A/N: Recent episodes of Hallow have brought back all my turbulent emotions over Alma's fate... so I wrestled my plot bunnies into gear and tried to find a semi-realistic way for Alma to have survived besides way of Central. Because Lvellier is awful.
This chapter is a bit gory, and there are mentions of suicide, seeing as it takes place right after Kanda left the Asian Branch. If you want to read this story but aren't comfortable with somewhat gory descriptions, I have a short summary of this chapter at the end. This is the only chapter that really delves into somewhat disturbing imagery, so I think I'm safe in saying the rest won't be as bad.
Chapter One
-Deviation-
Alma is drowning on dry land.
Drowning, drowning, drowning, his throat torn and face split open, blood in his lungs and mouth and pooling on the cold concrete floor beneath him. It settles in his bared throat, slowly strangling him. Every breath rattles in his lungs, watery and choked, and if he had the breath for it Alma would cough and vomit and spit until all that lingering blood is gone.
He does not have the strength for it.
He does not have the strength to cough, or vomit, or spit. He cannot even lift his arm—if he has one, and he should; his body has always healed so, so fast (inhumanly quick, inhuman healing, how did he not figure it out sooner—they're monsters, they always have been), but Yuu had cut at him and cut at him and for the first time Alma thinks he's used it all up. No more healing. No more next time.
It makes him want to laugh and it makes him want to cry, but his throat is torn to bits and he's only got one eye, really, and even that doesn't seem to working right, so in the end Alma does neither. He wants to, though, and it's a giddy thought, underneath all the fear and pain and horrible dread.
Alma is dying. Drowning, really, but maybe he's been drowning for a long time before now, too. Drowning in denial. Drowning in laughter. Drowning in the truth—always the truth. And now, in his own blood.
He can't see, can barely think, can barely feel, but he is terribly aware of the empty space beside him. No Yuu, no scowl, no reluctant warmth. He doesn't have a hand but even if he did, there would no one there to reach for. Yuu is gone, and everyone else is dead.
Except Yuu. Yuu isn't dead. Yuu had cried and snarled and sobbed and he had cut and cut until Alma couldn't move, and then he'd left, stumbling far far away, to the outside world and all its evils. This knowledge hurts almost as much as drowning does. It'd be better if Yuu died, it'd be better, because if Yuu died he wouldn't suffer, couldn't be used, could maybe even be free.
If Yuu died he wouldn't suffer, is what Alma had thought. But Alma is dying, and suffering, and drowning is so slow and so painful and maybe—maybe about this, Alma was wrong. Maybe Yuu was right to live.
It's too late, regardless. There's blood in Alma's lungs and blood in his mouth and blood pooling around what's left of his small, discarded (fake) body. Too much blood. His healing won't replace this, even if he wanted it too. And he doesn't, not really, because Alma hated the Second Exorcist project and he hated what they did, but Twi and Edgar had been kind for all their evils and they'd smiled so brightly and Alma killed them, all of them, even as they tried to help so—so maybe, this is his debt, his punishment. His karma.
Alma is going to die. He can feel it, in what's left of his bones and breath. There are shadows dancing across his vision and the world is so shiny and bright it's almost unrecognizable. He is too warm and too cold in equal measure, caught between two extremes, but the sensation is muted and soft as if felt from far away. Alma is drifting, dying, and he doesn't have a heart but he can feel his last few wisps of breath ease past his lips, the blood clogging his throat. He chokes, weakly spluttering, limbs jerking as he tries futilely to breathe again.
Sharp footsteps jolt him from his daze and he can hear a voice, muffled to his ears, high-pitched in distress. His eyes flicker open, and he struggles to focus, but his sight is too blurred to make sense of anything but a vaguely humanoid form with a shock of yellow hair.
Edgar….?
A hand cups his face, and fingers curl in what's left of his hair. A voice, soft and breathy, says, "You're so young, you're so—what have we done to you? Oh, God. Look what we've done to you. You're so young."
