Black*Star POV

Pain.

It's just a state of mind, people say—those people who think that textbooks and lectures have any meaning, who think that they can truly understand suffering by memorizing the theories of some scientists.

Pain.

They've devised all kinds of ways to alleviate physical pain. Why then, they ask, should it be possible to get rid of emotional pain as well? They want to toy with the brain using their little machines and see how it works. They want to get to the very root of grief as though it's a specimen floating in formaldehyde. They want to examine it, pull it apart, see what makes it tick.

They want to dissect pain.

And they're clueless.

They want to see how pain works? Let them see for themselves, firsthand. Let them go through what others have, and see what they learn then—see if what they learn is in their precious medical journals.

Pain.

They'll learn about pain, alright.

Because I can guarantee that whoever thinks that pain has no value…that it's just an ancient survival mechanism…that with the right technology, it can just be whisked away like dust on the breeze…

Whoever thinks that has never truly experienced it.

…

So, back to the beginning.

Red…

3rd-person POV

For a while, his eyes remained firmly shut. And he liked it that way. He floated in a sea of peaceful, benign blackness, apart from the world outside him. For a short time, it seemed as though closing his eyes shut off all of his other senses as well. In those brief moments, he could not hear the wind in the trees above or the forceful drumming of the pouring rain, heavy drops falling with such force that they made tiny dents in the earth. He could not feel the water running down his face. His closed eyelids hid all. He knew, albeit only vaguely so, that there were things around him, beyond his shelter of darkness. But for now, he did not care. He enjoyed this nothingness.

Perhaps somehow, in his subconscious mind, he knew that opening his eyes would all at once reveal the horror of what just happened. And perhaps that scared him. He wanted to stay here, in this world behind his eyes. That's why he didn't open them immediately. In fact, the only reason he eventually did so was because something all of a sudden occurred to him.

I'm not dead yet…

Very slowly, after what seemed like an eternity, he opened his eyes.

…And that's when he saw the red.

The hot liquid ran down his face like sweat. It was splattered on his legs and soaked into his clothes. With a weak and trembling hand, he touched some of it. It stayed there, a single droplet on his finger. His breathing—I can breathe?—quickened rapidly as he stared at the speck of blood there. He looked down to see it spilled all over the ground beneath him in one large puddle. It dripped down off him still, adding to the mess of the rain-drenched dirt.

He wasn't one to become sick at the sight of gore, of course. By now, he'd almost gotten used to it. But this was something different—the sheer amount of it coming from him was shocking, and it was a wonder that he hadn't passed out yet.

Anxiously, still shaking, he looked for the inevitable fatal wound on his body from which the blood had its source.

He was shocked to find nothing.

What the…In his confusion, he suddenly became aware that the fox witch's tail was still wrapped around his neck, though it did not have the same death-grip on him. He carefully took it off and tossed it carelessly aside.

The witch…

He looked at the limp mass of fur by his side, then turned to gaze in at the sight in front of him. By some amazing phenomenon, he hadn't seen it when he'd first opened his eyes…probably because he couldn't imagine something he'd want to see less.

What he saw was claw piercing stomach, blade penetrating throat. He saw exactly where the blood had its gruesome origins. He saw the pure horror of the reality outside his black sea.

He saw a familiar pair of big, gorgeous indigo eyes widened in anguish—frozen in time, it seemed. The massive claw of the wild Kitsune Witch glinted evilly, lodged into the weapon's middle; part of it protruded through her back on the other side. Yet more of the red substance ran down it in small rivers like crimson tears.

No…it wasn't possible.

This was some sort of hallucination, like when he'd been in Asura's lair. It was a mirage, a fantasy.

He refused, refused to believe it.

He wouldn't.

So why did he still stare, with a tornado of agony and shock and terror and rage and a thousand other emotions swirling inside him, blowing, ripping him apart? Why did his heart feel like it had plummeted dropped to his feet, leaving nothing but a growing lump in his throat? Why did her name build up inside him until he couldn't hold it in any longer?

"TSUBAKI!"

For a time that felt like longer than forever, his voice echoed through the woods until fading into eerie silence. Then came a whimper so faint and so feeble that at first he wasn't sure he really heard it. But still he looked over…cautiously, reluctantly, he glanced back over at the repulsive scene.

That's when he realized her arm was not there. She had replaced it with the steel of her sword blade in the seconds before getting skewered, and it now rested in the witch's neck. The enemy's eyes were dead, glazed over, staring out at nothing in particular. And yet, she had not quite left yet—her wavelength, however muffled and weak, was still present. It defiantly continued to beat out a delicate but surprisingly steady rhythm.

And Black*Star would not allow it. He wouldn't let that sickening beat pollute this world any longer.

But before he could hear the satisfying crack of her skull breaking beneath the crushing pressure of his hands, she spoke—she spoke with a voice that, like everything else about this unworthy life form, disgusted him. The words were cold and rasping, but still loud enough that he could make them out. "You've…won…little kit. Here's…your trophy." With the last ounce of strength in her body, she committed her final act of cruelty. She retracted her claws like a cat, pulling them out of her opponent's stomach, tearing muscle and tissue as they went.

The Dark Arm collapsed to the ground with a surprisingly loud, blood-curdling yell. Her meister rushed immediately to her side as the fox witch stood there for a moment, before also falling with a malicious smirk still present on her face as her soul was finally extinguished.

The blue-haired assassin wanted so much to rip at the lifeless body like a savage dog, to dismantle it and then send all the pieces to the ends of the earth. He never wanted the likes of her anywhere other than Hell. He could almost feel his pupils morphing into the shape of a five-pointed star.

But he stared down at his weapon—at her labored and shallow breathing, at the huge wound in her stomach—he pushed it aside immediately.

"…Tsubaki?" His voice was a shaking, tentative whisper.

At first no response; then, she slowly opened one eye to gaze at him. She said something in an almost inaudible voice, but he knew she had spoken his name. Even that seemed to require significant effort for her.

As carefully as possible, he lifted her up off the ground in a way that he hoped would cause her the least pain, avoiding the red stain that was still spreading all over her clothes.

After he reached the nearest hospital, it was all a daze. The world suddenly morphed into a blur of vague colors and shapes, indistinguishable and unimportant. People swarmed around him like bees, coming and going, while he stood desolately in the midst of them. He did not notice the other meister and weapon teams that had come with him on this extracurricular mission, glancing at him with unwanted pity. He did not notice the girl with sand-colored pigtails and green eyes tearing up at the news, nor her white haired weapon staring sadly down at his feet. He was in his own world, not seeing or feeling any of what was around him. Suddenly, he longed for that blackness he had existed in, just before all of this happened.

He grasped it fully now—the pieces had been put together.

That flash of color she'd seen in front of him at the very last second—that was her.

She'd sacrificed herself, without a second thought.

She did it all.

There was only one other image he remembered about that day, so vivid and clear in his mind. It was that of a doctor, clipboard in hand, stepping slowly out of one of the many doorways that lined the hospital corridor. Reluctance and remorse was in his eyes as he began to speak.

"I'm sorry, Black*Star…"

But that was all said boy wanted or needed to hear. He knew the rest.