara, he couldn't stop smiling. His throat tore open with each gasp that clawed its way out, the first time in months that he had laughed. His face hurt where his mouth stretched but he didn't care, all that ran through his head was how damn proud he was and how proud Sanada would be when they all were back to tell him the mission was a success. Jackal was yelling in his ear, tugging at his sleeve and then Marui's, but he allowed himself to ignore everything for just one moment, because for this once moment, everything was perfect. He had done well, he would make everyone proud, he was happy here, heart thumping erratically in his ears and his breath catching in his throat, time suspended.
Jackal opened his mouth again. No sound came out, but none had to-- his eyes said all there was to say. Kirihara spun on his heel, turned to Marui… His eyes shone with unnatural brightness, the corners of his mouth still lifted, stiff, a trickle of red spilling out unnoticed as he started back, not realizing his side was open and wet but not of rain. "What's wr--" he tried to say, but all that came out was a gurgle, thick red bubbling up from his throat and popped, splattering red and pink in the rain.
"Marui!" Kirihara cried, dropping his rifle and making a lunge towards his senpai as he folded over and fell, but Jackal caught his arm and pulled him forcibly away, shouting that they had to move, that they had been spotted, they couldn't stay here. "We can't leave him!" Kirhara yelled, voice ripping through the air, limbs flailing with a savageness and desperation he did not know he possessed as he tried to get out of Jackal's hold. The trees that were their cover shattered, the ground pockmarked where bullets peppered the ground and kicked up mud. "We can still save him! He's not dead!!"
"LISTEN TO ME FOR ONCE, AKAYA!!"
He went limp. Wet green eyes turned up at Jackal, who had never once risen his voice against him. Kirihara was picked up, just like that, a sack of uselessness flung over Jackal's shoulder and carried away, the sight of Marui's body growing smaller and smaller with every step until Kirihara couldn't bear to abandon him and so closed his eyes, preserving his senpai's image-- he had stopped moving then, eyes half-lidded and smile full of sorrow and abandonment-- from behind his eyelids, hot, wet, where he would be kept safe forever.
He didn't remember much of what happened after that. The two of them had made it back to the rendezvous without any other problems. They weren't the only group to return with only half their numbers. The mission as a whole was considered a success. It was still too early to pull out, in case of any stragglers; they would not abandon their men, but their dead was another story. It wasn't unheard of for an ambush to take place upon a field of corpses, thinning the numbers on either side. It wasn't like the best soldiers were never sent to reclaim the bodies: it was friends reclaiming friends, and some were even glad to die alongside those they worked so closely with their entire time here.
Kirihara wouldn't be the one going back for Marui. Hours later, he hadn't yet stopped crying. Jackal hadn't shed a tear. "He was your best friend," Kirihara mumbled into his arms where he had curled up against a thick tree trunk, ignoring the lump of stale bread-- kicked aside and softened by mud and rain, useless-- Jackal had brought over that was his share. "And you wouldn’t even go back to save him." Jackal did not say anything, silent the entire time he picked through his rations, chewing once a second, mechanically, not tasting what he ate. Kirihara did not know how he had the stomach for it.
"How did it feel, the first time you took a life?"
Kirihara felt his stomach clench horribly, and was glad he hadn't eaten. His eyes broke above his arms as he lifted his head, looked over at where Jackal sat next to him but a bit behind, their shoulders just touching but neither could see the other's face. He probably looked horrible; Kirihara wasn't sure he wanted anybody to see his face, now, or ever again.
"He was crying," Jackal went on, a soft voice, calm, speaking to himself so that he may have whatever comfort it offered. He didn't need to elaborate on who he was talking about; there was only one person on both of their minds, and Marui would haunt their dreams for years to come. Kirihara cast his eyes down again, into the darkness that was his chest and stomach. He remembered delirious joy, intense pride for that perfect headshot, and how the adrenaline surged through his veins, ready to take down another two or twenty or a hundred, however many more it took to feel such raw emotion again. He had grasped onto his rifle with such determination after the first shot, and hadn't let go until death fell upon not nameless, faceless enemies, but on someone of his own side, his family. The closest thing he had for a brother. He imagined the joy on the other side now, of a new recruit punching the air, commander dead at his feet but his first kill just as sweetly vindictive. How messed up was that.
That look in Marui's eyes, that was regret. It was realization and understanding. That was the right reaction, the reaction of any normal person who had spilt blood by his own hands. But he had frozen, and he was shot. While Kirihara was still alive.
It should have been me.
One day, that would be him, left face down in the mud. Alone.
And he had laughed. He had been so proud of himself. The more pain he could inflict, the more people he could make suffer, as if saying 'Look how powerful I am! Fear me!' And then he would be acknowledged, his name and face known everywhere; that was what he had wanted. He didn't know as much anymore.
As if he could read Kirihara's mind, Jackal's voice broke through his thoughts: "I don't think you should quit."
