maroon

by suffaruwu

Summary:

You’re a disgrace. You were a slave for almost two years. You existed, and now you won’t.

In another time, Otto was a normal person. He dreamed of having friends that didn’t only compose of animals. He dreamed of keeping the only friends he still had. He dreamed of making his family proud of him. He dreamed of setting up his own store. He dreamed of being liked. Remembered. His dreams were very simple.

He wasn’t asking for much.

Wrath/Pride If Otto’s entire life story told backwards—starting from his death.

Notes:

every time... i hyperfixate and write a bunch of stuff on my own and then post it and then go disappear again... just the other day i was having a crisis about how ive been in this fandom for two years...

also. otto suwen fans are you out there. o.OOOO :O !!! you know what they say... if you cant find the content, make it yourself...

Think of it like this: there’s the same two paths, the same start, the same end, the same cast of people that you shouldn’t think of as people, and the different ends that lead into the same end. 

All things die in the end. 

That’s it. The end.

Let’s start: he nearly drowned when he was a baby.

The details don’t matter. Not when you’re not even a year old yet, not when bubbles pop out of your tiny little mouth and float up to that great big faraway surface, not when your small balled-up fists are splashing around in the water like this is a game. 

Like you aren’t drowning. 

You don’t hear it, but you feel it. Your mother takes you out of the water, sobbing enough to add to the water you nearly died in. She holds you in her arms and she dries you off and she cries enough for the two of you. Because you don’t cry. You barely even get that upset. You never do.

His life started with bubbles. Water. Bubbling, bubbling, fun to pop until liquid rushes into your lungs and they burst. Muffled noise, muffled crying, muffled splashing. Everything was so quiet and so loud for the first time in his life. He was playing in that silly, stupid little tub until he wasn’t and then he almost died.

It is really, really easy to die. Everything is so fragile. And small. And not special at all.

Maybe the end of his life isn’t so different.

“You really don’t cry, do you?” 

There’s a knife held to his throat. Just to see how he’d react. And down the blade, past the handle, there’s a pale hand and sickly skin and a wicked sharp smile on a thin face. Greasy, inky black hair. Dirt smudges. Ash. Tiny remnants of acne. Dark clothing and mean eyes that look out of place on the gentle slope of a jaw and rounded cheeks.

Golden brown pupils, picking him apart like maggots in a corpse. 

There’s the same two paths. Who is this person? You get two points for the right answer. 

Is it A. the boy rumored to be the witch cult’s Sin Archbishop of Pride ? Or is it B. the Purge King, head of the Pleiades organization?

“You know, I really liked you,” Pride says. The knife's edge traces the side of your face like a caress. He sounds almost fond. “Decent to look at. Smart. Jaded. Logical. I reaaally do like you. But I have loose ends to tie up, and you do know what happens to useless things, do you?”

So the answer was A. 

In another life, you’d be stabbing him in the side. Non-fatal. Just enough to hurt. To add to his destruction as he watches the only thing he’s ever built and the only thing he’s ever accomplished be torn to shreds.

“What’s your name?” Pride asks. He’s circling you like a predator to prey. He always moves like that—with all the self-assuredness of someone who knows what comes next, how the story will end. He (thinks he) controls all of it. “I know you said that you didn’t want to learn each other’s names, but we’re both going to die anyway. What do you say?”

Oh, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say Pride was almost eager to learn your name.

We’re both going to die, your thoughts echo. You laugh. 

Yeah, guess that means that Pride’s going to go die so that half-elf Royal Candidate gets shoved onto a shitty country’s shitty throne that gets won via popularity contest.

Pride’s going to go die just to stroke his ego and say that he took the Sword Saint down with him.

What about you?

The same start: you cry for the first time as you come into the world, kicking and screaming and covered in blood as you breathe for the first time. Then you nearly drown as a baby. Then you’re driven out of your town, you fall into debt, you crush all your dreams and you crush the old you and the price of your mistakes swallows you whole.

The point of it all is that there isn’t one.

“Otto Suwen,” comes out of your mouth on autopilot. His mouth. You’re a disgrace. You were a slave for almost two years. You existed, and now you won’t.

In another time, Otto was a normal person. He dreamed of having friends that didn’t only compose of animals. He dreamed of keeping the only friends he still had. He dreamed of making his family proud of him. He dreamed of setting up his own store. He dreamed of being liked. Remembered. His dreams were very simple.

He wasn’t asking for much.

Everything Pride does is personal. (Everything the Purge King does is personal.) Otto wonders if that boy playing god is ever happy.

“Natsuki Subaru,” Pride says now. There’s blood smeared on his teeth when he smiles. His lip is split like he bit into it. Otto almost wishes that exact blood was in his own mouth instead.

In another life, Otto calls him Natsuki-san as he drives that knife into him. It’s a formality. A reminder— where’s your family? 

Who were you before this? 

It’s a mockery.

There’s a raging fire all around them. All-consuming, devouring, hungry, fighting to keep alight with everything and anything it gets its hands on. It’s angry and it’s prideful and Otto wants to rip out Natsuki Subaru’s throat for doing this to him.

He’d say for doing this to everyone, but the best way to survive is doing it alone. 

The best way to die is to rob that opportunity from anything else. 

There are just so many things Otto can’t afford. Like friendship. True friendship. Or his clothing, his food, a nice bath, his own body, his name, his Divine Protection, his family, his bad luck, his uselessness—

Otto leans into the knife at his throat.

He’s choking on smoke. He’s gagging on every lost inch of him that was touched by every bit of cruelty. Dog eats dog eats dog.

“Useless things are thrown away,” Natsuki Subaru drawls. He raises his free hand, puts down all his fingers except for the index and thumb, then mimes shooting himself in the head. “You were useful while it lasted, Otto .” 

No honorifics. Subaru sing-songs his name, all teasing and playfulness. Curls it around his tongue like a snake choking the life out of a mouse. 

His eyes are shining brighter than any fire. The whole kingdom’s burning down, and Otto’s eyes sting from smoke and tears and endless lists of monstrosities, but all he can think about is how they could’ve been friends in another life.

This is the best thing Otto’s ever gonna get.

“Fuck you,” Otto spits out, shakily. He can barely stand. He’s dressed in his usual black suit. He’s been dressed for his death ever since he became a debt slave. “Fuck. You. ”

The thing about debt slavery and Otto Suwen is that in almost every world, there’s this 50/50 chance where he either dies early or he dies later. 

Elongates his suffering into two words and two people: debt slavery, Russell Fellow, and Natsuki Subaru.

Another 50/50 chance—Natsuki Subaru either makes it so that Otto Suwen doesn’t die, or he specifically engineers things so that Otto Suwen ends up suffering. As collateral damage. The side character that no one cares about kind of damages.

Otto doesn’t know this. He just knows that he and Subaru have the exact kind of personalities that complement—the determination, the cold resentment, the burning anger, the emptiness, the same sense that this world is cruel and that there’s nothing you can do about it other than do nothing or make it worse.

Destroy what you can’t have.

“Aw, jeez, you don’t have to be so mean, Otto,” Subaru says, smiling. Otto’s leaning into the knife enough for blood to trickle down his throat. It feels cold compared to Subaru standing so close to him. 

There’s something dark thrumming underneath all the light. The city is beautiful until you see what’s underneath.

Subaru is the nicest client Otto’s ever had.

“We were almost-friends,” Subaru continues. He tilts his head, eyes dead and cold and unblinking as he stares at Otto. His smile widens. “You even did soooo many things for me. And I do appreciate it, you know? But I got a feeling that you’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

Otto scoffs. He’s blinking liquid out of his own eyes. Just water from all the smoke and dust and searing warmth, he tells himself. It’s not tears. This isn’t some new beginning. He croaks, “Waiting for me to tell you to go fuck yourself, or waiting to die?” 

The words are angry. But they come out empty. Thin and hoarse and hollow inside and out. You carve out enough pieces of yourself to give away to survive, but once you do, you can’t live anymore. You try so hard to survive, but it’s not worth surviving.

Just give up already. Your usefulness ran dry. You had one job. All you had to do was serve. 

Look pretty. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Do your job. Follow orders. No questions. The point is that there is no point. You’re never getting out of here. You’ll work until you die. 

The price tag on you isn’t high enough. He gave up Otto Suwen, the soft, stupid merchant, a long time ago.

The same start: is it when you’re born, when you drown for the first time, or when you fall right into an invisible cage? 

A canary in a coal mine kind of cage.

Otto chokes down a strangled sob. This can’t be a new beginning. He can’t have this be a new beginning. Every time you cry, tears pouring out of your eyes, it’s a new beginning. 

Having no choice comes with the job description. That’s what life is. You get pushed around until you’re pushed off a cliff. 

(The Purge King would have said that life consists only of backstabbing. Everyone betrays each other, everyone lies, everyone’s good or bad or nothing. Gray, gray, gray, and grey. Two spellings that lead to the same ending: dead. If you try to be good in this world, you get pushed aside. You get pushed to the ground. Down to ice cold snow. There’ll be hands wrapped around your throat. There’ll be chains all around you. The only color you’ll ever see is dark, dark maroon. What are friends? Oh, that’s a fancy word that means nothing. That just means more people to abuse so that they never abuse you.

It means that your chances of survival drop down to zero. 

Otto agrees.)

Otto asks Subaru, dully, “Do you mean that I’ve been waiting to drop the formalities”—he means the stupid esteemed client titles and the vomit-inducing subservience where he poisons everything in him that isn’t a suitable tool to use—“or were you referring to waiting for my death?”

Ever since he was little, he’s heard all sorts of animals die. 

