1. Hachiro

Hachiro


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When the past is more than prelude, and you live it every hour,
The milk of human kindness curdles into something sour,
You grow complacent with suspicion's cry, so shrill and feral,
And miss the warning wailings of the present, to your peril

A dream before dying.

Nothing more than that.

It had been a nice dream. The universe had tempered its cruelty with a final kindness. He'd just begun believing it was real…

Even now, as he lay dying, the mirage wouldn't fully clear. Blood blurred his vision and his every thought ached, but still the dreamscape persisted. The tiles. The red light and klaxon.

The memory of his husband's face.

He tried to stand, but something was wrong. The signals got confused along the way. He fell back again, and the back of his skull struck ceramic like a match against flint. Sparks filled his universe, and when the sparks died…

It was all still there. The impossible paradise, now collapsing back into old horror. It was more than bent reality. It was inside of him. Friends died screaming, crushed into paste by visions enforcing themselves on a pliant plane, and the screams echoed in the jumps between each neuron. He was a graveyard called Mistakes.

And yet some of the mistakes were new.

Shots fired. Intruders undetected. An intake gone disastrously wrong. His fault, his fault, not merely someone else's that he took ownership of via the survivor's trademark self-flagellation. An update to the horrors he could call his very own.

He wondered how it was done, a new illusion layered over the old. Perhaps a headset strapped across his eyes, making him see what could not be. He tried to reach for his face, but his arms were numb.

How much had he dreamed? All of it? Surely not all of it. Even Allan?

No. He tried to shake his head, and nearly passed out from the pain. No, you didn't imagine Allan. Was he still out there, then? Was there a chance he might stop Shinoda on his own?

He laughed. There was no blood, which was funny. A programming oversight, no doubt. No, Allan wouldn't stop Shinoda. Allan would die, just as he was dying.

He glanced around the false hall, and knew it for what it was. A dingy stairwell at Site-79, trapped in a madman's power fantasy. Soon the light would die, too, and the Kitsunetsuki would have only ghosts to hunt.

He closed his eyes.

If this was the end, it was more merciful than he'd expected. A glimpse of future failures he would never need to endure. Another duty unfulfilled, charges failed, apocalypse unaverted. But in the interval, the dream had been good.

He thought of Xinyi as he drifted from one delirium to the next.

And smiled against the red.

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