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There was nothing. Black emptiness was as far as the eye could see. Mitsu could no longer hear, see or even feel. Her senses had failed her but her mind was still going. Was this what the afterlife was like? Cold empty nothingness until she could see him again? Maybe it would be best to just rest for now. Wait patiently and it would be okay.

She had just resigned herself to wait in the silence when one of her senses came back with clarity. Two pillars formed before her and it was strange to see something all of a sudden in the nothingness around them. Still, she approached, moving toward the white one. White was such a familiar color.

Startled when she heard the voice she listened to the tale of the great king and the power that was left behind. Pride did it say? And it was in search of the one true king? She had no idea what it was referring to when it said this story had a sad ending until it told her to look at her shadow. Looking down she saw a mirror, black and with no reflection. Was it really a mirror at all? As she continued to look a figure came into existence, a face she had seen before because it was her own. Something was off though, strange. Mitsu felt like she should know something, like there was a memory lost somewhere but when she tried to find it there was nothing there.

The pillar explained and the information was hard to grasp. "B...But I don't understand.." But the sensation of a shrug hit her and she knew the pillar was indifferent. So her life...her very existence...it was all a lie? How could that be? She had friends, she once had a family, she had even met someone that she liked. How could she feel all of this and not be real? But somehow, the truth was there. The words didn't feel like a lie. She could feel herself fading. Her existence was going to be wiped away without a trace.

So they would never truly meet again.

She felt the full crushing force of reality and what this meant. Her meaningless existence and the grief it brought her. How fitting considering her kingdom, though that was likely a lie too. Was there anything that had been real? Had her feelings not been real? Suddenly she felt jealous of the figure in the mirror. Able to actually live, to truly exist. If only....

Her head turned upward when the pillar offered her one last chance. A finale stroll through this dream of a reality so that she could say her goodbyes. Entertaining? Mitsu couldn't say it was entertaining to her but this looked like it was going to be her only opportunity for a second chance. Just a brief moment so that she could see him again before everything faded to nothing. That was all she wanted. It was more than she had currently considering she was nothing more than a piece in someone else's game.

[[Exiting]]

[[ Entering ]]

For a moment, she thought she was doing well.

She had never aimed a gun in her life, really. Sure, she owned one. In her position, nothing else made sense. She was constantly fighting, and eventually she would piss someone off. And while she was protected by The Family, was she really protected? She was a public figure. If she managed to piss off someone with different alignments, it was quite possible her protection would fall.

But that really didn't matter anyway, in the end. She had aimed. She had ignored the kickback. She had shot. She had managed to bring some severe damage onto some of that Red Kingdom scum. They were in her way. She needed to kill them so her Kingdom could live on, becoming the True Kingdom with the Truest King. Bang. Bang. Bang. It was loud, it rang in her ears in a way she didn't quite like, but caused damage that appealed to the hidden visceral part of herself, the part that had wanted to see her enemies fall.

But she had always been like that, really. From a young age, she had wanted to take people down. She wanted to raise herself up, become the top of the social ladder, be the person that everyone admired and had to listen to. Yes, that sounded right. It was why politics appealed to her in such a large way. Politics were essentially a game of popularity on the largest scale, spinning your words and actions so people would like the way someone looked or talked. Speeches were only ten percent their actual content, it seemed. It was also important to look the best, and despite the scarring on her face, Serafina made her best efforts to make herself look absolutely perfect, even painting make-up over the scars when she had to.

How had she even gotten those scars?

It was strange that she was laying here, pondering her life. On the outside, her body was screaming. She felt like she was being torn apart, bit by bit, removed from reality in her entirety as if she had never really been there in the first place. Perhaps it was her body's way of attempting to hide what horrendous, monstrous things were happening to what it was on the outside, attempting to play back memories that were happy, memories that made her life, memories that made her who she really was.