Natural selection, he thinks. The strongest survive, the world eats you up and spits you out, and if you’re lucky, you get a passing grade at survival and nature decides that okay, maybe you’re not the strongest, but you’re good enough. You’re allowed to survive even if you’re mediocre as hell.

Otto never paid off his debt. The number’s so high it’s practically a statistic. 

Just another nameless thing dying in a country-wide disaster so some asshole can put the object of his obsession on a throne she won’t even rule properly.

Can’t rule a wasteland.

“All of the above,” Subaru says, smiling thinly. “You’re a slave, ain’tcha?” He asks. Like Otto hasn’t been his fucking messenger boy from the moment Otto’s met him. Subaru laughs. “Oh, you’re used to getting crushed under someone’s heel like a bug. Don’t need any more formalities here.”

He waves the knife in his hand around like a kid with a toy. The flames are all reflected in his eyes—and his eyes are the monster under your bed kind of scary—dancing around in his pupils feverishly.

Then he coughs. It rings in the air like an alarm. 

There’s no noise here. Just their voices, and Subaru’s cough (guess he is human after all), and it’s like the rest of the world’s gone dead. No chirping grasshoppers, no scurrying mice, no one.

Otto stares at his reflection in the knife’s blade. He’s using the same technique children do—if you keep staring at something, the tears in your eyes won’t fall.

Not now, at least.

Zodda-bug freak. 

“Do I need to order you to die?” Subaru asks. His fingers are twitching around the knife handle. His lips curl. There’s always something wild about him—all the anger of a creature locked up in a circus and abused for entertainment. “Do I need to order you to call me Subaru?” He giggles. “Order you to go on your knees and die?” 

Otto closes his mouth. 

“No, I know what it’s like to want that,” Subaru says. His voice goes cold. As cold as the ice his stupid obsession uses. “Death. Have you ever belonged in this world, Otto? No. No, even if you have, it’s been gone for a long fucking time, otherwise you wouldn’t be in this business.”

 A hand snakes up Otto’s shoulder. Up Otto’s neck. Fingers wrap around Otto’s chin and shove it down like that’s going to do anything about their small height difference. 

Red and orange and yellow light flashes across Subaru’s face. Like blush. Like blood rushing to his cheeks. There’s yellow stripes along Subaru’s black clothing like wild animal’s stripes. 

“Have you ever belonged in this world, Otto,” Subaru asks. He’s curious, but it sounds like the demand it is. His breath is on Otto’s skin. It’s hotter than the rising flames. 

And Otto closes his eyes like that’s going to make them sting any less from the fire. From the ashes in the air—funerals are expensive. Cremation is free. Selling yourself is different. 

“No,” he says curtly. “Whatever beat you down should do it again.” 

A second. Then Subaru bursts out laughing. He’s gasping with it. Otto hopes he chokes on his own spit instead of dying some big dramatic death like he wants. 

Subaru caresses Otto’s cheek. Softly. Surprisingly softly. It means nothing, Otto tells himself. He still shivers when Subaru asks, again, smiling, “What beat you down, Otto?” 

A lot of things.

“You burned down the whole kingdom,” Otto replies in cold monotone. “You have a personal vendetta against the Sword Saint. You have a personal vendetta against any and every knight. You only seem to care about someone if it’s in a very specific circumstance. As for—“

Subaru’s still smiling. It’s frozen on his face like a doll as he drives his nails into Otto’s skin. “Then what are you here for, Otto?” He shakes his head. Smiling. “I’ve already told you. You’ve outlived your purpose. They all outlived their purpose except for Emilia.” His voice goes soft and shaky and downright euphoric with just that one word. Emilia. “Even I’ve outlived my purpose, Otto.”

Hopelessness used to feel like burning. Moth to a flame. You rush towards it because it’s the only light there is.

Now it’s just a small wasp sting. A prick on your finger like a rose thorn. Red petals. Red blood. Spilled wine.

Otto keeps forgetting there’s blood going down his throat. That the light shining on him and Subaru isn’t a spotlight. It’s not sunlight. It’s not limelight—Otto’s been working the graveyard shift for what feels like forever. 

But Subaru. Oh, the kingdom defeats the villain, and the villain is never, ever mourned. “So you’ve done it,” Otto says. No emotion. Why would there be? 

You’re responsible for what happens to you in this business. Otto made his own hell. His own grave. He’s all dressed up for it. And now he’s going to die and fall right into it. 

When you die, you die in everyone’s minds eventually. 

Subaru made his own hell. But he’s the kind of person that feels like he’ll never die. His legacy’s a mess of a country that stabbed itself in the stomach and in the eyes too, for good measure. 

That poor Sword Saint. That poor queen. They’ll be eaten alive by the guilt. It’s such a useless emotion. 

“You always were smarter than you looked,” Subaru says fondly. 

And then he drops the knife on the ground. 

It clatters.

“Loose ends,” Subaru drawls. It’s almost boredom. But he’s staring right at you. “Can’t leave them hanging. You still have a debt to pay.”

Otto stares at the knife on the ground. 

Moth to a flame, right? He looks up, and the flames make it look like Subaru’s burning up with his own fake halo around his ink-black hair.

“Consider it a deal,” Subaru says. “Use the knife, or die to that fire.”

Otto’s lived his life in a series of deals. He stares back at Subaru. “I’m sick and tired of deals,” he replies. In the same tired, empty monotone.

He doesn’t care. His eyes don’t sting.

Ah, but. Deals . Here’s some examples—adjust to every situation. Observe everyone else and follow suit when needed. If you fuck up—like, say, getting an assassin sent after you before you even turn seventeen, then you make a deal. If I leave my hometown and never come back, then you’ll never need to kill me. 

“Have you ever burned to death before,” Subaru says, like they’re drinking buddies at a bar. “The flames lick up the sides of your body as everything burns. And burns.”

Another example of a deal— If I dispose of this corpse for you, then you won’t kill me now. Right?

“The pain is all white hot. It consumes every thought you have. It’s all you can think about. You can smell your own flesh burning. It’s turning all black and wrinkled. Like a charred slab of meat made by a shitty chef giving you an overcooked meal.”

Subaru’s got on his storyteller voice. The one he uses for all his monologues, and a small part of Otto claps, and goes, Please. Tell me more, with all the eagerness of a kid with their first friend. 

“If that ever happens to you, you’ll melt like an ice cream cone in the middle of a summer heat wave,” Subaru purrs. He reaches out just to playfully ruffle Otto’s hair. “You’ll melt down right to the bone. Then past it. All that’s left is ash. Can’t tell the difference between your pile of ash and someone else’s pile of ash and another person’s pile of ash and then the dirt and shit all around it.”

Example number three— If I deliver this poison to the rumored Sin Archbishop of Pride in order to kill the Anastasia camp’s Greatest Knight, then you won’t kill me now.

Subaru bursts out laughing. “Welcome to freedom.” He gestures lazily towards the knife. “Pick it up. Down, boy.”

Otto does. 

He would say I’m not your dog if it wasn’t true. He’s outlived his purpose, anyway. It’s a good thing, really. He was more than halfway to just taking a candle and burning everything down with him too.

No debt means freedom. 

But he still has a debt.

His hand shakes around the knife.

He still has debt. 

This is cheating. Death is cheating. He doesn’t even deserve this. But he can’t just—he’s fucked up his whole life, he can’t just fuck up his death too. 

But you’ve stepped on so many corpses just to get here. 

“It’s your one shot,” Subaru says, smiling. His eyes are cold as ever. Bored. Desensitized. Of course he is. If he was ever normal and boring and ordinary once, he’s destroyed that version of himself completely. “Do it wrong and I’ll just leave you to the fire.” He grins. “For fun, of course.”

Fun.

This is the most fun you’ve ever had.

Moth to a flame. Dead end. You stopped being useful.

You’re obsolete. Your story dies with you. And you’re glad, really. Your family will never know. This is the best fate you could’ve ever asked for.

It’s so quiet. 

You slash across your throat. Straight across. Perfect aim. Your hands aren’t shaking anymore, but you collapse to the ground. Just fall right over like a little doll. 

You’re being given away. No one wants to play with you anymore. 

Because all you hear is choking. Gross wet gagging noises. Red spurts out of that thin opening in your neck where the flesh separates into two flaps. You’d stab yourself in the stomach and in the eyes for good measure if you could.

No noise. No noise. For the last time in your life, there’s no more noise.

The last thing you see is Pride. Subaru. That disgusting witch cultist that’s the same age as your younger brother.

He stares at you for a moment. And then the spark leaves his eyes. He’s bored again, isn’t he. Bored and dead just like everyone in this business. You want to rip his throat out. Rip it out and spit it right back in his face.

He leaves you behind.

You laugh and you die in a back alleyway in some random corner of the charred and melted piece of meat that used to be the Dragon Kingdom of Lugunica. 

Fancy name for something so useless.

Your body’s going to burn here. Your disgusting body’s going to burn in the flames and then your ash won’t be any different from someone else’s ash and shit.

You laugh and you choke on your blood and you die. 

What a real fucking legacy you got.

 

But here’s option B.

In another life, the knife in your hand sinks into the Purge King’s side.

The Purge King’s name is Natsuki Subaru, you know. A unique name for a unique kind of monster. 

The pathetic kind. 

Natsuki Subaru. Oh, that sounds so normal. That sounds so small. It sounds like a name from Kararagi—and he dresses like someone from there too. Black robes draped over his small, tiny frame like the top of a coffin closing in on a dead body. 

You’ve heard it before—that the people of Kararagi fold their robes right over left if the wearer is deceased. 

Natsuki Subaru should have done that a long time ago. 

Red’s pouring sluggishly from the wound when you yank the knife out. Subaru’s pale hands claw at it, press down on it, red leaking into dark spots along the fabric of his clothing. Sticks to his ribs. He stumbles and staggers in place like a baby deer that got shot right through all its guts with a spear. 

