He wasn't sure how long it had taken him. Hours, perhaps? But then the island wasn't that large, and the orchard and the school weren't very far apart, so it probably wasn't quite such a long trek. It just felt like it. It's not like he'd been moving quickly beforehand anyway, especially with his knee still aching dully with almost every step. But he also hadn't envisioned himself having to return to the school in the first place. He'd figured he'd be a corpse lying amidst the trees, left to rot with those he'd killed, while Hirono limped her way here instead. Having to make the trip himself, alone with his failure and guilt, was weighing on him heavily.
Admittedly, he'd not taken a straight shot towards the school. It wasn't that he was especially excited to stay here, but something pulled him to investigate just a bit more before he left. He needed to know, needed to see, just a little of what had happened elsewhere on the island while he was busy with his own misadventure. His classmates were gone forever, now, and he'd never really known much of any of them. Seeing the final fates of as many of them as he could only felt fair, now that he was the only one left.
He passed through forests, through sets of abandoned homes, through the farmland and storage area where he'd first met Inada. Everywhere he went, he was met with carnage. Bodies were scattered all over the place; some lay abandoned and alone, while others he found in large clusters of gore and rot. Some were practically torn apart, cut and shot and blasted and burnt. Others weren't quite so mangled, left intact enough that he could recognize them even in the darkness of the night. One such body answered a question that had nagged him ever since he'd heard her name over the loudspeakers. He finally knew what had became of Yuko between him being dragged away and him finding Inada again. Guilt ached in his stomach at the sight, a sense that her being here was his fault, somehow. Maybe it even was.
Despite taking this little detour, he tried not to take too long looking around, and not just out of fear that Sakamochi would blow his head off. For all Hirono had tried her best to help him, the remnants of his hand still oozed blood, slow but unceasing. He'd almost certainly worsened the wound by firing Vijaya, and the "bandages," such as they were, had slowed the bleeding but hadn't actually stopped it. He'd stopped to make some effort at tightening them in hopes of slowing it further, but it hadn't seemed to help much at all. He just had to hope the government goons who'd dragged them here at least cared to treat his injuries when he got there. He wasn't sure how much the survival of the winner of any given Program really mattered to them, but he had to assume it meant at least something. What was the point of the whole fucking exercise if nobody came home at the end?
By the time the school came into view from behind the trees, Kyoichi was already feeling lightheaded and woozy. Soldiers were waiting for him outside the building – which looked a little worse for wear. A chunk had been blown out of the wall, leaving holes revealing the inside of two classrooms beyond it. The wall was covered in ash, splintered glass and wood and metal scattered all across the ground. The source, a car sitting in smouldering ruins outside, was still smoking. This hadn't happened all that long ago. It seemed like someone else had been trying to resist too. A shame, then, that they'd never managed to link up. Maybe Kyoichi could have joined them. Maybe then he wouldn't have to be here, alive, alone.
Kyoichi raised his hands as he came to a stop, wavering a bit unsteadily on his feet. He wasn't armed anymore, but they had no way of knowing that. He didn't want them blowing his head off after all this. Seemed like a terrible waste after the deaths of Takiguchi, Matsui and Hirono had brought him here. He stood, silent and still, while one soldier separated from the others to trudge towards him.
The man didn't bother dignifying him with so much as a word. Instead, the soldier immediately got to searching Kyoichi, patting him down in a way that almost felt like he was beating him. As if he'd somehow have anywhere to keep any sort of weapon. He'd abandoned his bag back in the orchard and his jacket had been left in shreds there as well. The shallow pockets of his pants and thin fabric of his shirt could scarcely conceal much of anything. All this was doing was delaying getting him out of here. Kyoichi could feel the dazed exhaustion he'd been struggling against growing steadily worse as this dragged on.
Eventually, the soldier ceased his fruitless search, satisfied Kyoichi hadn't come all this way to stab them and get himself killed. The man's hand rested on Kyoichi's shoulder, and for a second he mistook it as a reassuring gesture, a rare bit of humanity. Then he roughly shoved Kyoichi, sending him stumbling forwards.
"Go on," he growled, voice coarse as gravel. "Get inside. Kept us waiting long enough."