Alma is vaguely aware of a hand, warm against his shoulder, tipping him onto his side. The voice says, "Are you sure?"
Alma's eyes flicker closed. The world around him feels so far away, but he is conscious enough to feel the hand grip his shoulder.
"Forgive me," are the last words he hears before his world finally grinds to a stop.
When Alma opens his eyes again, it's a blur. Voices rise and fall around him, faces peering down against a backdrop of white. He can't focus, he can barely think, but he has enough presence of mind to register what this means.
He's awake.
He's alive.
He isn't supposed to be alive.
His back arches and he tries to speak, but either his vocal chords aren't healed yet or they've stuck something in his throat, because what comes out is an inhuman shriek, piercing and animalistic. He thrashes, crying out, pain radiating from what feels like every inch of his torn body.
People call out, hands pressing down on him. Alma shrieks again, trying to throw them off, but he can't move his arm or his legs, and his head won't move the way he wants it too. It hurts, it hurts so much, and Alma just keeps screaming, until the sound dies, strangled off by raw, wet coughs.
Something red splatters before him, dribbles off his lips. His blood? He's not sure. There are people around him, reaching for him—he struggles and falls and when he hits the ground it's like dying under Yuu's sword all over again.
His vision whites out. He can't remember if he screams.
The world is a mesh of colors, of brightness, of loud beeps and aching pains. His vision clears, and he can make out shapes, if only vaguely. Boots, a carved cane. An old man with a cloudy monocle, withered face crumpled into an expression of grief, his gnarled hands reaching out for Alma's shoulder. Alma can see his mouth moving, repeating something over and over, even if he can't hear the man's words.
I'm sorry, child, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.
Alma tries to push him away, but his arm doesn't respond. He looks down, dazed, and sees why. No arm, no leg, an empty cavity where his chest should be, organs torn and exposed, bones protruding—
Alma turns away, spitting out blood and bile. He can't think. He can't hear. He shouldn't even be alive.
There's a prick, sharp and painful on his neck. A needle prick, felt only because of the difference in pain and the fact Alma is so familiar with them.
Alma stares up at the white ceiling, only half a boy and barely even human, and prays to a God he barely believes in that this time he doesn't wake up.
Alma runs down the hall, feet slapping bare tile, his robes fluttering about him. His breath mists in the cold air, and his toes feel like blocks of ice. He doesn't stop running.
"Yuuuuuuuuuuuuu!"
Yuu turns to him. His eyes are narrow and brow furrowed, mouth twisted in a snarl that softens when he sees Alma. He rolls his eyes. Alma beams at him and tries to stop—but the tile is slippery and his feet are bare—he's walking on ice, solid and thick—
He slides, skidding in Yuu. Yuu yelps, a high pitched noise he'll deny making, later. They go down with a crash, in a tangle of limbs and muted swears.
"Get off me, idiot!"
"Sorry!"
Yuu rolls to his feet, bristling like a cat. He smooths down his uniform—his robes—a black coat with such a pretty emblem—
"What are you doing, running around like that?"
Alma laughs. "I wanted to see you!"
"You see me every day!" Yuu snaps, but there's no heat to it. Alma grins at him, sheepish. Yuu glowers back, but he's biting his lip against a smile and turning his face away so Alma can't see it.
"Help me up?"
"Ugh, idiot. You made us fall, help yourself up!" But he holds out a hand regardless.
Alma takes it and Yuu yanks him to his feet in one smooth motion. Alma brushes off the dirt from her dress, smoothing back the strands of her long hair into her usual ponytail—
Alma brushes the dirt off his white robes, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Thanks, Yuu," he says.
"Whatever," Yuu says, and turns away. Mugen thumps by his side—his side is empty—Alma curls his cold cold toes into the floor and runs up beside him, bouncing up and down to warm his feet.
"What are you doing?"
"My feet are cold."