The hunted becomes the hunter becomes the hunted.

And the people call this thing the Purge King ? The Purge King bares his teeth like an angry kitten. The Purge King barely sleeps, barely eats, barely trusts just like a stray. The Purge King is here, in the center of all his stupid fucking blood money, watching Pandemonium (capital P ) fall into pandemonium (lowercase P ). 

“More than this is beyond the scope of my work,” you say, smiling. 

You’re standing in an empty hallway. Subaru’s leaning heavily against the wall, gasping and panting desperately like he’s ran as many steps as the number of people he’s killed. Funny. All he ever does is either rest his head on his kidnap victim or sit on a massive throne. He’s a little kid trying to put on a grown-up’s shoes, but his feet always slip out. The bone cracks. 

You give one small laugh. “So be careful, Natsuki-san.”

A reminder. A mockery. You’re just some person stuck in this world like the rest of us, Natsuki Subaru. Don’t pretend that you’re any different. You’re going to watch your work die. And then you’re going to die with it.

What is a legacy? It’s pretending that anything you’ve ever built will outlast you.

Here’s a legacy: there’s distant screams in the distance. The same as option A. There’s the clashing of swords hallways and rooms away, bugs scurrying all over the debris and dirt and dust, whispering, watch out watch out run run run, and extravagant wine-red, blood-red curtains. 

Extravagant. Empty. Invention after invention, connection after connection, kill after kill, desperate ploy after desperate ploy to live above them all. A boy playing pretend. A cockroach is a good survivalist, but it’s still only a cockroach in the end. 

Disgusting. 

The same cast of characters.

“You bastard,” he growls. It comes out wheezing. Hoarse. It’s hysterical. And it’s hysterical (hilarious), so you only hold back the laugh in your chest a little bit.

The hunted becomes the hunter. You spin the knife in your hands and watch the blood flick off onto the Purge King. Where’s his crown? Where’s his throne? You really can’t see it at all. 

Russell Fellow might even be a little upset. Oh, there goes another way to profit. Oh, there goes a promising young man. An inventor at—what was it? Eighteen, nineteen? Not even twenty, and he already came with the most revolutionary ideas. And if you appeased him and his mental instability-fueled colorblindness with mana crystals, sent in a disposable or two, then he’d be such a good source to keep in contact with.

Oh, but you knew he was gonna die. There’s always the next one to move on to, Fellow thinks.

You walk away from the Purge King. 

The sound of his wheezing fades away into the background. He’s limping away. Leaning against the wall like a wounded little rabid animal. Good.

Good.

He’s going to die never knowing your name. You don’t know what’ll do him in—whether it’s to that half-elf girl or to the Sword Saint or to debris falling and crushing him like a bug. But you’re happy. You’re so, so happy that you laugh in the middle of the almost-ruins. You laugh, and you laugh, and you laugh until your eyes water and the sky turns black-white-black-white.

This is the happiest you’ve ever been. 

You flip a coin in your hand. It’s the only coin you have on you, and it lands heads.

Guess there’s more to life now. 

Guess there’s more. Guess this isn’t over. 

Fuck. This isn’t over. 

You spin the knife in your other hand. Back and forth, back and forth. Spinning and spinning in predictable motions. 

Honestly, you don’t know what to do now. There was always a chance, before, that the Purge King would have another one of his random fits and kill your family just by pure chance . He had his disgusting fingers clawing into the merchant business. Your family’s an established merchant family in your hometown.

You sit on a broken slab of a wall. The sun shines down on you. Casts shadows and red and orange across your face like fire, heats up all the black you’re wearing now. You’re always dressed for your funeral. That’s proper slave attire.

All you hear is the screaming from inside. The earth-shaking impact of combat between hideously powerful people—that’s the thing about this world. It’s never fair. Some claw their way to the top. Pathetically. Others? Oh, they’re born into it. It’s their birthright. Od knows what the hell any of them are here for.

A zodda-bug lands on your shoulder.

“Go away,” you say. Dully. The words come out in half-hearted little insect chirps. Why is that bug even here? It should’ve run away just like the others. It should’ve been crushed under some random bit of ceiling. “There’s nothing left to do.” 

Maybe you’ll applaud, when this is all over. Yay, the old king is dead. Time to wait for another stupid kid to show up. And if someone doesn’t show up to kill some more things, you might just be bored enough to have a go. There’s nothing left to life other than this. Other than cruelty. Maybe you’ll piss yourself out of shock if you get to eat something other than half-moldy bread. Or you’ll actually cry again if you see your family for the first time in years.

They’d just find you disgusting.

Why here? the zodda-bug asks. Why you here?

“To kill something,” you mumble. To feel something, you mean. And maybe get some real freedom. But what? The freedom to know that you’ll never be the same naive piece of shit again? 

Did you do it? the zodda-bug asks again. That’s the thing about so many animals. You understand them like people understand each other, but they almost always act like children. Good job? 

“Yeah,” you say. It’s the only thing you’ve ever accomplished. You can’t just become a merchant again and say, Yes, I helped the kingdom itself take down an eighteen-year-old terrorist. You can’t take all the sharp, mean parts of you out without killing yourself entirely. Filth teaches filth.

The zodda-bug just chirps. Wordlessly. Flickers its little fragile wings and glows a tiny bit like a friendly pat to the shoulder. Name? What’s name? It’s asking this all excitedly. Like you’re a new buddy. A friend . You want to laugh and throw up. Your power’s all about connection, but right now, you’re sitting in some abandoned corner of a violent merchant organization that’s killed a shit ton of people just to prove a point.

“Otto Suwen,” you say. You clear your throat. He clears his throat, and says again, “My name is Otto Suwen.”

The zodda-bug sits on his shoulder and watches the destruction with him. Hand-in-fragile wing. He knows that he could just reach over and squish that zodda-bug. His mind’s screaming it—why bother with this? What’s left to live for? All you know is crawling and kicking and screaming your way through another day just to pay off the most microscopic amount out of the debt you owe. 

Hello! the bug says. Hello! Hello, Otto-san!

Otto-san. 

Sometimes he even forgets he has a name. 

What now? the bug asks curiously.

What now. What now, it says. Hell if he knows. He’s been asking himself that for all twenty-something years of his small, insignificant life. 

“I don’t know,” Otto Suwen says. “I don’t know.”

He stares at the knife in his hand. Blood stains the metal. The coin on his other hand—flipped to heads. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. His eyes are watering. “I don’t know.”

Maybe it’s all over now.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

The ceiling of Pandemonium finally falls in on itself. Crumbles to pieces like it was nothing. Like this was all nothing. Like he hasn’t suffered for the past year wrapped up in chains, watching the Purge King appear out of nothing and gain more than enough wealth to pay off Otto’s debt.

Enough of a kill count to drown Otto in all the blood, too.

Otto stares at what used to be Pandemonium and wonders how Natsuki Subaru died. He remembers the sight of Subaru sitting on that throne—thin, drowning in his own black fabric, half of his face almost hidden behind a red scarf wrapped around his neck, run ragged like a starving vulture. 

Survival is about hunting for scraps. Otto wants to see what’s left to scavenge from this place.

The bug chirps sadly. Otto-san? You good?

Maybe it’s over.

You craft your expression. Blank. Neutral. A perfect thing to bend and break to anyone’s use. This is all you know now. It’s muscle memory, engraved into your bones. It’s in your bloodstream, forced down your throat until it chokes you. “I’m fine,” you say. “I’m fine.”

Otto-san, don’t have to lie.

You can’t see your family again, you disgusting little thing. They’d chew you up and spit you right out. Survival of the fittest. You’ve always been the black sheep. The sore thumb. The one dragging them all down. The raw meat they’d eat if they were hungry enough. 

…Otto-san?

Desperate enough.  

Otto-san, it’s gonna be good! You’re gonna be good. Please, please, please don’t worry! 

You’d do anything to survive. If there’s nothing left to sell, you sell yourself. You’re so dirty now. You’ll never be clean again.

……Otto-san?

You don’t want to do it. But what’s left? It’s over now. Maybe it’s over. But you don’t know how to do anything anymore, and somewhere, somehow, your younger self stands there. In the bright, blinding sun. And your younger self is staring at you in pity.

Your younger self has everything. But you got greedy. You still wanted more, and this is where you ended up. You made your own hell. You made your own cage out of metal wares you sold for oil, and you fueled the flames with the latter.

Otto-san! the bug cries.

A beat.

“I’m sorry,” Otto murmurs. “I was just off in my own head again. I apologize.”

Your younger self is there, in the corner of your mind. He would be so disappointed, too. But he’d say— you have a second chance now. Don’t waste it!

Right. Don’t waste it.

As if you even know how to save anything.

It’s gonna be all fine, Otto-san! I’ll stay here then! 

The coin flipped heads anyway.

 

Oh, but you knew he was going to die. 

You’re making a deep bow—eyes facing the red carpet underneath your feet—and you’re doing the only thing you’re good at. 

Sucking up. 

It’s always total bullshit. He’s never meant it in his whole life, but he always says it the same way. Soft, nonthreatening, submissive, malleable and pliable—

“Being able to meet you today is a great honor.”

Seeing the amount of wealth the Purge King surrounds himself with is the actual honor here. Really. The gold’s really fucking dazzling to look at. It’s burning your eyes. It makes you want to take the nearest painted portrait and stab yourself with the corner of its stupid golden frame. 

But it’s fascinating. Really. The portrait shows a blue-haired, blue-eyed girl. 

She’s holding a morning star in her hands. She wears a maid dress, and even with her weapon, her gaze is downcast and her head is bowed in submission.

Her eyes are seething.

