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toonqueen · 4 years ago

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Duckvember 2020

--Game--

Just some OC stuff. Move along. Nothing to read here. NO BETA and NO WRITING GOOD DESCS JUST GOING WHERE THIS ENERGY DRINK IS TAKING ME.

PG-13 for the violence. Murder mentions. I’m sure there is a curse word. Fun on a bun stuff.

P.S. IT WAS BETAed THANK YOU @cataradical ALSO THANK YOU FOR THE ONE PART I WAS STUCK AT nnnngh

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“Now that I’ve got your attention, let's play a little game,” the canine antagonist’s voice drifted from the speakers, followed by loud, maniacal cackling. There was no sight of him, but the room wasn’t empty.

Faustina curtly stood up from the ground where she had fallen deep into the pit. She was less concerned about the menacing, dangerous voice as she was her clothes getting dirty. Although she was angry, it was more at her sister than this weirdo who’d trapped them here.

“‘Mr. Canis is so nice in the Nega-verse. I just wanted to see if his gas station was anything like the one in the Middle-verse. Your version, he’s such a kind old man, so… what if he’s an absolute grump here? How funny would that be… teehee.’” Faustina repeated words said to her earlier in a mocking tone. She looked around the room as she brushed off her skirt; a small cell with a single glass wall. “Yes, what a great adventure, /sis/,” Faustina growled, pounding on the glass angrily, “find out our good friend /here/ is a serial killer. /Fun times/.”

Faustina glanced up, spotting a TV screen mounted above the glass. Playing was footage of her sister, Felicity, hurrying down a hallway, surrounded by large, halved circular saw blades whirring in and out and along the walls. Faustina’s dark-haired twin was swiftly moving, twisting, dancing around them.

“/I am not a killer/!” the voice shrieked from the speakers, offended, disgusted, “I am merely a tool that creates the puzzles. It is Fate that decides who lives and who dies, not me.”

“Oh, /boy/. This is going to be a /hoot/ then. Fate. With this gal. /Wow/. Why not run me through your death maze too?” Faustina stifled her giggling.

“Because you are going to be the prize for when--or if--she gets through my CORRIDOR OF KARMA and the PRECIPICE OF SERENDIPITY,” the villain bellowed, causing the speakers to glitch a little.

Faustina had completely lost it, cackling until her stomach hurt and she doubled forward, banging a fist against the glass wall. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, her face sore from smiling so much. “Oh, you sad, poor little--if you /only knew/ her! Oh, man, where’s my phone?” She managed to collect herself, wiping away tears and sniffing a few times. A moment to gigglesnort before deep breath. “I’m going to have to record your reaction for later, Mister I Let Fate Decide, but I’m sure as soon as she gets through your stupid game, you’ll change your tune. I bet you made it so everyone loses no matter how hard they try, right? You’re gonna be so butthurt when you realize she’s gonna get through all that.” Unable to restrain herself any longer, Faustina started laughing and snorting again, arms thrown around her belly.

“Laugh now, fool. I hope you see her get torn apart. Behold! She just now entered the GAUNTLET OF THE GILDED-- wait, where did she go?” the canine gasped and choked.

Faustina looked back up at the TV as it started flipping through channels, all showing different chambers and mazes of torture and misery. Every single one of them… empty. Just as another channel turned on, Faustina heard a light shuffling coming from the ceiling above her head.

A second later, a panel on the ceiling right outside the cell room fell to the ground. Felicity climbed out until she was standing, face to face, with her sister on the opposite side of the glass.

Faustina huffed, hands on her hips. “About time. That took you a little longer than I thought,” Faustina complained to her “hero”.

“I would have gotten here sooner, but I felt obligated to read the name plaques he put up in each room. Masquerade of Misfortune was my favorite,” Felicity replied as she placed her hands on where the glass wall met a metal wall.

“How-- /How did you get in here!/ The vents don’t--don’t even lead here!” the voice hissed and snarled from the speakers.

“Well, they do now,” Faustina said on behalf of her sister. Felicity ignored them, tugging and prying along the strip of metal before peeling it loose. A line of bolts popped free.

“No matter! That was cheating! You’ve forfeited the game, and now you will see your sister suffer a gruesome fate,” the voice guffawed sinisterly. Liquid started pouring from the cell’s ceiling, right next to Faustina.

The trapped twin sniffed, and instantly knew what it was. “Gasoline? Really? Gonna set me on fire, huh? This is just getting more and more hilarious. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea. We need to do this every week. Man, if this jerk only /knew/,” she chuckled, casually pressing a hand up against the nozzle and stopping the flow of gasoline.

“Now, Felicity, was it? How ironic your name means “fortune”. Maybe you’ll be lucky by persuading me to let your sister live. Get on your knees, and /beg/ for her life,” their captor ordered, his tone much more disturbing and ruthless.

Felicity gave him the cold shoulder. “Heat would expand the glass, and then you can crawl out through this seam,” she explained to Faustina. “The bolts are out. You’ll be fine.”

“Are you not listening to me?” the voice raged. “You need to convince me to free your sister! I decide her fate!”

“Cool, cool, all right, hellfire. Got it.” Faustina put her fingers in front of her and started to move them like she was playing with an invisible cat’s cradle string.

“Do you not /understand/, you simpletons? All I have to do is throw a lit match and your sist-- /What in the fuc--/!” the voice changed from commanding to panicked when Faustina herself burst into flames. The fire had started from her own hands, and spread across her body. Flames rolled down her skirt, thick and magma-like, setting the fuel at her feet on fire. There was an immediate rushing blow of black smoke.

Felicity backed away from the hole so Faustina and her fire could do the rest. The escaping duck showed no pain from the flames. She just shrugged and climbed out. The speakers crackled but no voice.

“/Coward/!” Faustina yelled as she got out of the cell, rolling back the glass with the heat. “Why didn’t I think of this?”

“We are underneath a gas station. Might want to tone down the fire,” Felicity suggested. She looked up at where the fuel was still dripping. A few options on what to do rolled around in her mind. “Why is this bothering me more than any other villain we fought?”

“I dunno. More the peeps we beat up tend to rob banks or fight other heroes, so, uh,” Faustina said, the flames disappearing in wisps of black smoke until not even a spark was left. The entire cell floor was covered in flames still. Despite having been set on fire, not a single part of Faustina’s body, even her clothes, had been burned or harmed. However, there was black smudging along the hem of her skirt. “... You’re gonna get my dry cleaning bill.”

“Yeah, we’ve never had to fight a killer that's been taking out… defenseless people,” Felicity mumbled, still watching the dripping gasoline.

Faustina noticed the change in her sister’s tone. “Look, I can be a reverse conscience, bein’ all for tearing this guy apart. Is that what you want to do?” Faustina leaned in close to her twin, twinkle-eyed. “Really, I’d like to have that family bonding girls’ night /finally/.”