Yuu stops. "What are you doing?"
Alma blinks. "Uh—"
Yuu grabs Alma's arm. The shorn edges of his short hair brush his neck with the motion, it's such a shame he isn't vain, because it would be so pretty if he just grew it out—the edges of his long hair brush his shoulders, and Yuu has always been vain about it. His eyes are wide, worried. Childlike, but Yuu isn't a child—
Yuu is a child. He is worried. There is blood on his lips and his side is empty, no sword, no Mugen.
"Alma," he says. There are scrapes running down his cheeks. Blood under his nails, tears in his eyes. In one hand he holds a feathery sword that Alma has never seen before—but of course she has seen it before—
"Alma," Yuu says, maybe sobs. His voice is so soft, so quiet, so wrong. "Alma, what are you doing?"
"Yuu," Alma says. He is barefoot on cold stone, body torn and healing, a weapon fused into his skin and over his arm. He is covered in blood, and most of it is not his.
"What are you doing?"
Alma is cold. Breath misting in icy air, toes like frozen blocks of ice. Cold like winter. Like snow. Like ice beneath bare feet, a thin protection from the dark waters below.
Yuu raises the sword. "Why?" he asks, and it's almost a plea.
"I don't know," Alma whispers, and the pretty silver sword comes down on Alma's head just as the ice breaks beneath them.
He wakes up to silence. There is no noise, no people above him—just a solid white ceiling and quiet muffled beeps, soft and rhythmic. He's not in pain, either, but it's an artificial lack, the kind of peace that comes from too much anesthesia. He's numb, not healed.
He breathes, weak and fluttery. He isn't getting as much air as he feels he should. There's a dull but insistent ringing in his ears, and even his vision seems limited and shaded, the usual colors grayed.
The peacefulness of it all unnerves him. It feels like a lie. The world is not soft, or kind, or bright. It's a cage, and all this scene does is remind him that he's still in it. Alma is not dead, and neither is Yuu. The only thing Alma has succeeded in doing is killing or driving off everyone he has ever loved, left alone once again.
Nothing has changed. So then, what did he kill them for?
He starts to cry, tears soaking his numb skin, just barely felt. Only one eye is open—the other half of his face is tightly bandaged, the cloth sticking uncomfortably to his numb and sweaty skin. A thin blanket is tucked around his body (what is left of it, anyway), remaining limbs bound in plaster and tied gently to the bed.
"About time you woke up," a familiar voice says.
The noise startles Alma and he tries to move, but his neck is held mostly still and he can't quite manage it. There is a rustling noise as the person moves from their perch into view—a redheaded woman, as short as Alma but with pale green skin and strange blocks where hands should be.
It takes him a moment to remember her name. Fo. Her name is Fo, and she is a guardian spirit—or at least, that is what Alma had believed.
He's not so sure now.
"Don't even think about a repeat of last time, kid," she says as Alma stares at her, struggling comprehend the situation. "You just about sent yourself into shock again with that stunt, you know. You don't have that much blood left in you, regenerative abilities or not."
"F-Fo?" he says. His voice comes out barely above a whisper, hoarse and dry and crackling like dead leaves.
Fo attempts a smile. It is weak, and thin, and wavers uncertainly on her face. "Hey, kid," she says, oddly gentle. "It's—good to see you."
Alma stares at her, blank with surprise and shock. "What… what are you…?"
"Saving your life, kid. Trying to, at least. There were a few close calls there for a while, but the general consensus is that you'll live, probably." She looks away. "Yuu did a number on you, that's for sure."
Despite her brusque words, her eyes are sad, and her shoulders are slumped. Alma only barely notices it. Barely cares, because what she's saying, what she's implying—what it means—
Edgar had looked like that too, and Twi had had smiled that too, and they still did the things they did. And Alma had forgotten, because he only saw her once… only once, but isn't once enough? She was there. As he and Yuu tried to synchronize and got blasted back, again and again. As they put Yuu to sleep. As they made them.
