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He stood tall, vigilant over the vast scenery of headstones dotting an otherwise hauntingly beautiful grassland. An expanse, framed with weeping willows as far as the eye could reach. Along the quiet of a resting place came the mourning songs of grief and anguish. Shouta’s own grief had already been replaced, snatched to leave an empty void so much like an abyss, a growing numbness he was unwilling to fight against.
Hizashi was there. The melancholy leaking off of him like a drooping sunflower, ready to wilt, but unable to because of the sun they were standing under. And Shouta just stood and watched. How utterly terrifying it would be, should he give in to the incentive he’d deprived himself of. To scream until his throat burned, yet continue the lamenting howl that had been stuck in his chest. Even when his voice caved, he would scream. None of these thoughts showed on his outer visage. He’s all too calm, not a twitch to his face. He watched on. He watched Hizashi suffer in silence like he’d always done.
Later, they would leave and Hizashi would smile that deceiving curl of lips, always so bright, a flamboyance only he could muster. Only Shouta could see the writhing soul behind swirling green eyes, much too bright, much too sad. A revulsion settled deep, Shouta would look away for the first time and wonder if maybe he made the wrong decision. And he would start questioning his motives until the charred reminder of Midnight’s red mask flashed before his eyes. Why not bring upon them slow and all-taking ruin? Humanity who had reigned and not once apologised for the lives it took. Who was he to deny himself the satisfaction of doing the same?
Maybe people had wondered, what if Eraserhead started actually erasing? The erasure of flaws. The erasure of humanity. A desire laid dormant, but soon would lay tame and calm in his grasp. Hizashi knew, perceptive of his qualms and desires. So tuned in to his every thought, Shouta briefly considered him otherworldly. Unbelonging to the race he despised so much, for all he felt was nothing but tender affection. Hizashi had sat in front of him while Shouta kneaded a blanket in nervous anticipation. He’d seen, glimpsed the internal turmoil he hadn’t been able to hide in time. Hizashi had asked then, green dark and uncontained focused on his single eye.
“You’re having doubts, aren’t you?” While it hadn’t been much of a question, Hizashi had observed correctly, yet he knew the path they had chosen allowed not enough space for doubt. They were heroes. They saved the very same people who’d one day crawl into the alleys and emerge from the shadows one fateful evening, knife not sharp enough to fear, but still standing on the opposite side. So Shouta asked a question of his own.
“Do you ever grow weary?” Hizashi had cocked his head, urging Shouta to continue. “Of saving the people who’ll someday try to kill you?” It had been a straightforward question and Hizashi had taken his time to come up with an answer.
“That’s maybe five percent of the people we save.” Hizashi had said and it was amusing, really, it was almost enough to set off the laughter in the back of his throat.
“Pray you never see the underbelly of crime, Yamada.” By all means, Hizashi was an intellectual fellow. He just hadn’t seen the trenchant reality. Until he had.
Devastated betrayal had washed over him and lingered in darkening shades of averse acceptation for days until his face became carefully blank. By then, Shouta’s own festering spitefulness had become all too apparent. At night, he would go out on patrol and ponder obscene thoughts. Watching among shady lowlifes. Should he pry them open? Dig into their guts and find what made them monsters? Truly, he shouldn’t be one to ponder about monsters that lurk in the dark for he was an animal himself, no better than the ones he wanted to tear apart.
For now, they stood among the souls succumbed to the resounding lull of Death. A cemetery far too pleasing to the eye and a sun much too bright overhead. Shouta wanted to turn away and crawl into the shadows, but Hizashi had made one last request and he intended to grant him this. A small token, if just a memory, before they would set to ash a world they had only just woken up to. A complacency to the massacre of contented delirium society had wrapped itself in. Humanity, so vile, wouldn’t know what hit them until the single red glow accompanied by a mortifying scream set the streets ablaze.