“No...” Felicity replied quietly. Another moment’s pause, then she asked, “Can you resurrect the bodies in the freezer?”

“Yes,” Faustina said without hesitation.

Felicity opened the nearest door, finding it to be a closet with the usual cleaning supplies. She handed Faustina a push broom. Not exactly what she hoped for but it would work.

“I’ll go after him. You get the victims out of here,” Felicity said as she pointed to the hole in the ceiling that Faustina had originally fallen from.

The blonde witch gave a nod and got on the broom, flying out the available exit. Felicity took a ladder from the closet, used it to climb up into a different opening.

-------

Mr. Canis, a mild-mannered gas station owner with a shotgun in hand, was now running out of his business as fast as his legs could carry him.

Well, not that mild mannered, since he would often trap a lone 3 AM traveler or two, and force them to play his sadistic death games he held below the gas station. “A sacrifice to Fate during the bewitching hour” is what he called it. And two tired women on a road trip were just the perfect meals to feed the beast.

Metaphorical beasts. Not monsters like these two were.

Mr. Canis had made a mistake. He had seen the warning signs! …Though, could the blonde filling the super size one liter soda cup with nothing but nacho cheese really count as a warning sign? After all, she did put a fifty dollar bill on the counter and said to charge her as much as he needed for extra cheese. This weird girl who he’d now just seen catch on fire and come out completely unscathed without any show or sign of pain.

Mr. Canis wasn’t going to stick around to see what the witch’s equally oddball sister could do.

To think an hour ago his biggest concern was she might be a cop. The way she had just... inspected things on the shelves so tentatively. Actually stood there at the counter for a moment, reading the back of a bag of chips. And then, when he was ringing her up, she just smiled at him like she knew him. Asked how his day was with a strangely large amount of curiosity.

Mr. Canis assumed the woman must know him--better yet, know what he did. Knew about the puzzles, the games. Knew about the sacrifices he had made to Fate. He could see it in her eyes.

There was a rattling of metal coming from right behind him. He ran across the small parking lot, toward the grass of the surrounding woods. He heard the rattle again. Like a horror movie, he just had to check, see the source of the sound--

The canine’s feet were back on the pavement. The rattling came from the steel door to the room containing all the fuel tanks. There was faint knocking from within--specifically one tank with a small “door” locked up. Mr. Canis laughed despite his fear; one of these so-called “powerful” women were now trapped by a simple metal lock on a rusty old door.

He stopped laughing when the lock broke after another couple knocks. Seemingly with no force either. With one more push, Felicity climbed out of the tank, drenched. Instead of the strong scent of gasoline, she was soaked in cola.

Mr. Canis was all the more confused when harmless brown soda could be seen (and smelled) in the fuel tank, instead of the gasoline that would be more harmful for this girl to swim in. He was frozen, flabbergasted. How could the hoses for the syrup to the soda fountains even be out here? They must have been diluting the fuel he was using for the traps.

When Mr. Canis snapped out of his daze, he found the black-haired duck glaring back at him in silence. If looks could kill, he’d be dead and buried.

Felicity had been excited to meet the Prime-verse counterpart of the Nega-verse gas station owner she was friends with. She had expected a grumpy version of the man that ran her favorite Nega-verse stop. Maybe throw out loitering teens instead of offering them free day-old donuts. It was going to be amusing. Be fun.

Not deadly.

Mr. Canis fired a shot at her, and it missed. Missed even at point blank. Sure, she had tilted her torso just slightly left, but it should have still hit something! Mr. Canis wasn’t an amateur when it came to firearms.

Felicity abruptly grabbed the gun. One hand around the top of the barrel, and the other farther down the shaft. Mr. Canis' finger was still curled around the trigger, and he fired another shot. In an instant, she bent and raised the barrel so the shot went into the air.

Felicity gained leverage and let one hand go of the gun. Her free one grabbed under the canine’s arm. Mr. Canis was on his back in a flash when the smaller duck flipped him onto the ground.

Felicity held the gun now, aimed expertly at her would-be attacker. “Get up. Get inside the gas station.”

“Look, this is all a misunderstanding. Obviously you have the blessed fortune to get through my maze of fate. You and your sister are free to go! Isn’t that wonderful? Go ahead and be on your way!” Mr. Canis was desperate; poor excuses, he knew, but he tried. Maybe the girl would be so in shock by what happened she would just leave?

Felicity was silent, and still glaring. In that moment, Mr. Canis wished she was more talkative like the blonde. He reluctantly got up, and headed into the gas station. Felicity followed, keeping the gun pointed at his back.

“I take it you two are going to tie me up and call the cops to come get me?” he chuckled, like he’d forgotten all about the insanity of the last ten or so minutes.

That peace did not last long. Faustina was sitting on the checkout counter. Three other women were in the station as well. Very familiar women. Awake, moving, but still cold from the freezer. Glassy eyed, they actually did not look fully alive. Just alive enough.

“Are there more? Because those woods back there look very iffy,” Faustina questioned, as casually as someone would when looking for their lost keys. She sat in her billowy dress, legs crossed and hands resting on one bent knee. She smirked wide when the murderer was too shocked to reply. “What? Nothing to say? What would you like to do, dearest sister?”

“We let him choose his fate,” Felicity finally spoke up. There was a glimmer in Faustina’s eye. She had never seen Felicity prone to actual violence. This was a treat. Though, she gave a disheartened pout when her sister just had to ruin it with all the lawful goody-two-shoes stuff. “We’re calling the cops, and you better sit still and stay here while we all wait for them to arrive.”

“Those three… How are they… what is… going on?” the panic returned to Mr. Canis’s voice. The same panic when he watched Faustina burst into flames as if it were nothing but a change of clothes.

“Idiot. You have the worst luck ever. You literally, /literally/ put someone cursed by Fortuna in your fate maze, and someone blessed by demons in your fire trap. How dumb. What a /moron/. /Absolute tool!/” Faustina complained and scowled.

“I’m sure your mood’ll improve soon enough,” Felicity said, eyes rolling. She waved a hand and turned away. “I’m stepping out to call the cops. I’ve got the gun on me, but I’m sure you can handle him if he tries anything funny.”

Faustina grinned, watching her sister leave. “No problemo!” She turned her grin, now more feral, to Mr. Canis as she cracked her knuckles. “So, hey, a couple of your ‘former customers’ wanna file some complaints about your little side business here. I recommend you take them very seriously.”

Mr. Canis whimpered, looking between Faustina and the three women lumbering closer. “Are you… are you going to kill me?” he gulped.

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to leave it to fate. Ladies, if you get rid of him before sunrise, the spell will resurrect you. The more pain you put him through, the better the rezz,” Faustina said and grinned before turning to leave the room. She shut the door on the horrified, high-pitched shrieking and crying.

