[1.0]

The dim morning light illuminates Chelsea's room, rousing her from her sleep - she had forgotten to close the curtains in her haste to reach the relative paradise that was the land of her dreams. Now, she was paying the price for her negligence as her visions of happiness blurred away, morphing into the harsh, overwhelming greyness of reality far earlier than she would have hoped.

She attempts to flex her fingers, her amber eyes half lidded as she tries one last time to fall back to sleep. As always, it is futile. There are often times where she wishes that she will never leave her dreams. In a world that is hell-bent on making her pay tenfold for her past sins, her only refuge lies in sleep. Thankfully, the Lord is at least kind enough to refrain from granting her nightmares.

A familiar beeping sound, followed by a sharp pain in almost all her joints reminds her once more of that past she has been trying so hard - and in vain - to forget. The sleek, white metal of her prosthetic limbs is merged perfectly with her skin. Man and machine, linked by necessity into one single deplorable hybrid. When they had first been installed, she would cry out with pain whenever she had to reactivate them, and the jolts of electricity produced by the machine would course through her veins. By now, that pain had dulled. But the memories remain as fresh as ever, unrelenting, overpowering, a different kind of pain, one that time doesn't heal.

"I'm sorry." She murmurs to nobody in particular, forcing herself into a standing position, "I'm sorry for everything."

It's ritual that she repeats every morning, as if repeating those hollow words every day would somehow redeem her when the time for final judgment arrives. The lives she had involuntarily - no, quite voluntarily - taken, paid back with nothing more than words and remorse. She knows that it isn't enough. But it's all she has in her. A well that has already run dry can not give water. There's nothing left. Nothing. The sleeping pills are gone, used up. There is no dreamland for her to escape to, no place for her to hide from the crushing wave that is the avatar of her guilt.

A single tear rolls down her cheek. She wonders for a moment if it is one of self-pity.

"I'll pay it all back now." She murmurs, "Like I said I will."

Tatsumi. He had been the one to save her. To carry her mutilated, twisted body back to the base that was to be no more. He had procured the transplants for her, the limbs, the new life that she didn't deserve or want. He's still alive, out there, somewhere. That thought grants her some solace. At least she had been able to save him.

He hates me now. I'm sure of that much.

Her right arm and left leg, severed completely. Fingers on her left hand, either broken or torn off. Her left eye cut open, destroyed forever. Multiple, deep lacerations in her neck and back. Only her right leg had been left untouched, and that was destroyed soon after. It's a miracle that she's even alive, as empty a husk as she is. The pain had been overwhelming. Under that pain, she had broken. Anyone would.

Anything. Just make it stop. I'll tell you anything. Where it is. When to come. Stop. Please.

That girl. That black-eyed devil. She had been the one. The one who tore her body apart, all for those four golden words, the words that should have signified the victory of the Empire and the fall of Night Raid: 'I'll tell you anything'. The words that haunt her memory even now. She had been the reason. The reason that they lost everything.

I don't deserve this. I should be the one that lies buried in the ground, not them. I don't deserve anything.

After she had recovered, the base was attacked. It was her fault. Tatsumi and Akame - they had made it out alive. She had made sure of that, at least. In her decrepit shell of a body, she had done what she could, put those years of trickery and deceit to good use. Thousands of icy spears had pierced her body, pinning it to the wall as it bled and convulsed. That woman was a sadist, and sadists have simple motivations. The Ice Queen had done what the devil could not - broken the mind without breaking the body. Her screams of pain, initially faked but eventually all too real, had been enough to draw her attention away from the two survivors for several precious minutes.

But everyone else, they died. Every last one of them. Killed. The smiles they had once wore were transformed into tranquil sleep at best and contorted screams of pain at worst as the life bled from their bodies, and she watched. Helplessly. Because she had broken. Because she had given in.

Because of me.

Since that night, she had lived a discreet, eventless life. The Grand Chariot had allowed her that much, more than she should have had. She grew out her hair already-long hair to cover up the metal that had replaced her lost eye. She learned to use her new limbs. She survived, barely, pointlessly, just for the sake of surviving. The sake of not having to face the truth, of being distracted, for as long as possible. The sake of delaying the day when the people who were once her friends would pass judgment on her.

But those words never left her head. The way he had looked at her as they fled into the forest, his emerald eyes full to the brim with hatred, blood flowing down his face like water from a busted dam, mingling with his tears to form thousands of scarlet vipers, hissing in unison, their voices dripping with the sickly poison of rage.

"I'll never forgive you. Never."

Several years since then, the empire had fallen and the new republic that she was originally supposed to help build had risen to replace it. After Esdeath's failed coup d'état, Commander Najenda, who hadn't been present at the base on that night, took the throne and gained control of a shattered kingdom. Soon, all was well in the world, and the destruction the empire and the war to bring it down had wrought was undone almost overnight.