“Somehow, your confidence is remarkable, though you do not seem much different from me in age,” the Purge King says. His legs are crossed. He’s got one arm resting on his throne, hand tucked under his chin. 

Unblinking. He’s surrounded by guards on all sides of his throne room and he isn’t taking his eyes off you at all, but he’s still being careless right now, isn’t he?

The words come naturally to you. “So suddenly, are those words of praise sent.” You’re kneeling down. As you always are. 

You smile down at the ground. The Purge King can take it as anything, really. A polite smile at the compliment given by a superior, or the fake smile of someone trying not to get sliced right through by the Purge King’s coin and right hand men.

Or, as paranoid as the Purge King is, he’ll see a soft-looking young man with a darkness to him that you just can’t hide anymore.

All the wealth in this room could pay your debt a thousand, ten thousand times over. Your smile widens. Is the Purge King trying to showcase his power to avoid an attack, or is he trying to broadcast the amount of compensation he’s making for his weakness? 

Oh, well. It’s all bullshit.

“In truth,” Otto says, “not far off from now, we intend to do much large-scale business here.” Your destruction , you mean. You named your organization Pandemonium for a reason , you mean. Isn’t that a shame? “Because of that, we had been looking for a chance to meet the head of this organization and present gifts.”

You’re really not the same as you used to be. The old Otto worked on another side of the same business. A merchant—above ground, in the light, dreaming of his own place. 

“Go on,” the Purge King says slowly.

The rest of the business is kneeling. The rest of the business is keeping quiet and smiling serenely as you’re being taken apart. Piece by piece. This part works. This part doesn’t.

There is no winning in this game unless you play as dirty as the ones who’ve made it. 

“The royal offerings from our side,” Otto says, smiling serenely, “We’ve heard that you desired this.” 

Otto reaches for the offering he brought with him—he takes out a black container, and inside it is a mana crystal. Shining, glimmering, as big as Otto’s hand, at least, and a brilliant mixture of color.

Not like the Purge King will see it anyway. 

The Purge King sits up in his seat. Eager, as expected. Right as planned. But to be in this business, you need to be paranoid. Bad things always happen. Everything that goes wrong will. You will never make it out of this whole, but you’ll make sure that someone else never makes it out. 

So that you can steal their place. 

Die so that you can live. 

Cecilus Segmunt’s telling the Purge King the colors that the mana crystal has. Crimson, azure, gold, vermillion. He’s leaning in close, loudly whispering the words with no shame or fear. That’s what too much power does. It makes you reckless. That’s what loyalty does, too. It makes you serve some piece of shit out of your own free will even when you can crush every bone in his body at any second. What a joke.

“…with thanks,” the Purge King announces, “I will be receiving your consideration, and…”

“Russell Fellow’s gesture,” you say pleasantly. As if that bastard’s ever worked a day in his life. 

Die so that I can live. It’s a phrase that the Purge King’s lived by, and it’s a phrase that he’ll die with because he failed to live by it in the end. 

“Understood,” the Purge King says, nodding. The shadows cut sharp lines along his sunken cheeks and the line of his jaw. He swallows, but his voice always sounds like he’s choked down jagged rocks. It’s gravelly and hoarse and almost shy until he’s trying to prove why he’s called the Purge King. “Russell Fellow, is it… if any difficult situations crop up…”

He stops right in his tracks. 

You look up, just once. Just slightly. Your eyes flicker up to see the Purge King—you don’t move your head from its bowed position—spreading out his hand. 

The universal sign for wait.

Oh, Purge King. Natsuki Subaru. Your lap dogs might obey your every beck and call now, waiting on your next command or idiotic little coin flip, but do you really think Otto’s just gonna wait for you to finally keel over and die? 

No. He’s come too far. There’s no way to be clean ever again. So he murmurs, “Please wait.” His voice just sounds a touch too cold. But he knows that— “In truth, this offering is not all that we’re offering to you.”

—like a true child, that asshole will get distracted by the offer of a new, shiny thing, offered by a lap dog with a dead heart. 

“Oh?” There’s a seething kind of greed in the Purge King. It’s written all over his dumb fucking throne and his dumb fucking teenage boy face. Give me what I want and I won’t have a meltdown over it. And he’s got a seething kind of smile to match it. “Then I’m even more delighted.”

There’s a reason why the Emilia camp was hit so personally. Hunter knows hunted knows hunter. Hunter becomes hunted becomes hunter becomes hunted. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Otto sees the guards lining the walls almost relax . Oh, no, that just won’t do. 

Rookie mistake.

Otto smiles back at the Purge King. Subaru, was it? Natsuki-san? He’s a disgusting sight to behold, but Otto stands now, before him. Otto takes a sweeping bow, one hand tucked behind his back and the other searching in his suit pocket for a knife, and drawls:

“From the Kingdom of Lugunica, regarding the Purge King’s atrocities, this could be called the response.”

Stroke someone’s ego and insecurities enough, and you’ll make them fall down to earth.

Ah. But the Sword Saint? Or the many in this world with incomprehensible power? Oh. All their weaknesses are mental. The Purge King has no power in that same way at all. He’s a skeleton waiting to be buried.

So then a white light swallows up the room.

And shatters. 

Just as planned, the Sword Saint bursts through the ceiling. The throne room still holds strong, even in the chaos—oh, look. So the Purge King’s paranoia is good for something after all. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Guards swarming and squirming around. The bright white and the vivid red of the Sword Saint’s uniform and hair. It’s absolutely blinding. Envy-inducing, even. So Otto doesn’t look. He turns, pushes through the crowd, and no one notices a thing.

No one notices him at all.

That fake offering you gave the Purge King—the mana crystal lies on the ground, forgotten. Half-crushed by a stray guard’s heel. Crimson and azure and vermillion and gold mean nothing when everything is so insignificant. Nothing is special unless you decide that it’s special.

Otto slips it into his pocket. Maybe he can still buy his way out of this awful place even with damaged goods.

“I know that I’m disposable,” you say. “A nobody. And that’s why I’m perfect for the job. And I’ll do this if you help pay off my debt.”

The Margrave has been murdered. Apparently, that’s what was needed for the Kingdom to finally come to destroy the Purge King and his Pleiades. 

Russell Fellow was invited to the meeting between Royal Candidates and other officials. You got to stand behind Russell Fellow as he said, For this plan to work, the Purge King needs to be distracted in his throne room for a few minutes. My assistant here would gladly be able to do such a task.

Assistant. What a kind word.

Anastasia sits in front of you now. She insisted on speaking to you in private, so you seized the opportunity. As any good merchant would. “You’re a debt slave,” she says slowly. 

Anastasia is deadly cunning. A highly formidable opponent as a merchant, an information gatherer, and a Royal Candidate, and your hands are shaking from where they’re folded in your lap. But, if rumors are true, she was poor as a child and lived on the streets, and so she should be sympathetic to you.

“Yes, Anastasia-sama,” you say, quietly, with your eyes lowered. “This is all that I ask of you.”

You have more than enough now, you mean. Pay it.

She studies you for a moment. “I was already thinkin’ about investigatin’ him anyway. Russell Fellow. If ya help the kingdom take down Pleiades, and if ya give me more information on Russell Fellow’s whereabouts, I’ll gladly help ya. Deal?”

You stare back at her with no emotion on your face. You’ve wanted to see Russell Fellow suffer for so long. “Deal.”

In another life, Otto sees the smoke from his silly, run-down shed in the outskirts of the slums.

The Capital’s on fire. You can see it, smell it, taste it. Breathe in, breathe out. There’s birds and bugs scattering, spreading their wings and taking flight. 

A moth beats itself silly into the flickering candle in Otto’s hand. Light… light… l—

It screams and dies in the fire. And you don’t even flinch. 

Finally. 

So Otto heads towards the Capital, almost in a daze. Almost with this kind of poisonous self-assurance—oh, everything for so long has gone on forever. Never-ending. 

It’s different now. They’ll all feel what you’ve felt. It’s finally going to end. And it’s going to be your choice. Haha, isn’t that great? Getting to choose things? Oh, that’s so nice. So, so nice.

 

See, days and days before, it went like this:

A corpse isn’t that much heavier than a living body. The only difference is that there’s nothing helping you as you’re throwing them away. 

It’s a good thing you never had to clean your own ground dragon's corpse like this. 

The human corpse you’ve got to clean right now is wrapped in a bag at the back of your carriage. You hop down and drag the bag down to the ground. Lower it carefully. Don’t want to make noise. 

The ground dragon at the head of your carriage isn’t yours.

He doesn’t need a name. He just has to transport you and some other products.

Or corpses.

The instructions differ from task to task. Oh, go here. Oh, go there. Bury this body here. Burn this body there. 

Bring this body near the current Sword Saint’s mansion.  

Still an easier job than having to fuck someone again when you don’t even get the luxury of sleeping in a bed. 

The bag’s weight is half on your back, half on the ground. So maybe not that great for your back, but hey. Maybe if you snap it in two, you won’t have to work anymore. You’ll finally be allowed to die.

It’s dark outside. The mansion’s dark inside too. The Sword Saint’s been very busy lately, you hear. Well, you made sure of it, otherwise bringing his friend’s corpse and putting it outside his house’s gate would be even more of a suicide mission. He’s been busy, really, searching for his two missing friends. One of them is dead in a bag that you’re dragging roughly against the ground.

The other one might as well already be dead from how far gone his brain is.

Blue. The Greatest Knight. The Sword Saint. The three most well-known, skilled knights of their generation, and here they are. 

You drop the bag on the ground. Half-hidden behind a bush. Hard to see at first glance, but easy to smell. That thing will decompose eventually. It’s always got the kind of stink that makes your nostrils rot. 