Kyoichi nearly lost his footing, only barely keeping himself upright. A sharp pain stabbed up through the sole of his right foot, sending waves of agony rolling up his leg. He could feel warm blood pooling into the dirt beneath him; he wasn't sure exactly what he'd stepped on, but the jagged debris around him meant it wasn't hard to guess. He didn't want to actually see the damage. Like he wasn't bleeding badly enough beforehand.
"...where," he muttered, not looking at the man. "Where inside?"
"Take a right and head down the hall. Last door on the right. Not the room you woke up in; it's just past that."
He staggered away from the man, past his cohorts on either side of the doors. He was fuming, really, but then he'd been furious the whole time. He wasn't about to get himself killed mouthing off. He had to make it home.
As he limped down the halls, it was clear he wasn't staying upright for very long. Walking had been difficult enough already with his knee all screwed up and the blood still dripping from his severed fingers and impaled palm. Whatever he'd stepped on was now rapidly worsening the situation, making it harder to walk and making him lose blood at an ever-increasing pace. He traced blood along the walls as he leaned against them for support and left a trail of the stuff behind him with every other step.
He eventually struggled his way to the classroom and fumbled the door open, before tumbling to the floor. He could see figures in the room around him moving to his side and could heard them muttering over him, but everything was fuzzy and muted, like it was all happening underwater. He didn't bother trying to get up; merely trying to stay conscious was enough of a struggle.
Within a minute, he'd failed at even that.
There's A Song I Hear
BRAU Epilogue
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almostinhuman
- Posts: 641
- Joined: Sun Jul 12, 2020 7:06 pm
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almostinhuman
- Posts: 641
- Joined: Sun Jul 12, 2020 7:06 pm
Kyoichi remembered little of what happened after he collapsed. He'd drifted in and out of consciousness over time, but even when awake it was through a thick, delirious fog. He remembered being lifted and carried, the murmur of voices all around him speaking too low for him to understand. He remembered brief snippets of transit, flits of movement from school to car to boat to ambulance. He remembered, throughout it all, the terrible pain that hit him anew each time he stirred, dulled only a little by the haze of unconsciousness. But any specifics, or even how long it had all taken, he couldn't say with any confidence. For most of it, he was adrift in the sweet, comforting void of oblivion.
Then he was awake.
The ceiling above Kyoichi was unfamiliar. It was fastidiously clean, though the thin spiderweb of cracks across its surface indicated it was fairly old. Bright, fluorescent lighting hanging overhead stabbed into his eyes, worsening the vicious headache he'd awoken with. Its hum was not the only sound in the room; a series of low, even beeps went off somewhere nearby every second or so. From further away he could hear the bustle of footsteps, and the din of chatter.
A hospital. Not one in Shiroiwa, he didn't think; most likely it was in the city closest to the island, whose glow had taunted them all from afar. For all their senseless cruelty, Sakamochi and his troops had not left him to bleed out on the floor. He supposed he could feel some relief for that small mercy. It was a low bar to clear, but at least they'd bothered to clear it.
He turned his head to the right, wincing as his neck muscles groaned. With how stiff and sore his body felt, he'd been here for a bit. The room he was in was quite spacious, and his bed was the only one in it. The distant wall had large windows looking out into the sides of nearby buildings. From the perspective outside, he guessed he was on an upper floor. Wherever this hospital was, it seemed to be fairly large. That was good, right? Hospitals this size often had decent funding, and hopefully that would translate to competent care.
He tried, feebly, to sit up in bed. His back rose mere inches off the mattress, a feat that took all the strength he had in him. Within seconds, it gave out, leading to him flopping back into the bed, sending a wave of dull pain across his body. He'd never felt so fucking weak before. Maybe it was painkillers, though everything still hurt so bad that he doubted he'd been given any yet. Or maybe it was from how close he'd come to dying. He was certain he'd come as close as you could to it without going past that point of no return. He was lucky to have woken up at all.
He didn't feel lucky.
He could feel he'd been attached to a bunch of medical equipment. His right arm had an IV stabbed into it, the bag hanging from its rack near his head. His chest had sticky little pads dotted across it, attached to wires going off to his left. Turning to look their way revealed a heart monitor, the source of all the beeping filling the room. All of this nagged at him, annoying and uncomfortable as it was. But he got the sense they weren't gonna take it all off of him anytime soon. For all he knew he might still be in danger of getting worse. He still felt fucking awful enough that he couldn't rule it out. The laceration on his right foot still throbbed in agony, even with the bandages wound around it. His knee, too, pulsed with the same dull ache it had before. And his hand...
