Muraku wore a bored expression as he jumped off from the platform, what descended below the giant Gunther. Even if in the meantime they managed to recreate his legendary violet LBX, Muraku refused to use it. It's worthy of a leader, both Muraku's superiors and subordinates told him this with admiration, completely ignoring the reason why that palm-sized robot was so important in the first place.
For everyone else the Sixth Platoon was only a group of children, who were swept away in the first raid against one of Rossius' base.
Almost all of them died with the exception of their leader, and the mechanic, who survived the encounter with minor injuries. Nothing more, nothing less. It did not occur to them, that they meant more than nameless subordinates to their honourable general. How deeply the boy thanked his late friends their help, including the blueprints for his LBX.
He endured the newly created, harsh world for a while, talking himself into a pitiful half-illusion where the students of Kamui Daimon actually mattered to the people around him. This worked for a while, but after Kageto left his side for good, when their base at Vladivostok got destroyed, the life-sized Gunther Yzelphar had locked away from war by Muraku himself.
Forbidden to be touched by anyone.
Thus, the machine what extinguished so many lives, became nothing more than a statue keeping his sanity and memories in place.
Ω
Once he made sure the white Gunther stood at a secured place and he locked its cockpit and began exploring the village in order to hunt down the pilot, who escaped from the dark blue DC Offenser.
The snow had let out a deep sigh with every step he took towards the buildings; it attempted to slow down the inevitable with its thick frozen mass, but had no effect. Muraku held his rifle forward, looking around to find a possible hiding spot in his surroundings. He stopped in front of a massive white building with classic, red rooftop, bearing the equal letters of town hall in Russian. After a few months he understood this much thanks to spending his sleepless nights hunching over books and newspapers.
The village was rural, filled with small houses what were easy targets for anyone. But the town hall itself was quite robust. It reminded him more of a church, than an official building. If the Jenock soldier wanted to hide from him, this house was the best choice with its two-storey and additional clock tower.
It had plenty of possibilities.
He scanned the windows, searching for movements and curious gazes, but he saw nothing. Only the wind groaned along the walls, echoing through the village bringing silence after the battle.
Ω
The most dangerous animals are the cornered ones. That's what he thought as he pushed the heavy steel door, a remnant from the turn of the century. The light seeping through the doorway illuminated the empty hall.
Inside, the expensive-looking furnitures were almost intact, standing in the same place where they were left months ago. No one bothered to take them away, because there was no place to sell them nowadays. Unless someone wanted firewood for the cold winters they will stand there for an eternity.
The only signs of change were the typical office flowers though almost all of them withered without heating or watering. The tougher ones only stood there with down-tilted leaves what turned yellow, to match the green-ish walls.
Despite the fact that there had been no living residents here for a long time the place was devastating in a strangely good way. Muraku rarely had the chance to look around in the places they had to protect, so this was the first time he'd ever seen the interior design of a typical town hall.
He silently wished he could share this experience with someone before proceeding to the kitchen. The trip didn't last long, because the moment he stepped over the threshold of the room, a heavy sound came from the upper room, accompanied by light, but faintly audible footsteps. Something must've fallen to the ground.
His reflexes put him instantly on high alert as the rat began to stir.
Muraku let out a half-worried, half-exasperated sigh as he stepped out of the kitchen and walked towards the staircase. Yet, when he looked up at the end of the stairs, the corners of his mouth turned up in a faint smile.
You can't escape from here, Muraku thought before he started climbing the stairs.
Ω
He wanted to laugh at the situation. After all, several months ago he was sitting at a school desk, training to reach the higher ranks in the school. If someone ever told him he will have to fight in a real war, he would associate it with the Second World, not a real one. But now, the rank he yearned to earn suddenly became real and reality enforced him into this stupidity with the ex-students of Kamui stuck in the middle. His old rank? The silver credits he'd collected? They didn't worth a penny. It was a faint, useless number lingering in his CCM.
The Rossius side rewarded him for his devoted, hard work by sending him and his platoon to the front lines when they first had the opportunity. Thus, Houjou Muraku, who had the title of General, was nothing more than a powerless and muted commander with a hardened heart.
Ω
The second floor told stories about the same bright past. The walls were filled with lone nails, places where once paintings or photos were hanged up, along with several other documents and certificates. Yet, despite the somewhat homely environment Muraku's heart grew anxious at the thought of the invisible opponent. His fingers tenaciously gripped the triggers, desperately waiting for the moment when he can pull it with full force, if the situation calls for it.