But she couldn't seem to grasp at where she had gotten the scars in the first place. What was it? She was dating someone, at some point, a man who was probably underneath her, the more she thought about it. He was vile, really. Vile like ... bile, she guessed. For some reason, it was hard to summon the anger at him that she used to. She used to scream and rage every time his name was dripped from someone's mouth, but now, she could barely remember his name. Did it matter? It didn't matter. She was dying anyway, her body convulsing as it felt the miasma leaking upwards from it, escaping from her body and into the air.

Why had she joined this war in the first place? She was never a fighter. She was an orator, at best, something to be reviled at worst, corrupt at its very core due to the way she had manipulated her own people to get into power in the first place. Senator Serafina Arai, that was who she was. Probably. Did it matter? She wasn't anything but a vessel to hold miasma, and a vessel to collect miasma for her king, something she failed horrendously at.

Why was she trying to gather miasma anyway?

The straws she was grasping at seemed harder and harder to reach, especially as she scratched at her throat, screaming unheard, wishing for the sensation to stop at any moment. Her body begged for it to end.

Her mind, too.

She could see no point to any of this. Did any of the people she had met even mattered? Her bodyguards, her family... who was even in her family? Did she have one? Did The Boss really matter? She ultimately threw his life at him, and for what? An end. She was over. It was all... over. Not even the kind, innocent words of Gargantuan seemed to quite reach her here, banging around in her head once, twice, thrice, before losing their meaning, leaking out of her much like the miasma that made up her existence.

It all leaked out, growing more distant... distant ...distant...

And then nothing mattered at all.

========================

When she felt the wisps of consciousness again, it was odd, unfamiliar. She thought it was over, but there she was, staring at two pillars. The bright white, shining and blinding, and the less obtrusive black. Was this purgatory? She stumbled towards the black pillar, feeling drawn to the cool, mysterious aura that dripped off it, feeling more and more sinister as she arrived in front of it and looked up.

The voice she heard in her head surprised her, eyes widening a tad as she heard the echo banged through her skull.

Pitiful.

Powerless.

Yes, the Senator certainly felt worthless.

It wasn't his responsibility to safe people such as her, of course. She didn't need saving. She had done nothing of worth... for anyone. She couldn't even say why anything she had done was worthwhile. Everything felt so empty, so ... hollow. Everything she had touched was worthless, and so was she.

But she would look into the shadow anyway.

The mirror stared back at her, swirling and blank at first. She quirked a brow, wondering what the intention of this was. Was there any worth to ... this ... who was ... her eyes squinted at the mirror, observing another her on the other side, dressed in what might have been en vogue for whatever period she was from. There was a surgical mask over this woman's mouth, as opposed to what she wore over hers, touching at the sides of her mouth and running her fingers along the scars. Her hair was the same, her eyes were the same, and her demeanor was more ... cheerful, perhaps, but they were the same.

But they weren't. That was what she actually was.

Serafina swallowed hard. It was true. Nothing she had done was of any meaning, because she had never actually existed. She was created to be destroyed--to break, as the pillar told her. Was this The Voice? Did it even matter? This was a game. She was literally created to be a ... pawn.

A pawn on the chessboard.

That was all she ever was.

She couldn't bear to look at herself anymore, tearing her eyes away and advancing towards the pillar. Perhaps that was where she went for an end. It was too... terrifying to think that her existence meant nothing, and never really had. Never ... would. Therefore, when she was chose she had a chance to go back and say goodbye, she laughed aloud, so loud it felt like it rung through the void even if the void had no walls, no escapes, no ways out. What was the point? What was she saying goodbye to? Nothing existed. No one existed. She had never really existed.

Saying goodbye to other shadows like her, before she stopped existing all-together. What a lovely proposal.

She had already said her goodbyes, though. Everyone had gone ahead of her. The people who mattered ... who had mattered, she had clung to, hard, telling them how brave they were for throwing their life into something that meant nothing at all. It was all ... worthless. She didn't want to go back and see people who were living shadows. What could she do if she went back? She would say goodbye, but it didn't matter. It never had mattered.