A strand of lilac hair peeks out of the bag. You kneel down and tuck it back into the bushes. 

This body isn’t like the others you’ve handled. It’s not thin and pale, sickly pale. Not like bone. Not like bone, and not like skin peeling off the bone like peeling a fruit until you open the fruit and there’s worms wriggling around inside, whispering, eat, eat, eat, and you eat it because it’s the only thing you have and you’re so hungry, you’re so hungry that you’re drooling and dry heaving and your stomach’s caving in like an expedition gone wrong and you’re trapped in the deep dark cave, you’re going to die, you’re going to die like everyone who’s ever been here screaming into silence before you, no one’s ever going to find you, no one’s going to help you, and the ceiling’s collapsing in on itself and your tiny little shelter is wet and moist because it’s raining through the hole in the roof and look, there’s maggots, gnawing on the skin here, look there’s another maggot and there’s a fly and a vulture and they’re eating and you aren’t and you’re so, so hungry. 

You’d eat them all if you could. You’d hear their voices screaming into silence as you bite down. Chew. Swallow. Re-swallow. If you vomit, you need to eat it back up because you can’t waste a single drop. There’s not enough money to eat. You can’t eat money. 

You can eat rats. And cockroaches. They crunch in your teeth, they pop in between the molars, bones cracking, squeaks cutting out abruptly, and it tastes disgusting, it feels disgusting, you want to throw up but you’d have to drink it down again. Edible plants aren’t enough anymore. The other animals keep eating them before you get the chance to. Because you’re doing your job. 

You’re so useful. 

You push the body further into the bush with the tip of your worn-down shoe.

Oh, this body in this bag has such soft features. The lean muscle, the eyes staring right at you, frozen in the moment the poison hit. If he wasn’t someone Pride wanted dead, if he wasn’t so treasured by the Sword Saint and a rather formidable Royal Candidate, then he would’ve gone for so much money. 

So much.

The Greatest Knight—well. You don’t need to dwell on that more.

But the Sword Saint? Oh, him and his friends are so lucky. Honestly. At least there’s always someone trying to save you if you’re one of them. You wouldn’t know what that would feel like—having friends in such high places that they’d move the entire earth for you. They’d destroy every obstacle in their path just for you .

Oh. How nice. Maybe the betrayal does come with a silver lining like the silver of that half-elf girl’s hair.

Job done. You go back to your shitty little shed near the forest and spend your paycheck on the cheapest alcohol you can find. For the one thousandth time, maybe.

You’re fully tempted to burn your face off. But then you’d be even uglier. Lose a sale or two. That’d suck.

It rains through the hole in your roof. You squish a worm under your sole and hear it shriek. There’s still worms shrieking as you lean out your window and puke up bile into the nearest bush.

There’s still a burnt little pile of ash in the corner of your shed, right beside a pair of muddied socks. Flakes of charred paper. A charred book. You called it your diary. Otto’s Diary, with a capital D for Diary because you’re very special and unique in your own way, and it’d be nice to be remembered. It didn’t have to be much at all, just a friend. Or two. Smiling warmly at you. Complimenting you. Teasing. You’d do anything for them. As long as you proved you were worth something, as long as you were worth something, you’d be satisfied. 

A worm lands on the remains of your diary, and you scream. You shriek, and you yell, and you kick at it furiously without even thinking because that’s mine, that’s mine, don’t take that away from me too, I already lost everything else, you don’t need to do this to me, it was mine first, it was mine first, I’m first, I’ll kill you, I’m going to kill you, don’t steal anything else from me.

Yay! You successfully saved an already ruined diary! Amazing job, Otto. Well done. You take another swig of the liquor bottle in your hand.

Time to do all of this again tomorrow.

Otto doesn’t remember all of the bodies he’s worked with. Why would you even bother if you have to do it everyday? Why bother? There’s no way you could possibly remember each and every face, every sensation, the way their hands felt on you and the way they looked at you and whether they were there, alive, or gone.

You can work with bodies in a variety of ways. And now, there’s one on the floor of the empty tavern Otto’s standing in.

Lilac strands obscuring the face. That white, red, standard knight’s cloak covering that still, limp body. A hand still frozen in position, posed like it’s already in a casket—reaching out to something it can’t ever reach, surrounded by glass shards in star formation cracks. Droplets of alcohol. Laced with poison. 

Laced with betrayal. The last thing that thing on the floor ever saw was the sight of some witch cultist and his pet demihuman healer. Just business as usual. You tug down your gloves, because your hands aren’t shaking.

Pride sits at the bar. His fingers lazily run through Blue’s hair, brushing past the drooping, twitching cat ears and scratching behind each of them. Blue leans into the touch, flinching periodically like he’s trying not to run away. And he looks half-dead, really. Pale and sickly and drowning in a black dress and an oversized, worn cloak. Blue’s title may be Blue, but he hasn’t worn blue in so long.

Funny. 

There’s a puddle of blood on the ground. It’s soaking into the wood, dying it fresh maroon. Ah, yes, there it is. The fresh smell of newfound rot. You take a metaphorical rope and you tie it into a knot until it’s squeezing around your throat, until you can’t breathe and there’s a missing part of you and suddenly the world is too quiet.

Poor Blue, being marooned all throughout his life again and again and again.

The witch cultist leans over and murmurs something into Blue’s ear. He looks the same as usual. Faint smile curving his lips. Dark circles under his eyes that are as dark as his own cloak. Dark hair. Messy and greasy, but with enough effort put into it to tell that even Pride himself tries and fails to look put together.

Oh, the humanity.

You can seal your Divine Protection any time you want. But it takes concentration. It takes energy. It gets rid of half your senses for a moment, freezes everything in time. What’s the point? Just to spare himself a tiny bit of pain? That’s called weakness. That’s called pointlessness. 

But you turn it off. Just for today. Just for right now. You’ve done this so many times, and when you listen to it, it really feels like all these things eating inside people are gnawing on you all the time. There are just feelings that you can’t afford.

Like empathy. Or anger. The kind of anger that feels like something trying to burst out of you. Clawing and screaming and tearing apart footholds in your esophagus. Anger is all you can manage. Hatred is all you can manage. They're the cheapest kind of emotion. But you can’t ever let it run free. 

Only in small pieces, you tell yourself. Only in small, manageable pieces. Like glass shards and poison droplets. Like taking a break. Like taking your hand and breaking one small part of one finger. Hide it behind nothing. 

So Otto steps further into the room and asks, curtly, “Oh, are you occupied?”

The witch cultist looks up. Tilts his head. A smile spreads across his face, and it could be mistaken for friendliness if it wasn’t for the same cold dead eyes bulging out of his skull. The tell-tale trait of anyone involved with this big fucking mess. “You’re sure on time,” he says pleasantly.

Of course you are. You aren’t weak anymore. “I am.” You squeeze the words out of your lungs, one at a time. “Time is finite, and us merchants believe that time is money.”

Time’s just been going down the dirty sewer drain these days. You used to keep track of the days going by, one after the other, but it’s easier to keep track of death at this rate.

The witch cultist laughs. The sound is as wholehearted a witch cultist can even get. And by that you mean: this is the kind of place where you chew up your own heart and spit it back out. “Look at you,” he drawls, and Blue shivers beside him, “Still calling yourself a merchant. How audacious. You’re more of a death dealer, actually.” 

No shit. Really. It doesn’t hurt at all. 

Your lips press into a thin line. Your hands are still shaking. “I truly have no response for that.” No emotion in those words. Good.

The witch cultist barks out a small laugh as he rises to his feet. Blue follows him, clinging onto the witch cultist’s cloak like a child would, and the two of their gazes trail over Otto—Blue’s pupils dilated and watery with tears, and the witch cultist’s eyes locked on Otto with a strange sort of fascination.

Let’s call it friendly interest. 

The body on the ground is staring right at you. At nothing. And the witch cultist steps around it casually. Like a stray stick lying on the ground floor of a forest.

“Your name…?” the witch cultist asks, like this is a casual request. All he ever does is act far too casual. He jumps from one unspeakable atrocity after another like a spoiled little kid throwing away toys once he gets bored of them. “Don’t think I ever caught it.”

His hand tightens on Blue’s shoulder. Every word that falls out of his mouth is a silent order. 

The only people that are gonna remember you are your family. And once your brothers have families of their own, you’ll be gone forever. Thrown away into the trash.

Otto says coolly, “I’ve never introduced myself, and neither do I intend to. Naturally, I have no inclination to ask for your name either, esteemed client.” Esteemed client , this. Esteemed client , that. The only thing esteemed about esteemed clients is how they’ll look like rotting in hell. “This way we can both relax.”

With his cold smile fading ever so slightly, the witch cultist says lazily, “Well, you’re right. Since it’s not like we could ever be friends.”

And it’s true. Don’t look at that body on the floor, but look at the witch cultist, at Pride, because if you break eye contact, that’s showing weakness. “Exactly.” You smile back. Cold. Lifeless. “We’d become enemies the instant that something happens. And isn’t what we see here the result of calling such people friends?”

Blue stares, unseeing, at the lilac strands scattered in a heap on the ground. 

“Tell Russell thanks for me,” the witch cultist says lightly. Almost teasing, really, and he tilts his head like a playful dog. “Counting on you again for it. I mean, you are his right hand, aren’t you?”

Haha. No.

“That man’s right hand is at the end of his arm,” you reply, indifferent and mechanical. You don’t care. Pretend that you don’t care so it hurts less. “What I am is a slave.”

Because Russell Fellow owns the suit you’re wearing. The shed you’re staying at, your body, your soul. You’re dirty now. Polluted.

