iii.
[action; private]
[Nagi takes a walk.
It's night. His clothes fit a little too well. He's barefoot- the shoes here are well-made and comfortable, but he wants to feel the street and the grass, to remind himself that this is neither a dream nor a nightmare. No matter how strange it's become, this is his reality now.
Nagi walks along the streets of the neighborhood, hand rising to rub his throat every once in a while. It's been over a week now and he still hasn't gotten used to the sound and feel of his own voice in his own throat again, of speech that requires the use of his own lips. That is not, of course, the only thing he's having trouble getting used to.
Eventually he takes a seat on a bench beneath a streetlamp, slouching down and staring up aimlessly at the sky. It doesn't look any different from the one he remembers- but is it really his own? Is this even Earth?
There are thoughts he's been running away from. The battles are over, the shock of arriving in Mayfield has worn off, and there's a part of himself that needs to be confronted if he's going to have any hope of retaining what little sanity he has left. He can't focus in the house, not when those children smile up at him with those bright, somehow lifeless eyes. Sitting on a bench on the side of the road isn't exactly the peak of self-psychoanalysis, but it's a start. Breathing deeply, Nagi closes his eyes and silently repeats three truths to himself.
I have been lying to myself for two years.
I am a murderer. I killed my own men.
I am dead. Before I awoke here, Genkaku killed me.
And the final truth, the one he's been dreading more than any other, the one that lodges itself in the pit of his stomach like a lump of black ice:
My child is dead.
This is where I break down crying, he thinks, but Nagi doesn't. His face barely moves. He stares up, unblinking, at the starry summer sky. There's pain there, as he goes over the memories again and again in his mind. Pain. Anger. Sorrow. Guilt. Hate.
But mostly, he just feels numb.
How long did he spend, fighting for what he has right now? "Freedom"? The feeling of wind on his face, grass under his feet, a family to call his own. Maybe he died after all, and this is Heaven. Maybe he can be happy here.
Nagi tells himself that, but even he isn't deluded enough to believe it. That's one lie even he can't convince himself is true. A prison is a prison, no matter how hard it tries to pretend not to be.
He repeats the truths over and over in his head. Liar. Murderer. Corpse. Madman. Nothing happens. He doesn't feel the fury, the blind hatred. In fact, Nagi doesn't feel anything at all.
He'd told that little girl it was important to keep fighting, and there were other people here who seemed to determined to do so. Nagi had spent the last two years doing just that. But back then, he'd had something to fight for. He'd had hope, and that hope had given him strength.
That hope had now proven to be an illusion. With it gone... what did Nagi have left? Karako and Ganta had brought him back from the brink of insanity, but they were gone now, back in Deadman Wonderland along with Nagi's... corpse. There was no chance of returning there alive. Which left... Mayfield. For all the strings attached, this place had given him a lot. He tried, but he couldn't think of a single reason to fight against it.
Nagi opened his eyes and sighed deeply, looking around at the surrounding houses.
If I don't have a reason, maybe it's time to find one.]
---
[the next morning; drone filter:]
I have a question, for those of you who care to answer.
Why do you want to return home?
[Nagi takes a walk.
It's night. His clothes fit a little too well. He's barefoot- the shoes here are well-made and comfortable, but he wants to feel the street and the grass, to remind himself that this is neither a dream nor a nightmare. No matter how strange it's become, this is his reality now.
Nagi walks along the streets of the neighborhood, hand rising to rub his throat every once in a while. It's been over a week now and he still hasn't gotten used to the sound and feel of his own voice in his own throat again, of speech that requires the use of his own lips. That is not, of course, the only thing he's having trouble getting used to.
Eventually he takes a seat on a bench beneath a streetlamp, slouching down and staring up aimlessly at the sky. It doesn't look any different from the one he remembers- but is it really his own? Is this even Earth?
There are thoughts he's been running away from. The battles are over, the shock of arriving in Mayfield has worn off, and there's a part of himself that needs to be confronted if he's going to have any hope of retaining what little sanity he has left. He can't focus in the house, not when those children smile up at him with those bright, somehow lifeless eyes. Sitting on a bench on the side of the road isn't exactly the peak of self-psychoanalysis, but it's a start. Breathing deeply, Nagi closes his eyes and silently repeats three truths to himself.
I have been lying to myself for two years.
I am a murderer. I killed my own men.
I am dead. Before I awoke here, Genkaku killed me.
And the final truth, the one he's been dreading more than any other, the one that lodges itself in the pit of his stomach like a lump of black ice:
My child is dead.
This is where I break down crying, he thinks, but Nagi doesn't. His face barely moves. He stares up, unblinking, at the starry summer sky. There's pain there, as he goes over the memories again and again in his mind. Pain. Anger. Sorrow. Guilt. Hate.
But mostly, he just feels numb.
How long did he spend, fighting for what he has right now? "Freedom"? The feeling of wind on his face, grass under his feet, a family to call his own. Maybe he died after all, and this is Heaven. Maybe he can be happy here.
Nagi tells himself that, but even he isn't deluded enough to believe it. That's one lie even he can't convince himself is true. A prison is a prison, no matter how hard it tries to pretend not to be.
He repeats the truths over and over in his head. Liar. Murderer. Corpse. Madman. Nothing happens. He doesn't feel the fury, the blind hatred. In fact, Nagi doesn't feel anything at all.
He'd told that little girl it was important to keep fighting, and there were other people here who seemed to determined to do so. Nagi had spent the last two years doing just that. But back then, he'd had something to fight for. He'd had hope, and that hope had given him strength.
That hope had now proven to be an illusion. With it gone... what did Nagi have left? Karako and Ganta had brought him back from the brink of insanity, but they were gone now, back in Deadman Wonderland along with Nagi's... corpse. There was no chance of returning there alive. Which left... Mayfield. For all the strings attached, this place had given him a lot. He tried, but he couldn't think of a single reason to fight against it.
Nagi opened his eyes and sighed deeply, looking around at the surrounding houses.
If I don't have a reason, maybe it's time to find one.]
---
[the next morning; drone filter:]
I have a question, for those of you who care to answer.
Why do you want to return home?