Felicity stood outside, arms crossed, like she had just caught a child eating all the cookies from the jar.

“What? You prefer I don’t rezz them?”

“I’m pretty sure you can just transfer his life force into them without the--” Felicity’s words were interrupted by a blood curdling scream.

“Yes, but where’s the fun in that? Karma’s a bitch, after all.”

------

Lawd the baddies in the Saw movies piss me off would love monster girls to beat the shit out of them. HUZZAH.

#duckvember #duckvember 2020 #negaverse #felicity de spell #faustina de spell

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subasekabang · 5 years ago

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Limited Perspective

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 7800 (part 1 of 2 (part 2 in-progress))

Pairings/Characters: Eventual Minamimoto Sho, Minamimoto Sho/Sakuraba Neku

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Suicide/Suicidal Thoughts, Canon-Typical Discussion of Death, Swearing

Summary: Minamimoto Sho is a villain. That’s obvious.

Minamimoto Sho is a hero. If you look closely.

The truth is somewhere in between.

Sho knows there’s no such thing as truth; just perspectives and interpretations. He doesn’t give a shit about the past–he just wants to figure out how the hell he’s supposed to work with the fucker who tried to flatten everything Sho holds dear.

Partner: Roxas/Neku

Author’s Note: This is a companion fic to my 2018 entry Death of the Author, but it also stands on its own.

Sho swears under his breath as he scurries through back alleys, trying to regain the Composer’s trail.

Boredom. That’s what the soul of Shibuya was worth to the fucker who held all their fates in the palm of Their hand.

The little shit got bored, and so decided to flatten everything. And Megumi, little ass-kisser that he was, didn’t try to take the fucker out.

That was the fucking Conductor’s job. Carry out the Composer’s Vision–and take Them down when their Vision faltered.

But noooooo, Megumi drank the fucking kool-aid, thought the Composer could do no wrong.

So the fate of Shibuya rested on the outcome of a fucking game.

Not unsolicited second-chances–the fate of Shibuya.

Fuck that.

Sho jumped used an abandoned crate to get enough lift to climb over the wall separating him from the next alley.

Just in time to see the Composer raise Their weapon of choice at some oblivious kid.

Fuck that.

But before Sho could raise his own gun, violet eyes cut toward him, and the barrel at the other end of the alley twitched.

A line of burning hot pain shot across Sho’s arm, and he nearly dropped his gun.

Nearly.

Shitshitshitshitshit

“…I blew it…”

No.

No!

Not today, ass-wipe.

Sho raised his arm, ignoring the agony in his bicep as he squeezed the trigger six times, calculating the odds that at least one would hit their target.

But the Composer just raised Their hand, and the bullets froze in the air before falling to the ground, one tinkle after another.

Sho booked it.

The Composer wasn’t supposed to have access to Their higher powers in the RG! This was supposed to level the playing field–

Three weeks left.

Back to the drawing board.

The Pre-Game meeting was always a bit of a joke. All the major decisions had always been meticulously crafted long before this point. It was just supposed to be a way to make sure everyone was on the same page and knew their roles.

Sho had to hand it to that crafty sneak Megs, though–he made himself the absent variable instead of the Composer.

‘Oh please, Higashizawa, won’t you run this game for me?’ Cue batting eyelashes behind the ever-present shades. Barf.

And Higashizawa was so much of a lickspittle, he didn’t even question the breach in protocol–the lack of time to craft a truly cohesive plan.

None of the other Officers questioned it.

Sho had enough. He bounced.

His bicep, bandaged under his coat, throbbed.

Megs really screwed the pooch on this one. Higashizawa was going to hyperfocus without a playbook to keep him on task–then the Composer’s proxy was going to win, and then what would Megumi do?

Hachiko was crawling with Noise when Sho passed through, picking off Players that hadn’t found Partners yet. Absently, Sho cued a few frogs after a couple that were about to make a Pact.

He may not be a Harrier anymore, but old habits were hard to break.

Stumbling across the Composer was a complete accident.

Sho’s pulse kicked up and sweat beaded on his forehead. The bullet crease, until now a background throb, rose to a sharp pang.

Nonononono

The Composer was supposed to be hands-off.

That conniving little cheat–!

For just a moment, the two locked eyes.

“Just shut up and form a pact with me!”

Sho watched the Proxy get claimed, and when he looked back, the Composer was gone.

Well, at least if the Composer was cheating, so was Megs.

Sho almost couldn’t believe it when Yashiro nearly convinced the Proxy to erase his own partner.

Did she know? She was a little… untempered for Megs to have taken into his confidence, still only a Harrier…

But… no. As the beat-nik interfered and stopped the Proxy from suiciding, it became clear Yashiro had just lost her freaking mind.

What. The. Fuck.

Harriers direct Noise and lay traps. Yashiro wasn’t new; Yashiro knew better–!

Sho nearly followed after her to reduce her to Noise-food herself, when he stopped.

Beat-nik?

His eyes widened.

He turned back to the Players and their little saviour.

Their little saviour who wasn’t a Reaper.

Their little saviour who wasn’t a Reaper, but was in the UG.

Their little saviour, who was explaining the rules–who had just enforced the rules.

A sharklike grin crossed his face.

‘Well. Hello there, Angel.’

Angels were the boogiemen of Reaper tales. A group of beings at an even higher frequency than the RG. They said that Composers were low-level Angels, and that even higher ranked ones supervised all their Games.

Of course, all of that was hear-say, officially denied. The Composer was the ultimate authority within each district.

Sho was well-travelled. He’d been traded from district to district before coming full-circle back to Shibuya.

The rumours were strikingly consistent no matter where you went. Which didn’t guarantee they were true.

But it did greatly increase their likelihood of being true.

So Sho watched Higashizawa’s week carefully. Watched the “Game Master” hyper focus just as Sho knew he would (at least it was on the right pair, if the wrong partner). Watched this “Sanae Hanekoma” save a Player who lost his Partner by sealing that Partner’s soul into a Noise Pin (for fuck’s sake, that was torture). Watched the Proxy receive regular help from the Angel.

None of it made sense.

Did… did the Angel not know? Did he not realize that the Game he was working to stabilize would destroy everything? Why save a Player who failed to grow so much that he essentially got himself and his partner erased in the same way they’d died?

This is why Sho hated working with others. They didn’t make sense!

Whose side was the Angel on?

A week with three winners, huh? That had to be a new one. Sho’s hands twitched. But Megs had handled it, cool as a cucumber–and passed the buck.

'Oh no, only one can be restored. By the way since you’re playing again your partner is your fee. Teehee.’

It was a stroke of genius. Megs couldn’t count on none of them being the proxy, so he managed to keep all three under his thumb.

And by assigning the new Reaper to destroy the other two, he kept the survivors on a route of mutual destruction.