After a pause, Pride laughs and laughs. Just like how Blue keeps staring and staring, though Pride himself looks down at the Greatest Knight’s corpse with a strange, unreadable expression on his face. Then, it’s wiped away by the same old stupid amusement and Pride says—

“You always did think in clean rationalizations, didn’t you?” 

Yes. 

Exactly. 

That’s why Otto’s hand wraps around a vial of poison. 

Murky liquid. A tiny little glass full of murky liquid, held in his fingers—yes, this is the fragile thing that will kill Lugunica’s Greatest Knight. A title as pretentious as that— greatest —warrants a downfall as humiliating as your own friend, a healer, tricking you into drinking poison, doesn’t it?

But here’s a certain detail about the poison: it works fast. Just fast enough to be efficient. You hate inefficiency, especially when everything in this business goes underground. Scurries everywhere like rats biting at your ankles in your sleep. But the poison’s painful. Real painful. A knight with a title calling him the greatest (and that’s complete and utter bullshit, by the way) will need that pain to push him down. 

Pride is so pathetic that he’ll live on that small power trip for the rest of his miserable life.

That’s the problem with attachment. You become so easy.

Otto isn’t attached to anything at all, and you don’t need to use a name all the time.

Your gloved hand gives the poison over to the Sin Archbishop of Pride. Even here, Pride has no need of a name. Just a title. Just power. You hate that title. Sin Archbishop. Pride. Witch cultist. Just a bunch of throwaway titles like that’s ever gonna make up for suffering.

“And you’re sure this thing works?” Pride asks, flicking a finger at the glass. You almost snap at him not to break it. Fucking idiot.

“Yes,” you say instead, flatly. “It will work exactly as you wanted, esteemed client.”

You’re going to have to clean up after Pride again.

But then Pride grins at you, and the thing about Pride is that he smiles a lot. You don’t know if he’s just always been the kind of person to smile that much, but his smiles disgust you. His smiles make your stomach flutter. How dare you find this fun. How dare you look almost normal. Almost human.

It’s fine. You’re used to it.

Happy birthday.

His fingers pluck a small flower from the grass beneath his feet. 

You place the flower in your mouth and chew.

Today’s your birthday. And as some gift, you’re being called by Russell Fellow again. Not a shock at all, but—

You swallow the flower. 

There’s been trouble stirring. The Sin Archbishop of Sloth’s body was found in the forest recently, and there’s a black-haired boy with nasty eyes running around causing ruin wherever he goes. 

(Option B goes like this—you already live in the slums right now, and you’ve heard there was an incident a while back here. The Sword Saint fought the Bowel Hunter who was trying to kill a half-elf girl and a black-haired boy with nasty eyes.

And then the Margrave locked himself in his mansion. Then, rumors spread of a boy and a red-haired girl traveling through the country and bordering into Kararagi.

Slavery is commonplace in Kararagi.

Then, came the Purge King and his organization. Here, you could work for someone so volatile that you’d be constantly in danger of dying. Here, you’ll never be free.

Not any different to Otto’s circumstances now. So whatever.

If you landed into a situation like having to work for someone like that, then it’s all your fault.)

The seat of Pride has been empty for a while, you hear. But this boy’s been throwing that name around to Russell Fellow, at least, because Russell Fellow just the other day said—

A new person joined the witch cult. And it seems that he may be in the running for Pride.

You eat another flower now. You pick up another corpse and dispose of it with the usual directions. 

This one says to burn it this time.

Pride, sir? you said to Russell Fellow. You’ve learned quickly about the witch cult—because you have to learn quickly to avoid any further harm to yourself. That means no paycheck if you do. 

You were standing behind Russell Fellow, who was sitting at his desk. Looking through paper after paper. Yes, Russell Fellow said. He’s been spotted with the Bowel Hunter and a little girl.

The body you’re burning now is another little girl. No one special. Just another little girl with no ability of her own other than the ability to do simple tasks for the job. 

The smoke rises into the air, and the smell is as putrid as always. If you smoked cigarettes, you could light it now. But you don’t. You can’t ruin your voice. It lowers your value a bit.

A little girl, sir? you asked blankly.

A little girl with the ability to use mabeasts to do her bidding , Russell Fellow scoffed. Something inside your chest ached hearing that. Well. At the very least, they know that you work for me. His eyes swiveled around to watch Otto carefully. Therefore, they won’t touch you.  

You watch the flames now. The little girl burning in front of you isn’t the same as the little girl that could use mabeasts, but the principle is the same. Filth teaches filth.

Happy birthday, Otto. This is the best candle and cake you’ll ever get. 

You reach into the pocket sewn into the inside of your blazer and pull out a small book. You flip through the pages, read a few lines— the first time hurts the most, no one ever listens to me, today I sold off a metal ware for once, maybe this’ll be my story, the Life of Otto Suwen! 

You throw the diary into the fire. 

Don’t want anyone to use that against you, right? Everything goes quiet with fire. Everything dies in it, because you say things need to die in it, and then the only noise left is the crackling flames. 

Besides, Russell Fellow said. The Bowel Hunter does not care for people like you. 

What do you mean, sir? you asked. 

Russell Fellow smiles. She doesn’t target prostitutes at all. She just glances over workers like you and skips you entirely. How lucky.

How lucky.

You end up having to see Pride a lot from this point on. But you don’t like to think about it. So what if you and Pride banter and talk and it’s almost like an echo of something that could’ve existed somewhere else? 

It doesn’t matter.

(Imagine this: you’re ten years old. The only friends you can make are animals, not people, and you only really have what they call “crushes” once you have an emotional bond with someone. There’s no people to have emotional bonds with. Only animals.

So your only experience with romance is at ten years old. With a kitten. She’s kind to you, sweet, and she only likes being carried by you. You’re the exception. And that’s all you wanted to do, really. Hug. Cuddle. Talk about nice things. But she turns you down with a soft meow, Otto-san, go with your humans. You belong there!

Your silly crush only lasted a few weeks.

Your only other experience with “romance” is… different.)

(“You’re valuable for the time being, Otto,” Russell Fellow says. “I won’t send you to deal with the Purge King anytime soon.”

Yes, sir.)

Dear diary—

The first time hurts the most.

You throw up in the sink in a bathroom connected to a bedroom and you splash water on your cheeks and eyes, over and over and over, until it’s like you’re drowning, and you’re legs are shaky and your throat is sore and—

You step outside. The first corpse you’re assigned to is here. It’s a girl. Dark gray hair and a too-young face—the baby fat hadn’t even left it yet. There’s dried blood on her, staining fabric. You don’t look at it. You can’t look at it. 

Your hands gently close her eyes. The pupils are golden. 

Oh, gold. Only valuable because it’s scarce. It’s rare, and everyone considers it that way. Everyone calls it valuable like that even matters in the grand scope of things. 

You were told to bury her. So you take a shovel and start digging. Keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t stop touching me, or Russell Fellow might have me killed. You don’t know. 

Why does this even matter? You could be fending off bandits again instead of being here. In this awful place. Bandits always liked to ambush you randomly—usually when you’d travel in the mountains with Frufoo. Either that or it’d be storming. Relentlessly storming, like you pissed off some higher power and it decided to make it rain.

Boo-hoo, Otto. You’re not a merchant anymore. 

The dirt slowly covers that girl’s face. That corpse’s face. That body. You just replaced her job, didn’t you. You know it. Her hair is wavy and chin-length too. 

An unmarked grave. 

Later, you open out your palm and get a few coins. You’re looking anywhere else but Russell Fellow’s face—there’s a wedding ring on his finger. An expensive one.

Only a few coins.

Only a few coins out of it.

There’s a sick dog outside the shed Russell Fellow gave you. You tell it to follow you, and you use all your coins on the veterinarian bill. How funny.

Otto-san! Otto-san, wait! the dog cries. It's in an enclosed area for now, just so the veterinarian can keep a close eye on it. Otto-san, don’t go!

You leave anyway. 

There’s so much more work to do.

(Here’s the thing about names.

You don’t name something you’re not attached to. And thus, you won’t name a dog you’ll never see again.

Your ground dragon’s name is Frufoo. And this only happens because—

“Frufoo!” you call out, in that same old little kid way where it’s all high-pitched and clumsy and excited. “Frufoo!” 

You’re about seven. Or six? Maybe ten. Maybe a little less than that. The current you doesn’t remember anymore. Little kid you’s hugging the ginormous legs of this ground dragon, and she’s the softest ground dragon you’ve ever seen in your life, and you actually have seen a lot of ground dragons passing by when your town street gets so busy sometimes. 

Hello, someone says fondly. You’re hugging a ground dragon’s giant leg and it feels like hugging a really thick tree and also there’s noise coming out of her mouth? 

“Otto really likes her,” your father whispers to your mother. “Thank goodness. I was afraid he would not.”

The ground dragon’s tail flicks back and forth and you waddle after it. A soft laugh plays in your head when the ground dragon opens her mouth.

“This is the most lively I’ve ever seen him,” your mother replies. She gives a bittersweet smile. “It’s a good thing that we managed to get a hold of the most friendly ground dragon on the market.” 

“Frufoo!” you giggle. You’re trying to say fluffy but the word isn’t coming out right. And, okay, ground dragons aren’t fluffy, but this one is because she’s super big and very huggable! “Frufoo!”

Frufoo the ground dragon scoops you up with her tail and you bounce up with a laugh. Yes, she says kindly. I suppose I am Frufoo. 

You don’t name something you’re not attached to.

“When he is like this,” your father says, with a bit of sadness to it, “It is almost like he has finally caught up to his peers.”

Your mother places a hand on his hand, interlacing their fingers while you giggle and play with Frufoo’s tail. “Yes,” she murmurs. “Give it some time.”)

Another time, you use the only coins you have left to give to a messenger. Maybe they’ll reach your little brother’s hometown soon with the letter you just finished. 