There's a guardian spirit! I saw her once. She's a really cute girl, and her name is—
Alma wants to scream.
"You were in on it," he tries to say, choking on the words. Fo seems to understand anyway—her smile drops, her eyes go wide. For a moment she seems truly, painfully startled. "You—knew—"
"Kid, I—"
A machine in the far off corner starts to beep, shrill and frantic, and Alma thrashes, desperately trying to move limbs bound by plaster. "You knew!" he cries, half-sobs. "You knew! You helped them!"
Fo is beside him now, all the gruff kindness and teasing insults Alma had come associate with her nowhere in sight. "Kid," she pleads, "Alma—I know. I know. I should have stopped them. I should have done better. But Alma—" She stops, alarmed, eyes widening. "Alma!"
Alma isn't listening. He thrashes on the bed, silent in his struggle but for a few involuntary whimpers of pain. Something seems to snap at his shoulder—stitches, probably—and blood trickles down his side as Alma reaches upwards to the sky, calling out both mentally and physically for his Innocence.
I'll finish this, he thinks, chillingly calm. I'll kill them and then myself and then it'll all be over. For good.
No more experiments. No more pain. Yuu has already proved it could be done, and by the time Alma finishes, they'll be no-one left to interfere. He'll finally be able to die.
Come, Innocence. Help me again?
By the bed, Fo yelps, as if in pain, lightning arching around her body as she collapses to her knees. She hugs herself, arms pressing against her shoulders. Her teeth are grit against the pain, but when she meets Alma's eyes there is only grim satisfaction and sad, knowing disappointment.
Alma's Innocence doesn't come.
Blankly, he stares at the ceiling, at his empty hands. Calls again. It isn't there. He calls and calls but there is no answer. No weapon. No easy way out.
Fo gasps for breath. Her small form is shaking so violently it's a wonder she manages to climb to her feet, and her smirk is tired and drawn. "Sorry, brat. I'm not… losing anyone else. Not today."
"What did you do?" Alma cries, but Fo doesn't answer him, just closes her eyes and rocks back on her heels.
"Sorry, Alma," she says again, and then nothing more.
Other people rush in the room, and the beeping machine in the corner reaches a pitch so high it hurts. Alma's vision swims with tears, Fo's pale and haggard face hovering above him.
"Why am I awake?" he asks her, weak and hateful. "I should be dead. You all should be dead. I want to die."
He cannot feel the needle-prick but he can see the man pull it out of his arm. He writhes on the bed, yanking futile at his restraints, barely feeling the sensation of fresh blood rolling down his face, tingly and disconnected from his numbed skin.
"I want to die," Alma sobs. "I want to die! I want to die! WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME DIE?!"
Fo doesn't answer, her eyes shadowed and unreadable. She backs away from him, head bowing, lips pressed closed in painful silence.
The world goes fuzzy again, a sensation Alma is slowly becoming used to. He hates it. He hates her. He hates the air in his lungs and the beat of his heart and the pity on her face. He hates knowing that he will, eventually, wake up again to this hell—only this time he'll be facing it alone.
"I want," Alma tries, but he can't move his lips anymore and the world is slipping away from him. The colors swirl, melding into light, and all control over his body is ripped away, trickling like sand through his fingers.
Alma falls into a forced sleep, lungs breathing and heart beating; horribly, irrevocably, undeniably alive.
Summary: Alma lays dying after Kanda leaves, reflecting on past events, but is saved by a blond stranger (who he initially mistakes as Edgar) before blacking out. He wakes up numerous times, once in surgery, realizing that he is alive despite his best efforts. When he next awakens, it's to see Fo, who reveals she knew about the experiment but did nothing to stop it. Alma tries to activate his Innocence, planning on finishing what he started, but is unable to summon it due to Fo. Angry and grieving, Alma asks why they won't let him die before being forced back into sleep.
Let me know what you think!