In some ways, she'd like to grasp at what she had left, to tell herself that, yes, what mattered was what mattered, and that she had been a living person, who had living friends, who had a living purpose, who had been something that was going to matter, who had been something of a hero, perhaps, in her own little way, who knew people who were heroes in their own way, and that was how she wanted to go.

Going back let her know that the whole thing had never mattered at all.

... Perhaps, though, she could make something matter. "Alright."

[[ Exiting! ]]

(( dedski ))

He hadn't felt pain like this since he was seven years old.

It was his first real trip to the palace, the first time he had been allowed within its walls instead of being forced to wait outside while the grownups did grownup things, and the boy was nervous and excited and proud all at once. He had been helping his master craft fireworks for years now, but tonight would be the debut of his personal creations. It was the little king's birthday, and even though West's rockets would be far from center stage, they would still be there, brightening the outskirts of the show with sparkles of red and white.

Sothrun had always been happy to answer any questions his apprentice had about the palace over the years, but nothing had prepared the boy for the reality. He moved down the long hall as quickly as he could without tripping, his small hands clutching his bag of supplies and holding it out in front of his knees to keep them from knocking into it. The vibrant reds around him were almost too bright to be believed; the shining gold seared his eyes, but he kept staring. It was all so beautiful.

When he reached the throne his gaze finally stopped wandering. It remained downcast as he bowed to the girl, hurrying off to set up before he could get a proper look at her. It would be years before he saw her face, and even though her current appearance was a recent memory, it felt like a lie, as if he wouldn't be able to pick her out of a crowd if asked.

The fireworks had been set up painstakingly, each mortar weighted so it wouldn't injure anyone when the explosions began, each wick spaced just far enough to be safe. All except one. When he lit the fourth bomb, something went terribly wrong.

West didn't remember much of what happened next. Whenever he tried, all that came to him was a lot of bright light, the sound of his screams, and an unbearable ache that still frightened him more than a decade later. Sothrun had told him that the only reason he still had all his fingers was because of the palace healers. West had been even more vigilant since that day, if that was possible, and he had never had another accident of that magnitude again.

The crook of his elbow burned with a familiar burst of excruciating pain, but when he looked down he saw nothing more than his king's delicate fingers pressed against the mark that she had given him. They brushed his skin lightly at first, but soon they dug deeper and deeper until her nails grazed bone. Xiu smiled and her features wavered, shifting and morphing until she looked like his queen instead. The pain in his arm moved to his throat, then his heart. He couldn't scream.

It had all been for nothing. He had never even made it into battle before he had been slaughtered for no reason at all. West tried to recall his first visit to the palace once more, the vibrant reds and the shining gold, but the hangings were dull and the filigree tarnished with rot. His kingdom was worthless and he was nothing. At least he finally knew the truth.

* * *

He remained curled in the darkness for what felt like a very long time, until one day (hour? minute? second?) he saw a pair of pillars in the distance, one dark and one pale. They crept toward him even when he didn't move at all, but he found he could hasten their approach by rising out of his dejected huddle and moving forward himself.

One of them spoke. Maybe both. It was true. He was a fake. Nothing he remembered had happened, and when he tried to recall his past now there were no memories to call up anyway.

Westus was empty. There was nothing to go back to.

Elimination - the heart still wants to fight, left cannot exist without right.

This was nothing.

It was just a scratch, a little gash. put a band aid on me. i'm fine.