The hidden variable in it all, though? The thing that made Sho want to grind his teeth down to dust?

When Megs asked Sho of all people to be his next patsy.

“Ah, there you are, Minamimoto. I’m afraid I don’t have any special projects for you this week; I’m sure you’ve heard about the Composer’s little… twist.”

Sho rolled his eyes. No memories to alter; no documentation to forge. Restoring someone to life required a deft touch and artistic flair–and an ability to calculate all the ways it can go straight to hell. It was an art-form he had a certain specialty in. It made him a Reaper in high demand, even considering his universally known bad attitude.

It was an art-form that should have still been needed. No reason the new kid couldn’t recapture some of his old life–except of course that Megs hadn’t told the fresh-meat about that little perk. Megs had no intention of the little idiot surviving the next two weeks; Megs couldn’t take that risk.

“I’m busy,” cleaning up your mess. “What do you want, Megs?”

A pause. Sho could hear Megumi’s lips thinning, before he forced himself back into that genial air that made him such a good people person.

“Of course, of course. Your attention to detail and dedication to your works is an inspiration to us all, Minamimoto. But I think it’s beyond time for you to stretch your wings a little–broaden your horizons so to speak.

“We’ll be running a second consecutive game, and I’d like you to act as Game Master this week.”

With Higashizawa–who’d taken his assignment so far he’d gotten himself erased–, Megumi had made the offer a genuine request. But Sho could hear the steel in the Conductor’s voice now. This was a thinly veiled order.

Carrot vs. Stick.

Shit. Megs was good. Different approaches for each of them. Why the fuck couldn’t he use his brain against the fucker who wanted to wipe them all out?

“Whatever. Any special instructions from the Composer?”

Fucker didn’t even flinch.

“Our newest Reaper will be given a special assignment, but otherwise consider things business as usual. It’ll be a smaller Game than usual due to the lack of time to collect Players, but that’ll just mean fewer excuses not to have a clean-sweep.”

There it was. For Higashizawa, the clean-sweep was a goad–a goal he had to reach to please his idol. For Minamimoto, it was a challenge to his competence.

And if Sho didn’t know exactly why a clean sweep was so important to Megs, he might have even fallen for it.

But, no. Sho didn’t care about taking out the Players. Not this round.

No, Sho had bigger fish to fry.

But if he didn’t at least put in appearances, Megs might get suspicious. And while Megs might want to win his little bet, Sho doubted he’d be on board for Sho’s more… permanent solution.

At least Day 1 was always a breeze; give Sho some breathing room to create a workable plan. Unless the harriers acted out again. Or were in league with either the Composer or the Conductor.

Ugh.

Happy miscalculation, indeed.

Sho couldn’t believe his luck. The Composer formed a pact with Their proxy. Of all the stupid, hare-brained ideas the whimsical artist could have done, this was above and beyond all of them. They’d have to stick to Their proxy like glue to ensure the Player didn’t get erased in Their absence.

And since the Composer couldn’t know when Sho intended to send out mission notices, this meant They couldn’t fuck off between missions, either.

Which meant that Sho had time to track down that Angel.

To be fair, Sho had kept an eye on the proxy Player the previous week, so he already knew where this 'Sanae Hanekoma’ was based. Dropping into the coffee shop in the downtime between missions one and two was as easy as taking a stroll down the street.

Sho didn’t even bother changing his frequency back to the RG for this–the Reaper decal outside would do that for him.

The Angel was good, Sho had to give him that. Didn’t even twitch when a Reaper Officer showed up in his quaint little shop.

“Welcome to Wildkat.” A lazy drawl that Sho could respect, prices that Sho could calculate were over-inflated. He threw down enough yen for a black coffee as he sat on a stool at the counter. Spare caffeine never went astray.

“You do know about the Composer’s stupid bet, right?”

Sho took an obnoxiously loud slurp of his coffee, smacking his lips in satisfaction while the Angel froze.

Satisfaction.

Sho was right.

The only question was, would the Angel confess or attempt to throw Sho off the trail.

A look across the shop led to the sharp click of the door locking and the sign switching to “Closed”.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Game Master.”

The Angel wasn’t looking directly at him, and even his eyes were obscured by the glare of the shop lights reflecting off the lenses of his glasses. If was a carefully calculated aesthetic, and Sho appreciated the effort.

“Life’s dangerous–and I happen to want life to continue. If that means crushing uninspired yoctograms who don’t know how to recycle what they have? I’ll do what I have to do. Or do you actually approve of the Composer’s gameplan?”

The Angel pushed his glasses up his nose, removing the glare and showing eyes as sharp as tacks–in direct opposition to the friendly smile spreading across his face.

“Well. Nice to meet you, Minamimoto Sho. You can call me Hanekoma. How can I be of assistance?”

Which is how Sho learned how to create Taboo Noise.

It sounds simple–draw these sigils and poof–Taboo Noise.

And. Well. It is that simple.

Except, not really. Creating the Noise is simple–sure.

Convincing himself it’s okay to create them is a whole 'nother story.

Reaper life is a little dog-eat-dog–especially as you get into the higher levels. Combat against both players and each other all feeds into the refinement of their Souls and so is encouraged.

Taboo Noise, though. It’s cheating. Especially since Hanekoma gave Sho a ward against them. They’d still attack Sho, but only if he provoked them first.

If Sho let too many loose and they took out too many Reapers, it could lead to the destruction of Shibuya as much as the Composer’s little bet.

It was going to be a careful balancing act–letting loose just enough to distract both the Reapers and the Composer himself, while making sure they can still be handled.

At least he knew how to keep tabs on the Composer.

Sho hit send on his phone.

Then he finished his first refinery circle.

Yashiro would be fine; she was usually hanging out with Koki, anyway.

And if she wasn’t, well.

Sho remembered how she went off the rails last week.

It wouldn’t be that big of a loss.

----

Shooter was a bit of a hero of Sho’s.

He understood geometry on an instinctual level that most people could only dream about. Shooter dreamed big, and lived his dream with every fibre of his being. He understood the beauty of precision.

Sending Sho’s Players to the Tin Pin play-offs was about pitting them against a challenge they were unlikely to pass, therefore increasing the possibility of the Composer’s proxy being erased.

It certainly wasn’t about spiting those fuckers and their bet that otherwise would have made Sho miss the event entirely.

Just so that’s clear.

Sho had no idea what the Composer was doing, though. It looked like They were just… tagging along?

Making snide remarks?

Letting Their proxy fail the challenge?

It was no skin off Sho’s nose if the Composer lost Their proxy this week and had to scramble to find a replacement for the final week before Megs’ timer finished counting down.

Hell, there probably wouldn’t be enough Players to start a third Game in a row, so this week was probably going to be the deciding factor.

All of this was still spinning through Sho’s head, so he almost missed the whisp of Imagination that tampered with Shooter’s equipment.