His hand didn't hurt. Only his wrist did. His hand didn't feel anything at all.
Kyoichi didn't need to look down to understand what that meant, and couldn't bear to do so besides. He'd known, as soon as the blast hit him, that this was a likely outcome. The damage had been horrific, after all; his hand had been near split in half, and even the fingers that he hadn't lost had been cut down to the bone. Then he'd spent hours with a dirty strip of fabric wrapped around it, the best he and Hirono had been able to do at the time. It was naive of him to think it was even possible to save it after all that. He'd known, even when he believed he'd never make it off that island, that he'd lost the whole hand already. Amputating it might very well have been necessary to save his life.
His right hand – his only hand – rose to cover his mouth. His eyes shut, trying to stem the oncoming flow of tears. Knowing it was probably necessary did nothing to lessen the impact. It wasn't only the loss itself, but what it represented. It wasn't enough that the Program had stolen his friends from him. It had to leave him with this permanent reminder of his utter failure to save them. It had to take chunks out of every part of him, mind and body and soul. He was free, but he was also never going to be free. It would follow him now, forever.
He went on like that, eyes shut, weeping in near-silence. Soon, though, exhaustion overtook him again, and he allowed himself to drift off to sleep.
Then he was awake.
The ceiling above Kyoichi was unfamiliar. It was fastidiously clean, though the thin spiderweb of cracks across its surface indicated it was fairly old. Bright, fluorescent lighting hanging overhead stabbed into his eyes, worsening the vicious headache he'd awoken with. Its hum was not the only sound in the room; a series of low, even beeps went off somewhere nearby every second or so. From further away he could hear the bustle of footsteps, and the din of chatter.
A hospital. Not one in Shiroiwa, he didn't think; most likely it was in the city closest to the island, whose glow had taunted them all from afar. For all their senseless cruelty, Sakamochi and his troops had not left him to bleed out on the floor. He supposed he could feel some relief for that small mercy. It was a low bar to clear, but at least they'd bothered to clear it.
He turned his head to the right, wincing as his neck muscles groaned. With how stiff and sore his body felt, he'd been here for a bit. The room he was in was quite spacious, and his bed was the only one in it. The distant wall had large windows looking out into the sides of nearby buildings. From the perspective outside, he guessed he was on an upper floor. Wherever this hospital was, it seemed to be fairly large. That was good, right? Hospitals this size often had decent funding, and hopefully that would translate to competent care.
He tried, feebly, to sit up in bed. His back rose mere inches off the mattress, a feat that took all the strength he had in him. Within seconds, it gave out, leading to him flopping back into the bed, sending a wave of dull pain across his body. He'd never felt so fucking weak before. Maybe it was painkillers, though everything still hurt so bad that he doubted he'd been given any yet. Or maybe it was from how close he'd come to dying. He was certain he'd come as close as you could to it without going past that point of no return. He was lucky to have woken up at all.
He didn't feel lucky.
He could feel he'd been attached to a bunch of medical equipment. His right arm had an IV stabbed into it, the bag hanging from its rack near his head. His chest had sticky little pads dotted across it, attached to wires going off to his left. Turning to look their way revealed a heart monitor, the source of all the beeping filling the room. All of this nagged at him, annoying and uncomfortable as it was. But he got the sense they weren't gonna take it all off of him anytime soon. For all he knew he might still be in danger of getting worse. He still felt fucking awful enough that he couldn't rule it out. The laceration on his right foot still throbbed in agony, even with the bandages wound around it. His knee, too, pulsed with the same dull ache it had before. And his hand...
His hand didn't hurt. Only his wrist did. His hand didn't feel anything at all.
Kyoichi didn't need to look down to understand what that meant, and couldn't bear to do so besides. He'd known, as soon as the blast hit him, that this was a likely outcome. The damage had been horrific, after all; his hand had been near split in half, and even the fingers that he hadn't lost had been cut down to the bone. Then he'd spent hours with a dirty strip of fabric wrapped around it, the best he and Hirono had been able to do at the time. It was naive of him to think it was even possible to save it after all that. He'd known, even when he believed he'd never make it off that island, that he'd lost the whole hand already. Amputating it might very well have been necessary to save his life.