Either your ground dragon’s going to die, or she’s going to find a new place. 

A new person to be attached to. Best case scenario, right? Getting replaced. 

It would be better for everyone if they didn’t mourn you. But they will. You know that. That’s the nature of people, animals, living beings. You get attached. You decide its worth in your mind and you call it love. And then eventually, it’s gone. Adaption is how anyone and anything has ever lived this long. They’ll cope without you. They’ll learn to live without you, just as they already have for the last four or so years.

The sun’s going down. The suit you’re wearing itches. Crawls all over your skin like insects. Zodda-bugs. The gloves squeeze around your fingers like another hand holding yours far too tightly. 

You watched that messenger go, running off into the forest on a ground dragon carriage. There goes the letter. There goes your family. There goes your freedom. You’ll never, ever be able to dream again.

Hungry, hungry, the rats say as you lie on your jacket on the cold, hard ground. Hungry, they say, trying to gnaw through your shoes. So hungry, need more, more, not enough, not enough.

Somewhere outside, a dog gags and vomits on the ground. Hurts, feel bad… hurts…

The moonlight streams in through the hole in the ceiling.

You didn’t sleep.  

Russell Fellow’s at your door. He knocks once. He knocks twice, and you’re scrambling to your feet and yanking the door open. 

The door makes this awful groaning noise. 

“Do I need to add property damage to your debt, Otto Suwen?” he asks, amused. He looks you up and down—your hair was a rat’s nest last night, and already, the suit and tie and shoes he’s given you reek. 

“N-No, sir,” Otto says. And then he curses himself for stammering. Bashes his head against a metaphorical wall. Od, that’s what they want. More of your weakness to exploit. You can’t make any mistakes at all.

Outside, a dog whines. Otto-san, it hurts… Otto-san, it hurts… Otto-san…

No mistakes. You just said no mistakes. Gotta adjust faster. Change faster, or they’re going to kill all of you. You, and that dog you tried to comfort last night, and those rats and bugs you shooed away with a squeak and a chirp or two, and your stomach’s growling because you haven’t eaten anything in a while, and your eyes burn and your cheeks are wet for no reason and—

“It’s your first day on the job today,” Russell Fellow says. Like this is some big honor. Yeah. Yeah, right, it sure is. “...you were supposed to put your gloves on.”

…gloves?

Shit. Shit. The gloves. 

Go through your pockets. The ones in the inside of your blazer. Your pant pockets, too. Hurry up, Russell’s staring at you. He’s waiting. You can’t mess up. You can’t mess up, or he’ll decide you’re more trouble than you’re worth and then you’re going to die. Your brains are going to splatter on the dirty wall behind you. You’re going to be a bloodstain on the ground. That dog is going to die soon, because healers mean expenses and you can’t afford any expenses when you’re completely broke beyond repair. Your ground dragon Frufoo’s dying in the forest somewhere. Maybe. You just told her to run away from here. What if she’s killed by a hunter? Or—or the witch c—

Your shaking hands make a mad scramble for the gloves and they fall to the ground.

Oh. You’re so pathetic.

Russell Fellow chuckles behind his hand as if to be polite. “I gave you those clothes so you could do your job,” he drawls, “And now you’re wasting it? Well, you certainly don’t require them to do your job. They’re only for comfort. For courtesy as well, you see. Most clients would rather not see you naked as you deliver their orders.”

Otto quickly snatches the gloves off the ground. His hands are still shaking. Trembling. They’re so obviously trembling. This is pathetic. He puts on one glove. You’re so pathetic. Shut up. Tune everything out. Emotions are so—pesky. Useless. He can’t piss himself in fear right now or he’ll have to deal with it.

“I apologize, sir,” is what you’re supposed to say. What he really says is: “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, sir, pl-please don’t—don’t take away my clothes.”

Russell Fellow laughs. Like this is fun. Like this is hilarious. “Every first day is the same, I’m afraid… but perhaps you have potential.” His eyes study you. In school, you know, it’s a thing for some educators to teach by having you dissect a small animal or two. Or maybe part of an animal. A cattle eye. A frog’s guts. Pouring out onto the dissection table.

His hand reaches out and carefully tilts your face to the side. The only interest in his eyes is purely scientific. Oh, if you make a cut right here, this separates the frog’s skin in order for you to access its intestines. Oh, look, this frog has eggs inside it. Look, they’re pouring out. Here, this is where the frog’s leg meets its torso.

O-Otto-san, are you hurt too? the dog calls outside. Otto-san? 

“You do have potential,” Russell Fellow says. Your gloved hands squeeze into fists at your sides. You imagine punching his face in. Kicking him between the legs. Running far, far away from here until you reach Frufoo. Until you reach your little brother. “Your features are just unique enough to last you, and you’re still very able now, physically. You aren’t starved yet. And you certainly seem at least average in strength.”

He became a vet, you know. Your little brother. He always watched you, starry-eyed, the moment he caught you talking to Frufoo. And your family’s had Frufoo since you were born, right. She’s old. She’s got the same attitude as a grandmother—always scolding you and wrapping her neck around yours in an embrace and giving you little nudges with her nose. Your family’s chosen her for a reason. She’s strong and sturdy and huggable.  

Dependable.

Everyone’s so soft in your family. Oh, your little brother—little Regin—oh, of course he became a vet. A healer. He always cried whenever animals died. Even ants. He stepped on one once, and you had no idea how to comfort him. Frufoo had to step in.

You watched her hug your little brother. Little seven-year-old Otto, staring as his little brother cries with snot dripping down his face while this giant ground dragon gave him a hug with her long neck. And you felt nothing seeing it.

All you had was a stomachache. And this weird thought that Regin shouldn’t be so upset. Ants die all the time. You don’t even notice it. Regin’s probably stepped on so many ants before and didn’t even notice. Because they’re so tiny. And little. And you never notice them either.

You can’t afford a healer now.

Russell Fellow’s finger is wrapped around one of your hair strands. He tugs on it lightly, and you flinch. “You have very soft features,” he says, almost bored. It’s just an observation to him, isn’t it? The same way you’d assess cattle. Yes, this one will survive the winter. Oh, that one needs to be fattened up some more. It’s too skinny. “The suit I gave you isn’t loose on you yet. And—don’t cut your hair. Perhaps you should even grow it out a little bit.”

Your breath catches in your throat. There’s a dog barking outside. O-Otto-san! Otto-san! Otto-san, are you okay? Wasps buzzing, sting, sting, sting, sting. There’s a dog barking outside, and a rat runs past Russell Fellow’s feet, and these shoes are way too tight on you and way too worn to not be a hand-me-down from someone else.

Shut up. All of you, shut up. Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me. I’m already here. You already bought me. What more do you want?

“Do you have any abilities?” Russell Fellow questions. He’s staring right at you. Oh, Od, he’s staring right at you. His hand is on your shoulder and he’s feeling up your arm. Yes, this suit fits you well. Your arm has some lean muscle in it. Not too skinny. Not fat either. Just right. Wrist a bit thin. 

Narrow hips.

“N-No,” Otto whispers. He’s quivering like a leaf. You started wearing green a lot, back when you were a kid. Green’s a nice, agreeable color. A calm color. Everyone likes green. Therefore, everyone will like you. But you’re not allowed to wear green anymore. “No. I—I have no abilities.”

It’s stupid, like a kid going, my Mama told me not to talk to strangers, but your older brother Oslo told you not to tell anyone about your Divine Protection. He said not to use it where anyone can see you. He said not to tell anyone about it. So that you protect both yourself and others, he said. Because people might want to use you for it, he said. 

Promise me? he said.

Both your brothers look like you and your mother. Soft face. Soft hair. Both of your parents have wavy hair. Soft cheeks. You’ve got your father’s curved nose, and Oslo’s got your father’s brown hair. 

“No Divine Protections?” Russell Fellow insists. The cold smile on his face is replaced by a polite one. It’s too perfect. It’s—it’s a perfect merchant’s smile. “Come now, Otto, it’s not as if I’m making you strip.”

I — I promise I won’t tell anyone, nii-san!

Your own face burns.

“No,” you gasp. “No, I have no abilities. Or Divine Protections. L-Like you said—I’m—I’m only average. I have no powers to speak of, other than natural strength.”

Oslo would be so very proud.

“But you have your appearance,” Russell Fellow says flatly. He steps away, brushing his hands along his pant legs like brushing away dirt. “And your… ability. That’s more than many can say, Otto Suwen.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard enough to taste blood.

There’s a dog. It’s gagging outside. You can’t afford that right now.

“You have both your legs. Your arms. Your hands. Every finger, every nail, and all that hair on your head. Both your eyes. Your nose, your ears. Your voice. And,” so he pauses. Looks at you. “Open your mouth.”

The word bursts out of you without your control. “ Why? ”

Russell Fellow’s expression hardens. “I have plenty more workers, Otto. Time is money.”

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. If you’re replaced, you’re dead. You’re going to die. You could’ve been rotting in that cave, all alone, crying, and weeping, with your own disgusting snot dripping down your face, and you could’ve died alone in there because the witch cult captured you, and now you’re only chance to live is this and it’s not really living but since when have you ever had—

You open your mouth.

There’s a split second where you think that Russell Fellow’s going to take his finger and put it in your mouth, searching around until he finally finds what he’s been looking for. He’ll pull your heart right through your throat and sell it into the black market. 

You’re dead on your feet. You’re a dead man walking. Each day, each second is numbered. You’re a number. Hey, here’s number 24749938, staying in this shitty little shed half-way in the forest and taking a piss in the woods the moment the rats and the raccoons and the crickets stop staring at you.

“Close your mouth.”

You follow the order.

