It's kind of funny. They're so wrapped up in their little battles of good –versus-evil that they can't really see the truth.

I guess if I could still feel, I'd find it sad. Maybe I'd even tell them. But as it is....

No way.

There's no way they'd understand. They probably wouldn't even believe me. They're content to wear those masks that Kaosu made.

After all, I'm the hero. The hero is always right, always passionate, always blind. I wonder how much of it is really true. I can't be the only person fate has royally screwed.

Sometimes, I wonder how they'd react. If something happened, and they knew it all. The blood, the tears, the ashes, the streets, the disease, the emptiness. Actually, I know how they'd react. They'd think I was losing my mind.

"Jesus, Ryo, why are you so melodramatic all of a sudden."

"How can you say that? You know it's not true."

"Kayura can fix you, don't worry."

Yeah, right. As if they know my life better than I do. As if I'm some sort of toy that can be fixed with a screwdriver and some glue.

Bastards.

In a lot of ways, I hate them more than I did Arago. At least with him, I didn't have to pretend to feel. We were enemies, we were trying to kill each other, and that was that. I didn't need to pretend to be anything other than empty.

But it's easier to pretend than to let them know, so they won't try to 'fix' me. So I keep smiling, and they keep being arrogant.

It might be fun, just to see the looks on their faces the instant they realize that they aren't infallible. But that will stay a happy fantasy, something to distract me when the void roars with inaudible sound and tries to claim me, once and for all.

I think it's the only thing that reminds me of happiness at all.

Everything else, anger, frustration, love, grief, hope, sadness, even hatred now that Arago is no longer here to fight with, even hopelessness now that hope is gone, they've all vanished.

Disappeared into the void.

I'll never be able to feel again.

I can't even make myself feel sad.

Sometimes, in the long, dark nights when sleep is denied me, I wonder what made me this way. I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, wondering who the hell Ryo Sanada is and when he died. All I know is that he was buried alive, long ago.

Was it when my parents were killed by thieves when I was four? Was it when the gang that adopted me all died around me when I was seven because the authorities wouldn't give medicine to street rats? Was it when my grandfather adopted me at the age of eight because I was the only heir that he would ever have? When I was forced to be absolutely perfect at everything I did, a perfection that left no room for healing?

Maybe it was all of these things. I don't really care. All I know now is that whoever Ryo Sanada was, he's gone. He was lost a long time ago.

I wonder if I'd recognize him.

I wonder if he'd recognize me.

And I wonder why they don't see what's right in front of their noses.

Sometimes I think Seiji might. He's the one I have the most in common with. He too is cast in a role he is not naturally suited to, and he too did not freely choose the yoroi. I think that he was tricked into taking it. Well, he's one up on me; I just took it because it seemed like an easy way to die.

But here I am. Still alive. Again.

Death must like me, so he's saving me for last. After all, I've survived countless disasters that killed everyone else.

So, for now, I am immortal. Even when I try to kill myself, something stands in my way.

Seiji's never mentioned that night, and I think, somewhere in that empty void that was once my heart, that I might have been grateful to him once.

As it is, he's spared me a lot of explaining about being found in the dead of night in a bathroom, holding my wrist out over the toilet, and watching in mild fascination as my wound cries as I have not been able to do for years.

He never said a word, not even when he first opened the door, the door that I could have sworn I'd locked. He just found the first aid kit, bandaged my wrist, cleaned up the blood, and sent me back to my room.

He took my shuriken, but it doesn't matter. I have others.

But I've never been able to bring myself to use them. Why bother, when I'm convinced that I'll only be stopped again, this time by someone not so considerate as Seiji.

But still I fantasize about the release Death would bring.

In Death, I would not have to be the perfect hero.

I would not have to be anything.

And some days, this is all that saves me.

§§§

This was the product of my twisted mind. For several years, I was completely apathetic. To everything. It has given me a slightly different outlook on heroism.

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