His right hand – his only hand – rose to cover his mouth. His eyes shut, trying to stem the oncoming flow of tears. Knowing it was probably necessary did nothing to lessen the impact. It wasn't only the loss itself, but what it represented. It wasn't enough that the Program had stolen his friends from him. It had to leave him with this permanent reminder of his utter failure to save them. It had to take chunks out of every part of him, mind and body and soul. He was free, but he was also never going to be free. It would follow him now, forever.
He went on like that, eyes shut, weeping in near-silence. Soon, though, exhaustion overtook him again, and he allowed himself to drift off to sleep.
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almostinhuman
- Posts: 641
- Joined: Sun Jul 12, 2020 7:06 pm
Recovery was mostly defined by drudgery, Kyoichi decided.
The vast majority of his time was spent alone. Nurses shuffled in on occasion to tend to him, but otherwise the room remained generally undisturbed. On some level, he preferred when he was alone; he hated how fucking helpless he was, how he needed other people to do basically everything for him. The hospital staff did their jobs adequately, but they weren't friendly company. Most of them seemed vaguely uncomfortable being in the room with him, and hurried out as soon as they could. It wasn't hard to figure out why. He was a survivor of the Program, after all. From their perspective it must be a bit like taking care of a serial killer. He'd been vaguely aware before of the social stigma facing those who came home from the Program, but now he was getting a front row seat to it.
Yet another reason his survival had been a mistake. But it was a mistake he had to play through.
He'd expected Sakamochi and his soldiers to dip in at some point, but they were oddly absent. He couldn't say he missed them, of course. If anything, their disappearance was a welcome relief. He'd also expected his father to appear – less out of any concern for Kyoichi and more to keep up appearances of being a good father. But then maybe coming to visit his disfigured murderer of a son wasn't good for his career. Maybe he'd get home to find the locks had been changed and his possessions had been dumped by the front door.
While he preferred the solitude, there wasn't really anything to do while he was laid up. The room had no TV or anything (not that there was much Kyoichi would be interested in watching) and his request for something to read had fallen on deaf ears. As a result his first few days were spent near totally immobilized, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling, moved only when being moved by others. It was honestly hard to keep track of how much time passed like this, especially once it was decided he was well enough that painkillers wouldn't drop him into a coma. His only measure of time was the slow rising and setting of the sun and the arrival of nurses on their set schedules. All he had was this uncomfortable rhythm breaking the long, hazy periods of him alone.
His strength did return to him, bit by bit. Six days in he was able to sit upright for longer than a few seconds, and able to feed himself rather than needing his food fed to him. It didn't exactly make a huge difference, but it felt good to have just this one shred of agency back. Standing up was another matter, given the state of his right foot. It was over a week before it was mended enough to handle the weight. Even once it was, his early efforts at climbing out of bed, assisted by the nurses, took enormous effort and left him utterly drained afterwards. Still, he kept at it daily; the sooner he was able to stand on his own, the sooner he could leave. The sooner he could leave, the sooner he could get to figuring out what the fuck he was supposed to do with himself anymore.
It was three weeks before he was walking under his own power, unaided by hospital staff. His strength still wasn't quite what it used to be – and it had never been exceptional – but it was at least good enough to move properly, especially as the injury to his foot finally healed more fully. He'd also, over that time, slowly tried to adjust to the loss of his hand. He was right handed, so at least he wasn't relearning how to write or anything so complex. But he'd taken having two hands very much for granted, and it turned out there was a lot of shit that became far more cumbersome with only one. Every now and again he found himself reaching for something with the stump at the end of his left arm; every time brought a wave of grief cascading over him. But he'd probably, eventually, have to adjust. He hoped it was sooner rather than later.
It was week five when Kyoichi was finally allowed to go home. His father, even now, couldn't be bothered to come for him, nor send anyone to fetch him. The hospital had its own medical transit that they'd be taking him home in instead. He sat in a wheelchair in front of the hospital's main entrance, waiting for its arrival, the noonday sun beaming down on him. Aside from the glasses, the outfit he wore wasn't his own; he had to assume his old uniform had been disposed of. The clothes were plain, uncomfortable, and ill-fitting, especially the shoes, but he hadn't complained. He'd been wearing nothing but a hospital gown for weeks now, and been barefoot all that time and for several more days beforehand. Getting to wear a proper set of clothes again was worth the mild discomfort.