Chelsea. That is her name. Chelsea. She repeats this to herself every day, and today is no different. There's a sense of comfort in having a constant in life, something that never changes. So, for as long as she could, she found solace in the fact that, no matter what happened, her name would be Chelsea.

I've always hated pain.

Her apartment is a sparse, cozy little abode, almost spartan in its simplicity. A bedroom and a kitchen, with a small common area barely big enough for a single person. Walls and ceiling painted a faint brownish colour, the colour of wood, reminding her of better days. She would often sit on the one, sad little couch, resting her feet on the table, and allow her thoughts to drift to where they would always, inevitably, end up - feelings of self-pity, self-hatred, self-whatever-it-is.

A coward. That's what I am, a coward. So I decided to run away.

She had made all the preparations the day before. Contacted him one last time. The letter should reach him within a week. She had apologised, said that she could never give enough back, then apologised again. There was nothing else she could do. Chelsea - Chelsea would have been able to do something. But she could not.

She had visited their graves, cleaned them, scrubbed them, alone, with her aching fingers until they were sparkling, each one adorned with a wreath of flowers. How can a flower balance out the loss of a life? It can't. But it's all she can give.

It's all over now. Finally, she will have peace. A peace she doesn't deserve.

See? Even now, I continue to ask for too much.

She makes her way into the living room, leaning against the wall for support. Her leg, which is still in the process of fully booting up, sends sharp spasms of pain through her body as it connects itself with all her nerves. Her headphones, stained red, are draped over her neck. Her right hand closes around the balcony door handle, and she steps out. She had done her research. From this height, death will be instant. There won't be any pain. Only peace. The embrace of death is cold, but for her, it will be warm.

Her leg continues to send lightning bolts through her body as she lifts it onto the railings.

Just a little bit more. A little bit more, and it will be the end.

It's a pity I won't be able to see them. But I guess there's just too much space between heaven and hell. I don't have a right to see them.

She looks down. The ground is far, far away, a distance that is reassuring but at the same time terrifying. It's still early, and nobody is out on the streets. For a second, her heart wavers. Fear. She is no stranger to fear. Soon, however, there will be no more fear. Only darkness. A soft gust of wind blows through the air, rustling her hair. The hair that he had caressed as he waited for her to recover from her injuries. He had done it for her, not for himself. Those hands had been so comforting, so warm. A distant memory.

She had, for some reason, expected it to be raining when she ended it all, and the bright, hopeful light of the rising sun in a cloudless sky seemed almost like an insult. Like the world was taunting her, laughing at how impudent she was to imagine that the weather would change for her.

She reaches into her pocket, pulling out a lollipop, and gives it one last lick, trying to savour it's sweetness but being unable to. Instead, all she feels is a strange sense of curiosity, like a cat inspecting a ball of yarn for the first time.

I never noticed I'd become this thin.

She leans forward and falls.

She does not fall far. Almost instantly, a hand to grabs onto the back of the grey, unwashed, wrinkly hoodie she was wearing, leaving her dangling there by the scruff of her neck like a defeated, broken piñata. It's a familiar hand, too familiar. Thin and pale and cold. The hand that had once held the blade that had cut into her skin thousands of times too many, that had started and ended everything, that had fluttered over every single part of her body, tearing it apart like thousands of needles through a sheet of wet paper.

The sword slowly moves over her skin, like a snake, drawing intricate, dancing patterns with blood. A finger falls off. Just make it stop. Another. I'll tell you anything. Her eye is forced open, and the blade drawn carefully across it, barely touching. Where it is. When to come. Another time. Stop. Please.

She looks up, even though she knows what she'll see. She notes that her mouth is already open, maybe to scream, but no sound comes out.

No. Right hand. Stop. Left hand. I said I'll tell you. A toenail. Please. The eye again. Why?

The black devil girl, hanging by her feet from the balcony above the one she had jumped off, a single arm extended downwards to grab onto her neck, the other hanging limp in midair. Her dull, black eyes are devoid of light, like two dark, underground caverns, never to see the light of day. Her mouth opens, and the voice that escapes it is cuttingly blank and lacking in emotion.

"Do you want it, Chelsea? To be free of pain forever?"

A/N: Whew! That's it for now. Just to be clear, note that this is an AU - in which, instead of killing Chelsea, Kurome tortures her and uses the information she gained to lead the Jaegers into a midnight raid (oh, the irony) on the Night Raid main base, killing everybody save for a select few. That's about all you need to know for now :)

It's been a while since I finished watching Akame Ga Kill (only read a bit of the manga), so some canonicity issues might be present, and I apologise for that. Chelsea in particular is going to be particularly OOC, as a result of her trauma (and my inability to write well). I was lying in bed after drinking too much coffee and thought this up, so it's probably far from perfect.