All that Jing wanted to take care of it was a shot of aged whiskey and to pop a fresh royal blue pill. he still wanted to fight, there was still a part of him that wanted to continue to go on. He expected there to be some sort of feeling, some sensation that came with falling apart, shredding to pieces with the miasma, but there was nothing. All there was was the faces of his attackers, the pileup of red that demanded him to no longer breathe. The feeling of being looked down upon in such a manner was deplorable, unfitting. His throat was already filling up with blood, the sour tang of copper was appropriate to the situation.

his legs were broken into pieces, slivers that refused to bear even a fraction of his weight. He was sure the pain would have been immense if he could still feel it. The worse part of it all was not beatings. the injuries, the fact that he was chocking on his own blood, spraying little bubbles of red as it foamed from his mouth as he struggled for air. The fact that he died alone was the dagger to the heart.

there was no one there by his side, no friend to say his goodbyes to. Not a friendly face to inform his friends that he would miss them. No sister by his side to remind her that he loved her with all his heart and soul, from now until forever. No silly rivals to pester, prod and joke with. There was no new people who was interested in knowing him, and him learning about in return. No lover on the battlefield to be concerned about, or a pal to lick when times were hard.

there was noone but himself, and the cold, dark sleep that awaited him at the end. But there were memories. the memories of being along huddled with his sister in an alleyway, shivering in the cold and rain and reminding here that one day they will find a place to call their own. A place that was happy, and warm. where they could be themselves and free and not have to worry about the simple things of having something in their stomachs and finding a place suitable to sleep they would find a home.

there were better memories. Memories of a lavish hall that was as grand as it was imposing. where people became merry and sang tunes by the piano, be it drunken melodies or even raunchy chants as the musician flexed their fingers. There was a place of gathering where people of all sorts of walks of life flocked to for something to parch their throat. where the attendant was a cherished friend and ally and a source of confinement. The dapper smile that could keep anyone at ease.

There was indeed work, but it wasn't as bad as it could be. there was no need for him to sell his body or to cover his sisters shame, it was honest work. that was not to say there was never a person where he would give everything he had to. Someone who was foolish and silly but kind. there were bosses and their confidants that kept everything in line, but were still approachable and kept things fair. It was an amazing sight.

the former dealer thought it was impossible to feel still but the large unsightly tears that began to grow at the sides of his eyes, chocking on the sobs that was drowning in his blood. the gurgling sound was raspy, blood began to expiate in large flowing strands. "I've been such a fool."

"I had a family and a home all along." it was an ironic twist of fate on how clearly one could see when it was shut off from the world. he had everything he ever wanted in life, and in a matter of seconds, it was going to be all gone.

lost forever. as he crawled his arms up toward his broken and hacked off thighs and weeped openly for what he was going to leave behind. a mournful cry that gave sound to the regret that lived keep inside him.

I'm not ready to go yet.

Im not, im not. I want to be with them all again. No.

Please don't take me away from them,

"I'm not ready to die."

He'd died. Not a single soul had been killed by hands hands. And honestly, he was fine with that. The one who'd taken him down seemed to despair her actions with every blow, as if she were killing a dear friend.

Dying didn't hurt. He'd done it before. No, it was her words and expression as she strangled the last of his breath from him that made him feel regret.

For a puppet, she sure did pack a punch.

Mot now met with the familiar dark pillar. His bitterness was gone. All he wanted now was to finally end this false life.

It wasn't true. it wasn't his.

He reached for the pillar.. one last time.

His thoughts were a flurry, an impossible whirlwind. He had failed, failed his king and his kingdom, he had failed to protect those he pledged his life to protect. Maybe he had taken down one attack, he had protected his king for one moment, but it was only a moment. His family, his kingdom, all he had ever held dear was still in danger, they could fall at any moment.

But what did it matter, he was gone, there was nothing left to protect... No, that wasn't true, all was not lost. His sacrifice was not in vain, not yet. There were others who remained, others to stand and fight where he had fallen, those who remained would defend the kingdom and those he could no longer proetect himself.

His eyes closed, he was ready, ready to fall into the oblivion that awaited him...

But oblivion did not come...