That. Little. Shit–!

Okay, so confronting the Composer–undercover or not–probably wasn’t the smartest idea Sho ever had, but Sho did learn a few things.

First, he learned that They weren’t planning to follow the gameplan and try to complete missions. If his opponent wasn’t even going to play, Sho was going to concentrate his efforts on the spell he was crafting to take out the Composer entirely.

Second, something was seriously wrong with Their proxy. Kid spent almost the entire conversation after Sho revealed himself clutching his head. People weren’t meant to play two Games in a row like this. Who knew how it was affecting the kid?

Third, the Composer was a fucking hypocrite. Fucking hell, you can’t complain about being bored and not even put in the effort to put on a good show.

Sho was too angry to deal with this shit anymore. He returned to his apartment in Pork City and pulled out the reference text Hanekoma had given him.

It was supposed to give him the basics of refinery sigils so he could hone his Taboo summoning skills, but there were some interesting tidbits he’d gleamed while skimming through the rest of the sections.

Crafting a spell strong enough to take out the Composer would probably take Sho out too.

But, fuck, it would be worth it to wipe the smug smirk of Their face.

Sho wondered if there’d ever been a Game Day with no mission before. If anyone survived this clusterfuck, Sho himself would go down in infamy for doing something unique, at least.

Even if he doubted any of the higher ups would appreciate his vision.

But Sho didn’t have time to worry about crafting the little daily games to winnow out the Players. Sho only cared about one Player–the one who wasn’t a Player at all.

Everyone else was just collateral damage.

In the far deep recesses of his mind, part of Sho regretted the things he was doing to tear the Game apart–to break it down past recognition in pursuit of his ultimate goal to save the district as a whole.

The survivors could pick up the pieces and rebuild. And maybe the administration that would come after would learn from all of their mistakes.

Right now, none of that mattered. So Sho spent his free days wandering Shibuya, crafting Taboo refinery sigils to spread his seeds of chaos.

Since he didn’t want to be caught too early and erased by an irate Megs, he camouflaged his actual delinquency with monuments to the district he loved. Anyone who looked closely at the pieces of art would see that they weren’t up to his usual standards–but Sho reluctantly acknowledge (and took advantage of the fact) that very few understood his muses enough to tell the difference.

And in a back alley of Udagawa, Sho began to craft a different sigil from the rest. Something carefully prepared by his Angel ally. An escape plan of last resort.

Because let’s be real–Sho was up against the Composer. There was a 68.9% chance that he’d be Noise-food by the end of the week.

And that left a full week of the Composer running around unchecked in order to win Their bet with Megumi. A week for the Composer to guarantee the destruction of Shibuya.

The Angel couldn’t–wouldn’t–interfere directly. He was bound by rules and tradition to the will of the Composer alone. Sho was the last line of defense.

Sho’s hand slowed down on the last set of runes in the sigil. He rested his head in exhaustion against the rough brick wall.

Was it really worth it? If Sho’s master plan failed, was there any point in trying to come back for one last shot? Was there any guarantee that Sho himself wouldn’t be a worse option if he was half-Taboo? Wouldn’t bring about the destruction himself if left unchecked?

Tears of frustration sprang to his eyes, and he punched the wall with his injured arm. The impact made the bullet crease throb where it was still healing.

Being a Reaper wasn’t easy–it was a constant battle and those without the will to survive didn’t last long. Sho hadn’t just survived, he had thrived in their world–far more than he ever had in his life in the RG.

But after this last month, Sho was tired. None of this was about bettering oneself, or artistic potential. This was petty bullshit that was completely nonsensical. Why did Sho have to destroy himself over this? Why did Sho have to risk turning himself into a monster to save the world?

Sho wasn’t a hero. And Sho had never played well with others.

He leaned against the wall, his ragged breaths tearing at his throat as he tried to regain his composure.

Fuck this shit.

He finished the refinery sigil, then walked away without looking back.

If anyone survived this mess, they’d look at his escape plan and scoff at his incompetence–and the poorly placed lines on the last runes drawn; the smudge runes where Sho had hit the wall.

If anyone survived this mess, the sigil would be his only memorial–a testament to the final line Minamimoto Sho wouldn’t cross.

'I end it this week,’ Sho thought to himself darkly.

There was no “or”.

The one problem with his wanderings over the middle of the week, was that Sho actually got to see the results of his Players’ actions while they were left to themselves.

The Game often used their Players to effect dramatic changes in Shibuya. The changes may not last long–Shibuya was an ever-changing beast–but they often caused spikes in creativity and joy. They justified the action of running dead souls through a scavenger hunt to gain a second chance rather than just breaking them down for reincarnation immediately.

As an Officer, Sho was rarely able to see the reactions in real-time on the individual personal level. He got to review reports and feed that information into improvements for the next round.

That wasn’t the case this time. Even without direction, most of his Players seemed to be engaging in small acts of kindness.

Retrieving a lost puppy. Influencing decisions. Killing regular Noise to improve people’s psyches.

It was bewildering. It was inspiring.

It made Sho really fucking angry.

It wasn’t these Players’ fault that the Composer had completely screwed them over. That this wasn’t a real Game meant to refine their souls and give the worthy a second chance.

And there was one Player who had been shafted more than any other. The Composer’s fucking Proxy. Someone who wasn’t even supposed to be dead.

If Sho took out the Composer early with the Taboo Noise, sure the bet would be void, but the Proxy would still be Noise-food.

Shit. The kid didn’t deserve that. The kid deserved his life back.

But if he didn’t make it to the end, that meant no chance at all.

Sho was tired, and feeling guilty about this damn kid wasn’t helping things at all.

He hadn’t planned on saving the partners at the beginning of the sixth day–had sent out a mission to get everyone in the same-ish area so that the Taboo Noise could sow chaos and keep everyone distracted.

But when Sho had noticed that the duo weren’t paying fucking attention, he took out the Noise sneaking up behind them, a justification already forming in the back of his head.

If the Proxy could survive until the next day, Sho could lure the Composer to Pork City at the last moment, separate Them from his partner, and maybe give the kid a chance at surviving.

Afterall, Sho wasn’t likely to survive, even if he succeeded at this point. The kid would get his second chance, Shibuya would be saved.

Halle-fucking–lullah.

Sho spent the seventh day finalizing his nuclear option spell. The Angel’s repository had been very helpful. Learning to create Taboo Noise refineries had kept everyone distracted and off his back for the week. Taboo Noise existed on a plane of existence on a different frequency than their own. Pulling them in required being able to reach for that different frequency–and pulling apart the different aspects of the sigil meant he was able to figure out with parts performed that outreach.

