Machi's not drunk. Everyone who's still here – who's guaranteed alive, anyway, and who hasn't left for Greed Island yet – is, but she's removed herself from them, sits on a supply box a good distance away from what they're doing. They have an Ouija board laid out on the floor, and she knows what they're trying to do. She refuses to get involved.

Due to the alcohol and the hour, they all soon go to sleep. Their candles still burn, dripping wax dangerously close to their outstretched hands, surrounding the Ouija with soft yellow light. Machi looks over and away, but the idea of playing with the board – not seriously, no, just to see what a crock of bullshit it is – sticks in her head. She looks over again, and swings her legs down off the box, and sighs.

She nudges Nobunaga's hand aside with her foot as she approaches. Bottles clink against each other when she sits down, rolling away into the darkness as she reaches for the planchette.

The wood is slick under her fingers. Hesitant, she slides the planchette back and forth, not really sure if she believes in this enough to want to continue. "Is," she starts, but her voice sticks embarrassingly in her throat, and she shakes her head to clear it away. "Is there anyone there." It's barely a question the way she says it. She doesn't really know if she wants it answered.

Nothing happens, but what was she expecting? It's almost a relief, but there's disappointment on the back of her tongue and it makes her leave her hands on the planchette.

When the planchette finally, slowly, starts to move, she shudders just a little, eyes fixed on the moonlight refracting off the board; the planchette stops on "YES" and stays there, and Machi's shoulders droop.

"What's your name?" she asks. Her voice has a measured flatness to it.

"P," the board spells after a pause, and then "A," and "K," and Machi wants to throw up and cry and break the board in two all at once. It keeps going all the way through the name – it lingers on the last "A", but the planchette eventually comes to rest on the heart at the center of the board.

This wasn't something she'd planned for. Not really.

Silent, stunned, she stares at her own hands on the planchette; she isn't crying but her eyes burn anyway. She can imagine Pakunoda's hands invisible on top of hers, the way her tapered fingers used to curl around Machi's own, warm and smooth and alive. "Are you alright?" she asks.

"YES," says the board. The planchette goes to the heart again, but only for a moment. "I MISS YOU," the board spells, faster than Machi knows what to do with.

"I miss you," Machi mumbles back, barely audible in the expanse of the warehouse.

What Machi really wants is a less tedious way of talking – a chatroom instead of a child's toy, something where Pakunoda can tell her everything about death and dying and the afterlife through full words instead of letters. She wants to tell Pakunoda that she remembers the taste of every time they kissed – that her lips still mourn the memories of Paku ghosting across them, stealing moments in wet alleyways in between missions where death was always there but never too close. She remembers everything, really. Paku's breasts under her hands, the feeling of skin sliding against skin on summer nights. The look in Pakunoda's eyes when she shot her memories into the Troupe for the last time – but there are happier things to dwell on, better times in their rearview mirror that she desperately wants to reminisce about.

"Remember when," Machi says, but stops. There's nothing more to say.

"YES," says the board, and stays there.