What, what was this? Where was he? Cautiously, thoughts and questions whirling in his head, Sheridan approached the pillars, searching for some sign, some clue, some answer. In the end, it was the white pillar he drew closest to, only to leap away and nearly tumble backward when it spoke. The pillar...was speaking..to him? What in the name of--

The dragon listened, his tail twitching with his thoughts, which each word that the pillar spoke. What, what was it saying, fragments, memories? The throne, what did that have to do with...

His thoughts broke there, his gaze drawn to his own shadow at the pillar's prompt. His shadow? Why? What the--the thoughts of why he would have a shadow at all in the oblivion he should have been in were erased in an instant. A mirror, that was him in the mirror, and yet, there was something different. The figure was in a place he did not recognize, speaking to a girl he did not know. Was that really--no, it wasn't him? That who...who was he? He was only a fragment, he was not real? Then what was the point? He may as well fade into oblivion now and be done with it. If none of this was real, then there was no one to defend, there was no reason to fight.

No! Not that was not true. Even if he was a fragment, only a memory, that did not mean he was not real. All he felt, it was true, it was true to him, it was true to those he cared for. And he would fight, he could continue to fight for them, no matter how many lives it may cost him, he would stand and fight and protect until his last life!

His king still had need of him, he would return to her!

[EXIT, returning to battle]

Enter

It was quiet here, and he felt that this was done. Heavy with emotion, solid in its finality, but done. He stood, as strange a concept as that was now, and regarded his clothes. Blue. Protection. No….Betrayal.

His eyes went up to the pillars. One Black. One White. Looking at his hand, he regarded the white rabbit that had once been there, seeing that it was gone now. A rabbit. Alice in Wonderland. He certainly had fallen through his own hole. A tender white rabbit that had been chased by his enemies, where no friends had been in this horrible twisted world. He trusted completely, and had received no mercy. Instead, he was given a promise of value, safety, and then he died before the feet of his king by his Queen, and all his court surrounded him but made no move to save him. He’d been butchered for no purpose. A rabbit who’s meat would spoil.

He stepped to the black pillar, and he heard a voice. Not THE voice, but a voice. It felt cold and hollow, just as he felt, and he winced under its sharp statements. He had been powerless to stop his murder, and he had been wiped clean as nothing. He had given his trust completely, and was betrayed for that loyalty and trust by the closest circle he had. Cold anger burned in him, tired as his emotions were, and he felt his heart clench like a fist.

But the voice continued, and spoke to him. He was not here to be saved, but was Fated as a creation. Then….why was he created? Was it god who put him here and made this death his destiny? If so, then why?

No. It was a Great King who did this, who manipulated everyone, sent his guards away to the battle to leave him to be defenseless of protection when he needed it, and who did nothing of those who tried to kill him.

When asked to look down, he did, and breathed as the black pillar showed him a mirror. A dark figure, but from it came a life of color. Lovely yellows and pinkish tan, and that of a young man like him, serious and vivid even beyond that of sight. That of feeling, of touch, of presence, and when the figure looked at him, he felt drawn and yet strangely detached. There was something here he should know or feel or experience, but what it was was lost on him.

The voice spoke.

He was not him, but a piece of something more real, a shard of a mirror meant to shatter as a reflection of the real him.

Like a mirror, he wasn’t real, and like a mirror, would never exist in the world of the living.

He felt himself fading. A shadow brought before the light of truth dwindling out, but the voice called, held him together, and he moved like a wisp closer to it.

The black void felt like deep winter, quiet yet swallowing him up like a cold wind.

The void, a world of shadow, but wasn’t that where he belonged?

No.

He was given a chance to create something. To claim some piece of existence and purpose before he had to leave. To existence, as fragment or otherwise, and to see the end through.

Not as a King. A Queen. A pawn or otherwise. The Queen of Blues and the King of No-Heart would see their rabbit again, but it would be of another color.

All the world will be your enemy, prince with a thousand enemies. But to kill you, first they need to catch you.


Exit