That meant that Sho could take that part and reformulate the sigil entirely. Pull energy from multiple different frequencies–an exponential increase on his own powerful imagination. Special wards had needed to be formatted to keep the damage contained to Pork City both to eliminate collateral damage as much as possible as well as to keep the energy concentrated where Sho needed it.

Partners didn’t separate during the week, but Sho was pretty sure he’d come up with a fool-proof plan to get the Composer to shed Their mortal disguise and come gunning for Sho with all Their might.

Tattling.

Oh, Sho was positive the Angels wouldn’t actually interfere, if the Producer was any indication, but he was also sure that the Composer wouldn’t be willing to bank on that.

And if Sho left sending out that notice to the literal final minutes, well, the Composer wouldn’t have time to drag along Their murder victim with Them. They’d have to come and deal with Sho all on their lonesome.

How tragic.

Sho had just finished setting up the wards around Pork City when he was so rudely interrupted.

“What?! How the hell did you two find this place?”

It was strange, but the Composer’s disdain felt–real. Present. Not the lofty and light-hearted mockery that They’d been projecting all week.

'Oh-ho? Does somebody dislike an interloper breaking their toys?’

“Uh, hello? Final day of the week?” Proxy still had some pep in him at least.

'Sorry kid; can’t save you now.’ It was only a slight pang of regret. The kid didn’t deserve the fate Sho needed to bestow upon the Composer. But Shibuya was bigger than all of them.

“We got the mission mail: 'Erase the Game Master at Pork City’. Surely you can’t be surprised we showed up?” The Composer’s words fairly dripped with condescension.

Mission mail?

…

Megumi.

That little shitstain. Sho grimaced. Perhaps his monuments hadn’t covered his activities quite as well as he’d hoped.

How… unfortunate.

Time to roll with the punches.

“An inverse matrix?! Double-crossed by the Conductor himself.” Sho let a feral grin cross his face.

He’d been told more than once that it was rather unnerving.

“No matter. Just saves me the effort of hunting you yoctograms down. Not quite the dramatic irony of our last showdown, but maybe the different variables will lead to a more satisfying answer.”

Sho began to draw in the power of the sigils he engraved on the soles of his boots while simultaneously beginning the transformation into his Noise form. He’d need time to cast the Flare spell since his prep work had been interrupted. If that meant corrupting his Noise form with Taboo energy, he’d do what he had to do.

At least Sho wouldn’t be infected long enough to go on a rampage. This was all going to end here.

It was weird. Sho figured he’d have to fight off them off while transforming so he could fight them at his peak capacity–but the kid seemed to be having a fit of some kind.

“It was you… You killed me!”

What.

Oh, that was just going to make turning the Composer into paste all the sweeter. Fucking mind-fucking asshole.

Sho snarled.

“None of that matters now,” he locked eyes with the Composer who looked sickly satisfied. “Let’s end this Game–prepare to get crunched!”

Sho wished this were a normal week.

Sho wished this were a normal week, and that the kid was a normal Player with a normal Partner.

Because they fought beautifully together.

They carefully calculated their positions and resources in proportion to their opponent’s to achieve the maximum damage while receiving the minimum injury.

Few Players ever reached this level of competency.

Then again, few Players ever played multiple weeks–with one of those weeks paired with the Composer Themself.

This Sakuraba Neku has so much potential.

And he was going to be erased here and now because he had the misfortune of answering the clarion call of CAT’s Art.

What a fucking waste.

It didn’t even matter that they defeated him. He wasn’t giving their fight his full attention. He was creating runes out of pure Imagination and constructing the Flare sigil.

Sho’s Noise form dissipated as he fell to one knee, breath being torn out of his lungs raggedly.

“A for effort kiddies, but looks like we’ve reached the final conclusion.”

The Composer was sneering, but his proxy just looked…

Bewildered.

Satisfied that his enemy was down, but… Deep in his eyes was a grand confusion about what was happening.

'Sorry kid. I don’t got time to clear things up for you, and you don’t got time to hear it.’

“I thought you were going to crunch us?”

Sho snorted. Then chortled. Followed by a squeaky giggle.

A little hysteria at the end was good for the soul, right?

And if Sho could wipe that smug confidence from the Composer’s face, it would be worth getting himself erased in the process.

Sho began chanting the final calculations aloud, slotting the last few runes into place. It was too late to stop what Sho had carefully set in motion. Even if the Composer managed to erase Sho, the spell would still go off.

He had time to gloat.

“I’ve been telling you fools all along, but no one ever listens. This world is made up of numbers, and I’ve been reverse-engineering the solution to my problems–to the insurmountable obstacles in my path.

"I am victorious,” Sho spat, that feral grin firmly back in place, even as fear took root in the Composer’s eyes as They finally perceived what Sho had been doing under Their nose the entire week.

The Flare burned Sho from the inside out expanding rapidly, taking out all in its path.

Sho’s last sight was strange though–the Composer pushing Their Proxy away and through the wards, shielding Their Partner from the brunt of the blast until Sakuraba was clear.

It didn’t fit Sho’s perception of the Composer at all. Why sacrifice himself for the Proxy? Not even Megs was delusional enough to uphold the bet if the Composer Themself was gone.

But Sho didn’t have time to sort out what it meant.

He was already gone.

Minamimoto’s next memory is of agony.

It was strange, however, he only remembers the agony when he looks back on the moment.

At the time, everything was…

Jagged…

Blinding…

Nonsensical…

He pulled himself out of the refinery sigil in Udagawa and tried to piece himself back together.

He looked around, and wanted to

…rend…consume…destroy…

but everything in him rebelled and tried to smother that instinct

NO! Precious–Protect–Preserve–

and he was left at war with himself, huddled on the dirty alley-way floor until he was able to refashion himself into a semi-coherent whole.

Minamimoto was the last line of defense. The Composer was going to destroy the precious thing. The Composer must be destroyed.

As he rose from the ground, he took in the remains of the refinery sigil on the wall behind him. Every stroke perfect and in place–mathematically perfect and soothing to the eye even in its consumed format.

deep inside a part of him screamed defiance

It was satisfying to see the runes that had guaranteed his rebirth.

Minamimoto grinned and clawed through them, ensuring no one else could reverse engineer his rebirth. He would be the pinacle of Reaperdom–a superior being worthy of saving this pathetic realm.

He just needed access to the Shibuya River.

The Café was abandoned.

frustration anger rage

The Producer appeared to have bounced.

Did the Composer discover their duplicity? Had they run in fear?

except the Composer was erased

Minamimoto squat down the whimpering voice that tried to undermine the Mission. Minamimoto had Survived, therefore his Nemesis must have Survived as well.

And if the Composer had indeed Perished, well, someone must still be holding the reins if there was a Game running.

no players no game

Minamimoto scoffed. His Taboo Noise was still crunching down on Reapers, who were all up and active in the UG. The Game was definitely still on.

And eventually, he even managed to track down those pesky Players.