He picked up a faint creak, not with his ears but by the resonance spreading through the wooden floor under the approaching footsteps. In the same moment, before the person could explain anything, Muraku swiftly turned around and fired the gun in his hand. The shock jolted the bone of his arm as he unsteadily stepped backward.
A tenth of a second.
It took that much time for Muraku to realize what he did.
The floor still waited for the falling body, but inside his mind the Violet Devil was already flooded by various emotions; with mourning being the strongest of them. The killer weapon fell out of his hand like a heavy rock, as he futilely tried to rush to his enemy's side.
Due to the human brain and its reaction time, he only arrived to the wounded a few seconds later, pulling the soldier close, scared to death. Ironically, he was ready to protect the fallen soldier from any danger.
Ω
When fate winded him up together with nameless entities, he hardly ever cared about them. It didn't matter whether they had a family, or friends, they've been only expandable tools who followed the kill or be killer rule. However, as soon as he noticed the untameable red strands of hair, what were poking out from under the military cap Muraku became worried. He'd worried for so long that something'd happen to his friend. But now the person who wore the ever-so pompous Prussian blue coat was finally with him. There were many things he wanted to apologize for. Mostly for the battles they had to fight through as enemies. He was sure Andrej would tell him he was an idiot for willingly following the orders back then, but now his only silver lining of the situation was Sena Arata being by his side.
The fresh blood gushing out of Arata's wound almost immediately soaked the blue uniform. It ran along the threads of the fabric, creating a deep purple flower around the wound. Muraku peered at him worriedly, hoping that he missed the shot. But Arata only gave him a dazed look. From his eyes Muraku could read the curious mix of fear and happiness, but by the time he collected enough willpower to utter a few words, the body what lay in his arms lost all compliance. It felt like he was clinging to a rug doll.
"Arata, wait…" his voice splintered painfully coming up his throat. He couldn't say anything as he watched the boy's face.
The encounter he'd been hoping for ever since they were sent to different countries, ended in an instant without any welcoming smiles or greetings. He hasn't even tried calling Arata back to life by shaking him in blind hope. Those who get shot in the heart will never wake up.
Even if he survived and they would try escaping from the frontier they would track them down. Both of them were pilots after all and it took time to train their replacements. In a world like this perhaps it was better to sleep eternally without having to witness the pain of losing your loved ones over and over again.
And in a strange way, he felt jealous towards the redheaded boy.
Ω
Muraku wanted Arata to talk in that old carefree voice again, encouraging him to end this war in their own way. He only realized it now how much he missed Arata's endless optimism and understanding.
He slipped his hand in the redheaded boy's hand, so that they were plam to palm and he squeezed it tightly pulling the hand to his chest. Muraku opened and closed his mouth a few times, as he was trying to find the right words he could've told Arata. He had many things to tell him, but every time he tried he remembered, it was a futile attempt. If only tears could ran his face to keep himself occupied with crying, he wouldn't feel everything so dull, so empty. Alas, his grief was much deeper and it couldn't be cured by a simple act like that.
The warmth will eventually slip away from Arata's body, closing down a blissful period. However, in reality, Muraku's heart died alongside Arata.
The ice, what had surrounded it, shattered into millions of shards.
Ω
Muraku had no idea how long he'd been sitting there on the floor holding Arata. It seemed to be an eternity. Yet, even his new visitors couldn't distract him from the silence of mourning. He didn't want to see a single soul anymore, let alone anyone who'd chosen to fight in this war. Reality grew blurry for him and by the time he showed any response, as though he was only realizing it now that somebody was talking to him the voice above his head became angry. It kept asking him something. Various things actually. Something war related, but most of his questions were about Sena Arata, embellished with a chain of whys in almost every sentence.
I know it not, this was the only answer he could gave to all of those, but he was too tired to speak. He stared at the blackened flower on the coat. Things were already too chaotic. The voice behind him grew weaker until the boy stopped talking. Muraku could feel the cold steel pressing to his left side; the leader of Arata's platoon was probably aiming at his heart. The arms were shaking, his opponent was uncertain. Muraku could've used this chance to make a counterattack, but he gave up fighting. The little game he started playing with fate ended with the win of Lady Fate.
He felt a jolt on his back, as unbearable heat pierced through his body. Sadness soaked into his heart as he fell to his side, yet his mind found calmness at least.
There were no famous last words. No promises were made and in a way this made their departure sadder than it was meant to be.
A/N: And it ends here. Or not? Truth to be told, I really wanted to add a short little epilogue about what happened after their death but I think it would only fuel the angst train more and that already went offtracks a long time ago. If you're still her, rading this, some words about you opinions, thoughts would be greatly appreciated, because I love reading those.