He was wondering where his nurse had disappeared to when he heard the hospital doors open and footsteps approach from behind. Most of them sounded heavily booted, but one was lighter than the rest. A knot formed in his stomach.
"Mr. Motobuchi," a familiar voice chirped, sickeningly cheerful as ever.
Kyoichi sighed, wearily turning his eyes to the man behind him. Sakimochi stood there, flanked by multiple soldiers. That same repugnant little smile graced his lips.
"... Mr. Sakimochi," Kyoichi replied, too tired to feign politeness. Sakimochi didn't seem to notice or care, thankfully.
"Normally, I like to take the Program's winners aside for a little post-victory chat." He gave a dramatic sigh, as if what he was about to say ranked among the great tragedies of the world. It made Kyoichi's eye twitch.
"But you went and made that impossible, what with passing out like you did. I dropped by periodically, but your doctor recommended not to bother you until you'd recovered. Now that you're up, though, I'm afraid we don't really have time for it. Such a shame."
Sakimochi's face barely changed as he spoke, but the smug glee in his voice was undeniable. The temptation to slap the grin off his face was fierce, but Kyoichi resisted. The last thing he needed was to get killed after everything he'd been through. He'd survived having the Program take almost everything from him; what was one more little indignity?
"... I'm sorry, sir." His right hand drifted towards the end of his left arm, grabbing what remained of his wrist. "I meant nothing by it."
"Oh no, it's quite alright, young man." Sakimochi's insincere smile grew minutely. "What matters is that you're well and able to get home safe. Your wellbeing is my top priority."
Kyoichi's right hand gripped his arm a little more tightly. He knew he couldn't afford to talk back, but it was getting harder and harder not to. Sakimochi almost certainly knew it, too. There was no doubt he was egging him on, daring Kyoichi to say or do anything that gave him an excuse.
"Ah, it seems your ride's here."
Indeed, an old grey van was pulling into the car loop just now. A blessed relief if it meant Sakimochi would finally fuck off. One of the soldiers pushed him towards the van as it came to a stop and opened the door, allowing Kyoichi to climb from the chair and into one of the seats in the back.
"Good luck, Mr. Motobuchi," Sakimochi said, already turning away. "I'm sure you have a bright future ahead of you."
They both knew what an utter load of shit that was.
The vast majority of his time was spent alone. Nurses shuffled in on occasion to tend to him, but otherwise the room remained generally undisturbed. On some level, he preferred when he was alone; he hated how fucking helpless he was, how he needed other people to do basically everything for him. The hospital staff did their jobs adequately, but they weren't friendly company. Most of them seemed vaguely uncomfortable being in the room with him, and hurried out as soon as they could. It wasn't hard to figure out why. He was a survivor of the Program, after all. From their perspective it must be a bit like taking care of a serial killer. He'd been vaguely aware before of the social stigma facing those who came home from the Program, but now he was getting a front row seat to it.
Yet another reason his survival had been a mistake. But it was a mistake he had to play through.
He'd expected Sakamochi and his soldiers to dip in at some point, but they were oddly absent. He couldn't say he missed them, of course. If anything, their disappearance was a welcome relief. He'd also expected his father to appear – less out of any concern for Kyoichi and more to keep up appearances of being a good father. But then maybe coming to visit his disfigured murderer of a son wasn't good for his career. Maybe he'd get home to find the locks had been changed and his possessions had been dumped by the front door.
While he preferred the solitude, there wasn't really anything to do while he was laid up. The room had no TV or anything (not that there was much Kyoichi would be interested in watching) and his request for something to read had fallen on deaf ears. As a result his first few days were spent near totally immobilized, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling, moved only when being moved by others. It was honestly hard to keep track of how much time passed like this, especially once it was decided he was well enough that painkillers wouldn't drop him into a coma. His only measure of time was the slow rising and setting of the sun and the arrival of nurses on their set schedules. All he had was this uncomfortable rhythm breaking the long, hazy periods of him alone.
