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What's Left Behind
Undead member of SEES

Strega had proven to be desperately, even insanely zealous in their attempts to bring about the demise of humanity and an era of Shadows, and that misery had sometimes led them to take extreme measures against SEES. In doing so they'd claimed more than a few lives, and every member of SEES had heard the stories of the brave few who gave their lives to hold back the dark power of Shadows from ever seeping into the real world. Now however, one of their own was standing before them, the broken remnants of a high schooler who once stood beside them against the oncoming tide, who'd enjoyed curry and rooftop lunches with some of them, whose favorite show he and Rose had watched several times. His precious pet, a rare platypus, still wandered the town nearby searching for it's owner, never once considering a new home, and now here he stood...well, not him, but a shell of the young boy who'd once been.

He was immediately alarming, the very sight of him aborhant...hanging from his side was a Shadow, clinging to his body like a parasite, black ooze running down one leg and leaving a slimy trail behind them. An entire torso hung over his head, palm moving it's fingers intricately to move him forward like a puppet, the same black slime hardened into strings dangling and pulling at his limbs...and his eyes were as lifeless as his skin was cold. That day they'd traveled to Okina to put an end to Zazi's dreams of a world smothered in Shadows, overflowing with their forbidden knowledge...but Kohaku had died in the "Funhouse", smothered to death beneath noxious fumes and the clamoring hands of many twisted undead, and there he had remained...for a time. And now the chance of help eluded them once again, confronted with his body, but not one that could be buried in peace. No, they couldn't say a prayer and simply carry his burden onwards...first, before they inherited his will, they had to stop him.

"...aaahhhhhh..." The Shadow's fingers danced, and the strings slowly pulled Kohaku's arm up, fingers squeezing around the trigger of a small crossbow. A bolt flew towards Ringo's heart as the undead lumbered forward, the weapon dropping carelessly from it's hand as it shambled forward...this was no creature of finesse or wisdom. Merely undaunted hunger, and callous revenge.

If Zazi were to comment, he would likely boast of his 'humble' gift in reuniting the friends, while pointing out how kind he was to recycle, unlike these shallow 'heroes'...but no such boasts came. Zazi, it seemed, was either unable to witness their goings on...or had other matters pressing him for time.