HOPE'S GHOST ;- identities

You can hear his raspy breathing in your ear as he moves his sickly yellow face near yours and whispers.

"We're a lot alike, Pekoyama-san."

Having seen how the others treated him, you don't hesitate to send a blow to his abdomen as punishment for invading your personal space. You're amazed at how gently he falls backwards, as if he's made of cardboard. He hits the ground laughing.

"Ow," he says between chuckles, putting a hand to his stomach. "You don't even want…to listen to what I have to say?"

His eyes are like a void. No… Like a void that could engulf a void. Those dark blue-green eyes atop yellowing whites create a strong illusion of rotating, as if they're the very force that keeps the world in orbit. He speaks while you're lost in those cosmic eyes.

"You're not here for the same reasons as the others," he says from the ground with a pleasant smile. "You're not here in pursuit of despair." Lithe hands rest on the ground on either side of his body. "You're not here for your own sake at all…"

You reach behind your back and draw your katana. Examining the blade, it's apparent you haven't cleaned it well since it was last used. When did you last use it…? You can't remember the faces of its more recent victims….

"You're here to protect something…" he continues. "To protect something of utmost importance."

There, right there. He stepped on a nerve. You never used to be temperamental, but recent events have left you paranoid and hyper-reactive. A seething rage burns through your body like acid, and in a swift motion, you point the blade at Komaeda, holding the tip mere inches from his neck. He doesn't seem to register it; either that, or he simply doesn't mind, because he continues to speak, unaffected.

"I'm here…to bring about the most extraordinary wave of hope…" he whispers, smiling. "I've learned that the darker the despair gets, the more radiant the resulting hope will become. We're giving birth to an era of unprecedented glory…by embracing…" He begins to cough, unable to finish. The tip of your katana still points at his throat, unmoving.

"I'm…protecting that hope…" he gasps after his coughing fit. "I'm trying so hard… But effort is minimally important in a game like this. I was born weak and incompetent. I'll never foster hope on my own… I can only do my part to create the despair that brings about the hope that future geniuses will bear… I'm only good for despair… I'm only good for despair… I'm…" He laughs lightly, amiably, as his dazed eyes fix on you again.

"And you…" You stiffen. "You're protecting something you have no hope of reclaiming on your own, too. You can't save your young master. All you can do is fall with him and hope you soften his landing."

The sword in your hand trembles slightly, and Komaeda pushes the tip out of the way of his throat and stands up, walking closer to you again. "You can't save him, Pekoyama-san… But it's so amazing, the way you threw away everything you had for an impossible cause!" His smile seems genuine, even friendly, but his face is too close to yours. "It's arrogant of me to say we're alike, but it's so obvious… We're both too incompetent to directly aid the cause we've dedicated ourselves to. Isn't that right, Pekoyama-san." His breath is rancid. "Isn't that right."

Your eyes open wide and you gasp for breath. Your right calf is aching; you'd contracted your muscle in your sleep and find yourself unable to relax it. The young master is by your side in a matter of seconds, and you curse internally—you must have made noises in your sleep that woke him up.

"Peko… Calm down, Peko," he mumbles, taking your hand as you sit up. You can feel the sticky sweat coating your forehead, and you stare past the young master as he uses the corner of his sleeve to dry your face.

He's here.

He's standing in the corner of the room, hands tucked limply into his jacket pockets. It's difficult to see his pale form in the darkness, especially when you're surrounded by the fog of sleepiness and your glasses are out of reach, but you can just barely make out an impossibly gentle, impossibly warm, impossibly innocent smile on his face. He raises a hand—not his hand, but a hand—and waves good-naturedly to you. You don't realize you're trying to stand up until your young master shouts at you.

You snap back to reality with enough force to give you whiplash, and you're perplexed that your legs had somehow slung themselves over the side of the bed of their own will. You can feel your pulse in your ears. As Bocchan presses his forehead to yours, mumbling something in an attempt to calm you down, your mind and expression go blank. Out of the corner of your eye, you're can see the unoccupied corner of the room that had gripped your attention moments before, completely vacant.

The young master pulls his face back, holding onto your shoulders.

"You doing better?"

"Yes, Bocchan," you say quietly. "I'm sorry for waking you."

"Eh…" He shrugs it off, releasing your shoulders and stepping backwards, sitting down on the edge of his bed. "You didn't wake me up. I've been having trouble sleeping lately. No cause for alarm or anything," he assures you, anticipating your response. "I've just had a lot on my mind."

"Do you wish to discuss it?" you ask quietly.

He doesn't answer. For a while you think he's considering your offer, but then he shifts and climbs under the covers of his bed.

"Go the fuck to sleep, alright?"

"Yes, Bocchan. Goodnight."

"'Night, Peko."