His strength did return to him, bit by bit. Six days in he was able to sit upright for longer than a few seconds, and able to feed himself rather than needing his food fed to him. It didn't exactly make a huge difference, but it felt good to have just this one shred of agency back. Standing up was another matter, given the state of his right foot. It was over a week before it was mended enough to handle the weight. Even once it was, his early efforts at climbing out of bed, assisted by the nurses, took enormous effort and left him utterly drained afterwards. Still, he kept at it daily; the sooner he was able to stand on his own, the sooner he could leave. The sooner he could leave, the sooner he could get to figuring out what the fuck he was supposed to do with himself anymore.
It was three weeks before he was walking under his own power, unaided by hospital staff. His strength still wasn't quite what it used to be – and it had never been exceptional – but it was at least good enough to move properly, especially as the injury to his foot finally healed more fully. He'd also, over that time, slowly tried to adjust to the loss of his hand. He was right handed, so at least he wasn't relearning how to write or anything so complex. But he'd taken having two hands very much for granted, and it turned out there was a lot of shit that became far more cumbersome with only one. Every now and again he found himself reaching for something with the stump at the end of his left arm; every time brought a wave of grief cascading over him. But he'd probably, eventually, have to adjust. He hoped it was sooner rather than later.
It was week five when Kyoichi was finally allowed to go home. His father, even now, couldn't be bothered to come for him, nor send anyone to fetch him. The hospital had its own medical transit that they'd be taking him home in instead. He sat in a wheelchair in front of the hospital's main entrance, waiting for its arrival, the noonday sun beaming down on him. Aside from the glasses, the outfit he wore wasn't his own; he had to assume his old uniform had been disposed of. The clothes were plain, uncomfortable, and ill-fitting, especially the shoes, but he hadn't complained. He'd been wearing nothing but a hospital gown for weeks now, and been barefoot all that time and for several more days beforehand. Getting to wear a proper set of clothes again was worth the mild discomfort.
He was wondering where his nurse had disappeared to when he heard the hospital doors open and footsteps approach from behind. Most of them sounded heavily booted, but one was lighter than the rest. A knot formed in his stomach.
"Mr. Motobuchi," a familiar voice chirped, sickeningly cheerful as ever.
Kyoichi sighed, wearily turning his eyes to the man behind him. Sakimochi stood there, flanked by multiple soldiers. That same repugnant little smile graced his lips.
"... Mr. Sakimochi," Kyoichi replied, too tired to feign politeness. Sakimochi didn't seem to notice or care, thankfully.
"Normally, I like to take the Program's winners aside for a little post-victory chat." He gave a dramatic sigh, as if what he was about to say ranked among the great tragedies of the world. It made Kyoichi's eye twitch.
"But you went and made that impossible, what with passing out like you did. I dropped by periodically, but your doctor recommended not to bother you until you'd recovered. Now that you're up, though, I'm afraid we don't really have time for it. Such a shame."
Sakimochi's face barely changed as he spoke, but the smug glee in his voice was undeniable. The temptation to slap the grin off his face was fierce, but Kyoichi resisted. The last thing he needed was to get killed after everything he'd been through. He'd survived having the Program take almost everything from him; what was one more little indignity?
"... I'm sorry, sir." His right hand drifted towards the end of his left arm, grabbing what remained of his wrist. "I meant nothing by it."
"Oh no, it's quite alright, young man." Sakimochi's insincere smile grew minutely. "What matters is that you're well and able to get home safe. Your wellbeing is my top priority."
Kyoichi's right hand gripped his arm a little more tightly. He knew he couldn't afford to talk back, but it was getting harder and harder not to. Sakimochi almost certainly knew it, too. There was no doubt he was egging him on, daring Kyoichi to say or do anything that gave him an excuse.
"Ah, it seems your ride's here."
Indeed, an old grey van was pulling into the car loop just now. A blessed relief if it meant Sakimochi would finally fuck off. One of the soldiers pushed him towards the van as it came to a stop and opened the door, allowing Kyoichi to climb from the chair and into one of the seats in the back.
"Good luck, Mr. Motobuchi," Sakimochi said, already turning away. "I'm sure you have a bright future ahead of you."
They both knew what an utter load of shit that was.