Sue him. He got distracted creating a new monument. His rebirth deserved a grand announcement–the plebes needed to see him and cower before his might.

And who should cross his path but the two idiots from the first week–the murder-victim-proxy and the reaper-who-should-have-been-erased. The Conductor was still hedging his bets, obviously.

fucking megs

The Players were not suitably impressed with his resurrection–did not even seem to care about the whys and hows.

And that caused the rage to swell up. He spewed everything out at them, trying to pound into their thick skulls that he was a force to be reckoned with and they should cower before him–

Perfectplanperfectexecutioneverypieceinplacesuperiorityadaptability

–and when they still didn’t show him the appropriate respect, Minamimoto trounced them.

It was the perfect test run of his new powers, and it worked beautifully. Not even the Composer would be able to stand up to him now. Minamimoto was going to get the top spot and rule like he’d always been destined to–everything in his image.

Filled with glee, Minamimoto left the morons eating his dust while he made for the River.

Only to find his way blocked.

Not even his new Taboo powers managed to eat through the barrier no matter how much power he blasted through.

no elegance no refinement

Claws as sharp as daggers gripped at his skull, pulling his hair with sharp tugs, trying to get that insidious little voice to shut up, ignoring the rents left behind on his skull.

look closely

strands like barbed wire

chainlink wards

konishi’s work

That’s right. The Iron Bitch had an attention for detail that rivalled his own, if not the artistic flair. But her wards were impeccable, it was undeniable.

Given enough time, Minamimoto would eventually be able to break through. But he was on a deadline.

He kicked a wall in frustration and began making a new monument to keep himself occupied while he waited.

If he’d known he’d need Konishi, he wouldn’t have left her with the twerps when he’d kicked their asses.

“…I want you to make me your Conductor.”

Holy shit.

Glee rose up within Minamimoto and he didn’t try to subdue the manic grin crossing his face.

“Double-crossing Megs? How delightful!”

And it was. Delicious and satisfying–loyalties and partnerships crumbling to dust around him. Acknowledgment of his power and glory.

fool me once

Oh, of course she’d ultimately wind up betraying him down the road, but that kind of malicious intent would keep him on his toes–keep him from getting as compliant as the Conductor or bored as the Composer. There would be no trust, no complacency. Desperation breeds innovation, and the court of Composer Minamimoto would be full of innovation.

Minamimoto was barely out of sight of the fools facing Konishi when he was suddenly crushed, both physically and spiritually. He frothed at the mouth, scrambling for a fraction of power, something, anything to fight back against the force constraining him.

And found himself cut off at every turn.

satisfaction

“A shame it’s come to this. But don’t fret, dear. I have the feeling that things are about to get very interesting.”

No footsteps accompanied the voice and its trailing giggle, but the howling rage of his dissenting feelings made clear who had bested him.

COMPOSER

“Be a good boy, now, and sleep.”

No matter how hard he tried to fight it, Minamimoto succumbed to the power in that voice.

Sho didn’t expect to wake up again.

That’s twice he didn’t get what he wanted.

(And if he ever found that pathetic excuse of an Angel–who must have been the one to fix the refinery sigil–he’d make the barista regret ever existing…)

It took days to sort out his feelings and memories, trying to figure out just who Minamimoto Sho still was, and if he was still the Reaper he’d been before his Taboo-resurrection.

(Close examination showed his appearance at least was back to normal, with the addition of a fully healed bullet crease on his right arm. His mental state though, well. He hadn’t realized how off his rocker he’d been while Taboo-ified. Who knew what his actual state was now?)

And just as he felt he had his head screwed on somewhat straight, he was summoned before the Composer.

Except…

Did he really want to stand before a Composer who lost his bet? Was there any point sticking around to be a punching back for the Composer’s frustrations?

Shit.

Because Sho knew he couldn’t leave without the Composer’s permission. That was one of the restrictions of being a Reaper–you didn’t cross district boundaries without all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed from Administration. It was a hassle. It was why so few Reapers bothered.

Sho was a master of the paperwork, he’d done it so often.

But he still needed Composer approval.

'And after this last month,’ Sho thought, glumly, 'What are the chances of getting that?’

Walking into the Shibuya River was eerie. It was supposed to be eerie. You were entering into the lair of a god of the dead. If you didn’t approach with some reticence and respect, there was something wrong with you.

At least, if you weren’t a Reaper Officer who was constantly in the Dead God’s Pad. Then it was old hat and reverence went right out the window.

But this time, Sho found it eerie.

It was… silent. The lights flickered off of recent battle damage, and rubble–including a badly constructed imitation of one of Sho’s own monuments–casting strange shadows that flickered in and out as the imprint of the area tried to reassert itself over the recent reality. That the Composer hadn’t just overwritten things back to normal was telling of Their mood.

There wasn’t any Noise.

Not that Noise was common in the Shibuya River, but there were usually a few hanging around–following Officers who wanted them available for quick errands.

No Reapers either–Officers or otherwise.

The area was barren–dead.

Entering the common area, where the Officers gathered to receive their assignments and plan out future Games, Sho was shocked to see the evidence of battle here, too.

Overturned sofas; smashed aquariums; broken bottles and glassware; slashed paintings and cracked statues…

It was a warzone.

And standing in the middle of it was the Composer Themself.

That brought Sho up short.

The Composer stayed in the Throne Room–creating Their vision. The Conductor traversed the boundaries between the two worlds, bringing that Vision to life.

Where the fuck was Megs?

“I’m pleased to see you’re recovering, Minamimoto.”

Unlike during the Game where They wore their mortal guise, the Composer now stood before Sho in Their true form–an ethereal being made of light whom Sho couldn’t even properly perceive. Even Their voice hummed at a frequency that wasn’t quite sound yet pierced the brain.

It all gave Sho a fucking headache.

“Bullshit. I’ve been a pain in your ass all month. Where the fuck is Megs?”

Higashizawa was gone; erased that first week for no good fucking reason. Konishi musta been erased by either the Players or Megs when he discovered her betrayal. That left Minamimoto as the only Officer, and he figured he’d be getting demoted any second now. Where the fuck was Megumi? Someone needed to start gathering new Officers…

“I’m afraid dear Megumi paid the ultimate price for his love of Shibuya.”

Sho’s brain froze.

Then rage filled him–almost as strong as when he was more Taboo than Reaper.

“Are you serious right now?! Megs jumps through your hoops, wins your little bet, and you fucking erased him?!”

It wasn’t that Sho was particularly fond of Megumi, but the fucker was a decent administrator when he wasn’t egregiously kissing the Composer’s ass–and UG’s needed administrators to keep running smoothly.

And what was to stop the Composer from just going ahead and flattening Shibuya on a whim, now?

The area that represented the Composer’s head tilted curiously, as if inspecting something interested.

