Peace Village: Dancing in the Dark

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B15: SHŪYA NANAHARA - CONTINUED FROM "Peace Village: Brother's Blood"

That awful chorus of laughter echoed through the house like nails dragged across a chalkboard; it wheezed and sputtered out like a crashed locomotive or an animal in the throes of the reaper. It was the inversion of a world of such brightness, and now inverted, it was the blackest of nights. It was all the evils of the world together, the dying screeches of the soul.

The world was burning, and Shūya was laughing. The tapes clicked at his side and brushed against some object; it didn't merit naming. Either way, his headphones were echoing again, and all he could think about was the music now. It was the dance of death.

I get up in the evenin',
And I ain't got nothin' to say.

He slowly rose to his feet. Everything was flashing through his head, and yet it felt so light. So empty. So empty. Just like everything else in the world now. It was that overwhelming sort of emptiness that made it impossible to think.

I come home in the mornin',
I go to bed feelin' the same way.

His hands clung to the walls, but his feet slid away from him. The walls spun, and the floors rotated. Everything felt like it was about to fall away from him. Everything was just right. Everything was wrong. A part of him wanted to scream; a part of him wanted to sob; a part of him wanted to sing.

I ain't nothin' but tired,
Man, I'm just tired and bored with myself.

He wanted to stop thinking, stop feeling, shut it all out. The fear, uncertainty, and doubt all clung to him and weighed him down like millstones. Chains and anchors. The world wouldn't stop moving, but every step felt like a war against gravity. More laws he couldn't break.

Hey there, baby, I could use just a little help.

He wanted to lose it all.

You can't start a fire...
You can't start a fire without a spark.

It was the darkest place in the world to be, and the sun was rising. It was an eternal symbol, the rising sun. It was the symbol of the Republic of Greater East Asia. A boot stamping on the human face—forever.

It was the dawn of a new day.

This gun's for hire,
Even if we're just dancin' in the dark.

In a history lesson a long time ago, Shūya had been taught all about Rome. It had an emperor once (or, more accurately, about seventy times, and that's only counting the West, but that's beside the point), and his name was Nero, and a story said that he fiddled as Rome burnt around him.

Messages keeps gettin' clearer,
Radio's on and I'm movin' 'round my place.

It was an interesting anecdote, but Shūya had always wondered: why not douse the fire? He understood now. Or, at the very least, he thought he did. He wasn't one-hundred percent sure, more like fifty percent. Every moment, he grew a little less sure about it.

I check my look in the mirror,
Wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face!

What was stopping him? Drop all of the pretenses. He could throw it all away. His name. His face. His identity. His mind. Everything burns. Everything else he cared about was in ruins. Everyone he cared about was dead. No, that wasn't true. Shūya cared about everyone. But most of everyone was dead.

Man, I ain't gettin' nowhere,
I'm just livin' in a dump like this.

God, so many people were dead. So many.

There's somethin' happenin' somewhere,
Baby, I just know that there is.

This is a written description of a room:

It is a living room. There is a couch and a table and other pieces of furniture. Discarded bottles of water are present in the room.

There is one image.

There is a young man. There is a corpse. The young man is wearing the standard school uniform of the Republic of Greater East Asia; the black outer jacket has been unzipped, revealing a white buttoned shirt. The young man is wearing multiple non-standard accessories; these articles include a pair of worn keds and a pair of headphones connected to a Walkman. The young man is laughing. The young man is screaming. The young man is sobbing. The young man is singing.

You can't start a fire...
You can't start a fire without a spark.

This is a written description of a landscape:

It is a residential area. A street is present. A town hall and a mansion are in the background; a flag waves from the town hall.

There are two images.

There are three delinquents. One delinquent has a pompadour; One delinquent has glasses; One delinquent is shorter than the others. The delinquent with the pompadour is striking down the short delinquent.

There are two delinquents. One delinquent has a pompadour; One delinquent has glasses. There is a corpse. The delinquents are arguing over the corpse.

This gun's for hire,
Even if we're just dancin' in the dark.

He felt trapped. He wanted to escape, to grab the collar and rip it off his neck, and throw it far, far away, into the Seto Inland Sea. He wanted to throw himself into the Seto Inland Sea. The two were not mutually exclusive desires.

You sit around gettin' older,
There's a joke here somewhere, and it's on me.

Shūya grieved everything in his miserable existence.

I'll shake this world off my shoulders,
Come on, baby, the laugh's on me.

He cried for a little bit longer. A little longer.

Stay on the streets of this town,
And they'll be carvin' you up alright.

Shūya stood up again and walked out of the room. His whole body pulsed with the painful sensation of pins and needles.

They say you gotta stay hungry,
Hey baby, I'm just about starvin' tonight.

He had once thought that—were it not for the corpses and the gunfire and such—the island was beautiful. Now, at this moment, it seemed the ugliest place in the entire world. The grass is always greener on the other side, though, he knew. So maybe it was for the best that he didn't give this place the benefit of the doubt anymore.

I'm dyin' for some action,
I'm sick of sittin' 'round here tryin' to write this book.

Shūya pressed his back against the wall, hyperventilating, beads of sweat running down his face, eyes flicking around the space. Another wave of nausea wracked him.

I need a love reaction,
Come on now, baby, gimme just one look.

Shūya slid down the wall, clutching his head with his hands. His headphones slid down to his neck, still blaring their music, but it was quieter now, hollower. A part of him wanted to move, but another part of him couldn't move. So he curled up and felt no safer than he had before.

You can't start a fire,
Sittin' 'round cryin' over a broken heart

The others were still fighting outside; he could listen to them yelling. He could hear them over the music. For a moment, he glanced across the room.

Shūya saw Yoshitoki's body through the doorway. He looked away again.

This gun's for hire,
Even if we're just dancin' in the dark.

He didn't think he would ever feel safe again.

After all, the war still raged outside. The gunshots still echoed. The battle lines were still drawn and re-drawn at that. Hearts broke, blood spilled, and the world was the worse for all of it.

This gun's for hire,
You can't start a fire,
Worryin' about your little world fallin' apart...

He shut off the music, having listened to nary a word.

It was too much. This game was too much.

B15: SHŪYA NANAHARA - CONTINUED IN "Peace Village: Brother's Blood"