The Last Man Standing
I don't own SCRYED, or Kazuma, or anything else, except these words right here.
Kazuma "No Last Name" Torisuna is the best person for making sure-hearted promises with good intentions, and suffering not to break them. At the same time, no matter what he does, there comes a time when he must sacrifice those promises in order to fulfill a new one, leaving behind him a trail of innocent victims, more or less either forgiving or dead. Victims of loving him with all their hearts.
Kazuma "No Last Name" Torisuna has known too many people completely willing to die for him, and it's eating him alive. Much like the hurting in his right arm. The way he knows he has to die, and has to get up after every battle, and fight until that moment comes. The little voice inside him shrieks through its, through her tears, Why, Kazu-kun? Why? No matter how many people he promises to save, - Kanami, he would protect her from everything bad, and Kimishima, who, like a fallen soldier, he would never leave behind - in the end, all he ends up doing is saving himself.
The man, Straight Cougar of HOLY asks him, seventeen and respected by not only himself, still a kid, but even the strongest Alter Users in the Lost Ground, Kazuma, what are you trying to prove? And, bitterly, Kazuma laughs, 'Mental treason. . .', because he knows that's what his whole life has become, and if that hadn't happened to Kanami. . .and if Kimishima wasn't dead. . .well, he really is The Treasoner now. All he ever did was love them. Fuck.
And now they're all dead.
He cries. No, he sobs into his arms, screaming from the inside, "Are the people safe now? Are the Native Alters free now!" Because that's what he's been fighting for all along isn't it? And now that there's no Kimishima, no Ryuhou, no HOLD, no HOLY, he doesn't have to fight anymore, right? He doesn't have to fight anymore. But God, he thinks, and he knows, what else is there to live for? Again, he screams.
Down on his knees, Shell Bullet arm hanging limp, cheeks streaked with dirt and tears, he wants to die. He doesn't want them to die. He doesn't want them to be dead. Oh God, why? "KANAMIIIIIII!" No little girl. "KIMISHIMAAAA!" No best friend. "RYUHOUUUUU!" No rival. No reason to fight, and no one to fight for. "COUGAAARRR!" Sobbing like a broken little boy, he lays himself down in the dirt, writhing and banging his fists in the dirt. When he looks up through the dust and tears that coat his red, wet eyes, he sees the stretching landscape that is the Wasteland, the little people milling about in their little towns, all safe and warm and protected. His face contorted in grief and rage, he clambers to the ledge, pointing down.
"FUCK YOU!" He screams, spitting. "FUCK ALL OF YOU!"
Scrambling to his feet, he lowers his hand, clenching his shaking fists as yet another stream of hot tears pour down his scarred and beaten face. "Every one of you. . ."
That night, when he drags himself through the door, he makes himself a cup of black coffee, no sugar and no milk, and climbs into Kanami's bed. Unclenching his fingers, he shakes the bottle loose from his left palm, carefully unscrewing the lid before tapping its contents into the steaming dark caffeine-water, and taking a hearty gulp.
"No sugar, no milk, just the way you like it, right?" He chuckles, smiling as he curls back up against the sheets and the pillow, long golden hairs still clinging to its off-white casing. Closing his eyes, he goes to sleep.
I don't have to fight. I don't have to fight . . . anymore.