“You misunderstand. Megumi lost, and thus paid the price. He Played well, and had no regrets at the end.”

Sho didn’t hear anything after the words 'Megumi lost’, though.

No.

Nononononono.

“BULLSHIT!” Minamimoto roared, and strode across the debris-ridden room to shake the ethereal being by Their lapels.

(Or what would have been their lapels if they weren’t a being made of light.)

“YOU wanted Shibuya destroyed. MEGS wanted it to continue. Shibuya is still here, therefore YOU lost and MEGS won so where is he?”

Gentle hands gripped Sho’s own, and removed them with careful but implacable force.

“I changed my mind.”

Numbness creeped up on Sho.

Changed Their mind. Like that was an option. Like destruction hadn’t been hanging over all of them like the sword of Damocles and why didn’t they all just sit down and have a nice little chat–

The Composer changed Their mind, shifted the goalposts to match Megumi’s own side and still erased him for it.

Force burst out from Sho, and all of the loose debris and broken furniture smashed into the walls. Electrical wires danced and sparked and Noise finally started floating in, drawn by the emotional upheaval.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What gives you the goddamned right–!”

The chaos didn’t touch the Composer; not a single whisp of light was displaced by Sho’s tantrum. And that caused Sho’s anger to fizzle out. He thumped down onto the ground with growl, crossing his arms defensively across his chest.

“Fuck it. Just get it over with.”

An amused chortle, similar enough to Their giggles in that blasted mortal form that Sho was tempted to make a futile attempt at strangling the fucker.

“Get what over with, dear?”

Sho didn’t bother to look up. Would not give the fucker that satisfaction.

“My punishment. I tried to kill you. Multiple time. I unleashed Taboo Noise on the UG. I can’t stop you, you’ve proved that. So what’s it gonna be?”

There were no footsteps or other noise, no change in light quality to indicate movement; but suddenly the Composer was crouched in front of Sho, a hand gently stroking over Sho’s cap.

“There will be consequences from my bet with Megumi, to be sure, but you will not be paying them. You played the Game brilliantly, and will continue to do so.”

Scootching back out of the Composer’s immediate reach, Sho looked up incredulously, trying to figure out the angle.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

And it was impossible to make out individual features on the Composer’s face (face-area?), but nonetheless Sho got the impression of a wry grin.

“Many things, according to you and Neku. And you’re both probably right. But there are higher powers that I who are in charge of my conduct, and don’t you fret–I shall be censured most harshly for this mess. Why, it’ll be the perfect time for some enterprising young Officer to seek a promotion! Think of the possibilities!”

And there was that fucking giggle.

But Sho wasn’t going to rise to that bait. When not off his gourd on Taboo energy, being Composer was only a means to an end–a way to protect Shibuya. If the Composer was serious about changing Their mind, Sho was content to continue refining his craft within the boundaries of his Officer position. Promotion to higher positions could wait.

Although, now that the Composer had mentioned him…

“What did you wind up doing with that kid, Sakuraba?”

A wistful sigh, like some lovesick teen, and now Sho was going to be sick…

“Oh, my dear Neku was a treasure from beginning to end. So grumpy and misanthropic, yet somehow willing to help others. Desirous to save a world full of people he hated. A delightful contradiction.”

There was the impression of a mischievous grin.

“Why, I thought for sure that after faking my own death and revealing that I was the one who murdered him in the first place that he’d revel in the opportunity to shoot me back. Especially when I laid the fate of Shibuya on the line.”

Sho’s blood ran cold. How the fuck can anyone get off on causing so much mayhem and trauma…?

“But he placed the fate of Shibuya straight back in my hands, trusted me to do the right thing, even after all that I’d already done.”

A revelation steeped in a wounded childlike wonder. Sho just felt sick.

Sho would have shot the bastard.

“What the hell was the point of that?”

“Why, to save my own skin, of course.”

What.

“Oh, don’t make that face,” the Composer cooed. “As I said, I’m going to be in quite a bit of trouble for all of this, but killing someone to create a Player, why that would have meant an Annihilation far beyond simple erasure. So we played a final Game. And dear Neku’s entry fee was his time in the Game.”

It was brilliant.

Neku shoots the Composer and wins, Composer is not there to restore the entry fee; Composer gets around this Annihilation business with a standard erasure while Neku becomes the new Composer and inherits this fucking mess. Composer doesn’t have to deal with Their ennui.

Neku lets the Composer shoot him, the time in the Game becomes a valid piece of lost collateral. The Composer can’t be punished for it.

As long as the murdered Player is restored.

It was disgustingly self-serving.

“So, the kid’s alive then?” Because Sho doesn’t trust the Composer as far as he can throw him.

“Yes, yes.” Finally the Composer stands back up, a dismissive hand flapping at Sho, still on the ground. “Neku and his Partners all restored as reward for surviving the Game. And I even threw in that little Noise as a bonus for being good sports.”

Sho is exhausted, and he still doesn’t know what his own fate is going to be.

“So, you need me to make the appropriate memory alterations? Evidence tampering? The usual?” Maybe once he’s done, the Composer will let him leave.

Hands dancing through the air, the debris in the Dead God’s Pad finally begins to collect itself back together at the Composer’s whim. Order beginning to be restored.

“Oh, don’t you fret so, Minamimoto. That was days ago, while you were still recovering. Everything that needs to be handled has been handled. We need to focus closer to home.”

There’s something about that that tickles Sho’s brain, something that’s not quite right, but it’s overridden by a far more alarming issue.

“We.” Flat, disbelieving.

“Naturally. I’ve already started arrangements to borrow Conductors from adjacent districts on a short term basis, but we really need more than one officer to help run things, don’t you think? Be a dear, and look through the personnel files–surely some of our harriers distinguished themselves during these last Games and can be fast-tracked to promotion…”

And… the fucker just keeps listing out a multitude of different tasks that need to be done. And need to be done now. By Sho.

Sho, who is fucking exhausted. Who’s still shaky within his own mind. Who is still contemplating running the Composer through at the first opportunity that rises.

Sho, who is the only one left to help pick up the pieces.

And Sho does love Shibuya.

And Sho does want to be handy when it’s time to take down the fucker who played with all of their lives. He may not be powerful enough now, but he’s started from a more knowledgeable position this time, so maybe the next time he’s needed he’ll have a chance.

So Sho decides, without making any big issue out of it, to stay.

He notes the tasks that need to be done, and starts figuring out the steps to do them. Starting with the new Officers. Because fucked if he’s doing this alone.

Joshua feels the moment when Minamimoto decides to stay, a sharp note going back in tune. He smiles to himself, but makes sure it doesn’t seep out into his aura. There’s still work to be done.

(To be continued)

#TWEWY #TWEWY Bang 2019 #The World Ends With You #leasspell-dael #Subarashiki Kono Sekai #submission #fanfic

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