"Then why do you fight?" Kirihara asked miserably, shamed he could be read so easily, but he couldn't be the only one with these sorts of thoughts, not while half their numbers haven't returned, half of those never to return. He kept his voice low, just loud enough so that Jackal could head him and no one else. For all the thoughts of leaving that were whirling through his head right now, he knew dissent would not be tolerated. "…Jackal?" he prompted, after silence followed. He looked up and saw that Jackal leaned forward, shoulders cold, eyes sad.
"People fight for different reasons," he finally replied. The generalization made it sound like avoidance, but Kirihara could not blame him. "I enlisted because I had to, but I was supposed to have trained in medical. Then I met you two." There was a part of Kirihara that had always known, but hearing it was something altogether different. Jackal was not the type to be out on the field, happy with what he had to do, even if he were good at it. Marui was more similar to Kirihara, specializing in trick shots and always showing off during training. All Kirihara had a talent for was destruction.
Jackal stood up suddenly, and Kirihara almost fell over, not realizing how far he had been leaning back towards Jackal, seeking another's touch. "There are people who fight to kill," he said, voice strong and forced, eyes burning into Kirihara's, who flinched under the stare. "I fight to protect those I love. That's why stand here today: to fight for my country. I fight for my mother, left all alone at home with the only thought to sustain her being her son is out there, making her proud. I fight for my team, my friends, because if there is anything I can do to make sure you're out safely, that is my priority. That's why I left." He didn't say who. "You were still there, Akaya. I had to make sure you were safe. And that's why I'll go back, again and again so I can protect those that I love. That's why I fight."
He hadn't responded back then. He didn't know what to say. Night melted into day, pink hues pushing past the oranges and purples before blue overtook the sky. Kirihara saw none of that. His eyes were forward and since then he had sworn to himself never to look back again. "I'm going to fight," he said to himself, shouldering his burden of leftover supplies as the troop marched back to base. "I'm going to fight for Jackal and for Yanagi and for Sanada and Yukimura..." There was no more reason as selfish as fighting for himself. Instead, there was a fierce sort of love that burned, especially for Yukimura, in which he would do everything to make him proud. A single smile or a frown, no matter how brief or sincere, held so much power against him, swaying his entire mood for the day and making him sick to his stomach when he let Yukimura down, feel like all was right in the world when Yukimura praised him. He never wanted to disappoint this person that was so good to him in a way nobody else ever was, somebody so talented and amazing it was frankly an honor being in their presence. No one should hold so much power over a person. Yukimura knew, and used it to his advantage. Kirihara didn't care, so long as he got to be a part of this person's life, he would devote his own wholeheartedly.
But would you?
Kirihara snapped his head up just in time to see the streak of light before him, the stricken terror on the face of a recruit just meters away before his mouth twisted and stretched, his insides spilling out as his stomach tore to shreds, fire-- hot and orange and wet and red-- consuming his body. "Take cover!" one of his field officers shouted as men all around him dropped their packs and scattered. It was an open path-- there was no cover. Kirihara shed the bag and felt for his rifle; he had left it with another, in charge of the weaponry. But he couldn't just stay here, he would get left-- Alone. He turned this way and that, but everyone had already gone, the air screaming all around him, black closing in as if day were reverting back to night.
And then his stomach was on fire. He grabbed his side involuntarily but his fingers closed on rubbery hot wet-- he looked down and saw dark red soaking through where the middle of his body should have been, half there half spilling down upon his feet. He wretched twice and threw up water, dropping to his knees as his organs writhed in protest, no longer under the cover of skin. Intestines snaked across the mud, his stomach laying somewhere beside him, the rest too thick with red to make out. He thought that might have even been his heart, right there on his sleeve, but never more.
His heart hammered from under his ribs, feverishly, pointlessly, five times as fast, wasting the little blood he had left. He didn't feel pain. It was probably the shock, his mind stuck on the 'What happened?' even with the evidence splayed around him plain as day. He was dying, and by the peace and calmness that enveloped him, he had accepted it. Only, nobody came back for him. Nobody noticed he was missing, and the next time a person comes upon his body it would be weeks later, blood caked over his face and the rest of him too fetid and mutilated that there would be no second glance. He was dead to the world-- he had already been-- and everybody just walked on forwards, never looking back. The troop would move on, the country would win the war, and maybe months later, when his mother received the news, she would cry for him. He wouldn't know, because after death, there was nothing. And the nothing terrified him.
Everything was cold. So cold. He hated the cold. He closed his eyes.
This isn't how it happens.
Opened them.
Yukimura stood before him, eyes unkind, disappointed. "Akaya," he spoke, and the pity in his voice stabbed daggers into his body. What was he doing here? For the first time, Kirihara thought maybe he was dreaming. Yukimura tilted his head, and from behind his back, brought out a shoulder-fired missile, the end of which was still smoking "Let me put you out of your misery."
No! This isn't--
His ears filled with white as fire bloomed and expanded from behind his captain, casting the figure into an anonymous black. This isn't how it-- Then there was nothing, his mind floated for a brief moment before his consciousness scattered, devoid of a body attached to this world.
Part VII.