“You even have all your teeth. And, given that you used to be a relatively successful merchant, you most likely have all your major organs.”

Your stomach turns inside out and growls between your ribs.

“Do something about your hunger and thirst,” Russell Fellow says, almost teasing. A cold smile spreads along his face again. It’s like his skin’s shifting from facade to facade. “I already gave you shelter and clothing. I’m afraid that you’ll have to pay for the rest.”

The only coins Otto has right now is for his funeral. It’s tucked beside his foot, on the ground. If his body’s ever even found, he’ll be buried in the earth, suffocating under the dirt he’s becoming.

He feels so gross. 

“You must understand. The witch cult requires a large amount of work. Any client does. And you’ll be doing that work. Do you understand?”

The dog’s jumping at the door right now. Its trying to claw it open. 

“I understand, sir,” you say quietly.

Russell Fellow’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Do something about that dog. Then I’ll show you to your first job.” His face smoothes out again in an instant. Like snuffing out the flame of a candle. “A place nearby has a job open now. You have two tasks to do there today.”

The dog’s howling at the door. O-Otto-san! What does he mean?! Why’re you here?!

“Excuse me, sir,” you mumble.

He moves to the side. You go up close to the door, skin crawling, and you hiss, “Be quiet.” Even quieter, you say, “Later.” Shut up. Please don’t kill me.

No! I don’t wanna!

“That dog would be better served as food,” Russell Fellow states coldly. “A pet has no place here.”

Let me at him! He’s — he’s — not fair! 

You’re sick already. You’re going to die, and Otto’s going to be sad about it, even though he knew it from the start, and, Otto thinks—you’re going to die in agony and there’s nothing I can do because I can’t afford it. Sorry, I can’t afford to save you. Sorry, I’ve never been able to afford any friends. 

“It’s not my pet,” you say, trying not to throw up. “Only a stray that was begging at my door all night. I will handle it later.” A pause. “Please show me my tasks for today.”

O-Otto-sa —

You throw up beside your first corpse.

To Regin —

Just yesterday, I sent Mother, Father, and our nii-san a letter. This letter will reach you at around the same time as them, I hope, since our hometown is very far. 

This is the same message they will receive.

Please do not look for me. Don’t send anything to me ever again. You won’t be able to reach me anymore, from the moment you receive this letter. I’ll be fine. I am fine. I’m staying as safe as I can, but I’m now somewhere that you can’t reach. Please don’t worry about me. Don’t look for me. 

Do not get involved.

I love you.

 

Otto Suwen

So here’s one last deal.

You’re in a cave. There’s rope binding his legs and his arms and hands and ankles, and no matter how much he squirms around, he can’t even at least sit up . And he thinks—has my life even amounted to anything? Have I lived my life to the fullest? And he squeezes his eyes shut and he breathes in too fast and he thinks that no, he really hasn’t—

Light, far too bright, flickers in the darkness behind his eyes. Footsteps echoing, slow, purposeful, until he opens his eyes and there’s a torch held up in the darkness and a man standing there staring.

He’s in his thirties, approximately. Golden brown hair swept to the side neatly with hair gel. He’s got a goatee on his chin, and he’s wearing a scarlet suit lined with more golden accents. It looks professional. Almost regal. And then he opens his mouth and says—

“What’s your name?” 

He doesn’t say it like a question. 

Otto grits his teeth, but he cranes his neck to look up at that man. You know who he is. Any merchant would know. “You’re Russell Fellow,” Otto says, voice hoarse. “The treasurer of the merchant guild.” 

So Russell Fellow is involved with the witch cult. He has to be. Why else would he be able to casually walk into a cave where you’re all wrapped up by the witch cult after being kidnapped by them? No, the witch cult had to know, wouldn’t they? Russell Fellow looks entirely unharmed. 

He looks confident. And he is, as he says, “So you do know who I am.” He pauses. His hands are folded neatly behind his back. His posture is perfect. “Well,” he says, expectantly, with all the air of someone used to having their way eventually, “Tell me your name.”

“No,” you choke out. Let me out of here. Let me out of here, spare me, please don’t do this to me.

“You must understand,” Russell Fellow says, lip curling, “that you have two choices. Either you work with me and learn to follow orders, or you stay here and die. Whether that is from rotting in here or from being sacrificed to some higher power is not up to me. Do you understand now?”

No. This is unfair. Yes, you understand, because this isn’t fair. All your life’s led up to this and you can’t look at him. You look at the cave walls, the ground, the rope tied all around yourself, the torch in his hand and the illusion of the flame almost drawing near the side of his face, and you stammer, “Otto Suwen.”

You can hear the amusement in his voice like a cat playing with its food. “So you’ve made your choice.”

Yes. You have.

“Frufoo, I’m telling you to run. ” 

Young master —

“Frufoo!” Otto snaps. He’s shaking and trembling so hard that it’s like he’s going to break into halves. His voice cracks. “Frufoo, please just run! As far away as you can!”

He’s untying the lead and the bridle from the carriage as fast as possible. His fingers fumble for it clumsily and his heartbeat pounds so loud in his ears to the point where he wonders if he’s going to die here right here, right now, and Frufoo’s still breathing, Frufoo’s a perfectly healthy ground dragon and her scales are the same light green that’s laced into his clothing but she could die right now or she could die later—  

They’re stuck in the middle of the forest. There’s just oil jug after oil jug stored in the carriage, and their food and water supply, but it’s all gonna be useless because—because there’s noises in the near distance—walking and running and a mass of rustling pages and the moon is high in the sky and oh, you fucked up, you fucked up because you thought you’d get a quick paycheck if you hurry to this job offer you heard past the woods of this forest, but you’re stuck. They’re here. They’re coming. 

You’ve heard of the witch cult.

“Frufoo,” Otto hisses, in ground dragon this time, “You need to go. Please. Listen to me. They likely won’t care so much about you, you just need to leave.”

Frufoo whimpers as he finally removes the bridle and lead and handle and shoves it under a loose panel in the carriage floor. Y-Young master, I can’t leave you—

And Frufoo’s body is so much bigger than he is, but Otto shoves at it anyway. “Go,” he stammers. “Go, please, go. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.”

You fucked up. It’s all your fault. Frufoo’s shaking with this awful noise coming out of her mouth and there’s no tears because ground dragons can’t cry, but she’s doing the equivalent of crying right now and she’s going to die. You don’t tell her that, but she knows there’s a good chance she’s going to die. 

She bumps her nose on your forehead and quietly says, I love you, before she runs away into the forest. And you watch her leave. You say I love you back. You watch her until she disappears, until cloaked figures appear all around you and knock you out.

You never see what happens to Frufoo. You never see her ever again.

Otto opens his eyes, and he’s lying on the floor of a cave. 

It’s so cold.

 

And of course, it’s not the same in that world where the title of Pride is empty, where there is no half-elf Royal Candidate because she never had the chance to debut, where there is no witch cult activity because there is no half-elf Royal Candidate to lure them out, but—the story falls into the same direction.

Otto Suwen becomes a debt slave owned by Russell Fellow, and the world is so cold.  

It happens more simply than being trapped in a cave.

Otto’s sitting in a bar. It’s not the first bar he’s been in. It’s not the last. It’s not the worst time he’s been in one either—he’s not crying, or puking, or getting kicked out or beat up or what have you. 

There’s drool at the corner of his mouth when a hand suddenly reaches out and gently shakes him awake. Otto startles. Jumps up, stammers a bit, wipes away that bit of drool with his sleeve, and turns to the person sitting next to him on the bar stools.

A man with golden brown hair and a red and gold suit. He opens his mouth to say, “Are you alright?”

Otto nods and runs a hand through his hair. “Y-Yes, yes,” he stutters. “Just fine.” And he turns away a bit, if only because—the treasurer of Lugunica’s merchant guild? What are the odds that Otto, some random merchant who recently went into debt, would run across Russell Fellow today? 

“I heard you asking around for jobs earlier while I was on my way home,” Russell Fellow says with a small, friendly smile. There’s the hint of something more, something darker underneath it with the lack of emotion in his gaze, but Otto turns back again and stares and breathes in because oh. Finally. A job that he can do. A way to pay off his debt. And Russell Fellow’s smile widens as if he’s hearing every thought in Otto’s mind. “I know you must recognize me, since you’re a merchant yourself.”

What good of a merchant are you if you make such rash decisions and end up like this? But—Otto ducks his head sheepishly. “Of course, sir,” he says, and inside he’s begging for something. Anything. He just wants to be bigger than he is. He’ll be satisfied with just enough to go on and live and make some kind of difference outside of these walls, outside of being that fifteen-year-old that was kicked to the pavement and shoved out of the town he was born and raised in.

“Well,” Russell Fellow says, leaning in a bit. “I’d gladly hire you to do tasks for me. And eventually, I guarantee you’ll be able to have the money you need.” He chuckles. “Whatever you need it for, that is.” He waves a hand at the bartender. “I’d like to buy a drink for me and the young man beside me, please.”

Otto startles. “A-Ah, sir—that’s really not necessary,” he squeaks, but the bartender goes and puts a glass in front of Otto and Russell Fellow.

“But you need the money, don’t you?” Russell Fellow asks curiously. He takes a small sip at his glass. “What do you need it for?”

Surely someone like Russell Fellow must’ve seen cases like this before, you think, but you reply anyway, “I just… really need it, sir.” Please hire me. Please. I need to be able to afford food once my current stock runs out, and I can’t survive on just edible flowers. The water supply’s dwindling. 

“Did you make a mistake in your finances?” Russell Fellows asks. He watches you as your face turns pink, and he laughs. “Oh, not to worry. You could work for me as long as you need. I’d provide you with housing and clothing, but the rest is up to you. If you so desire it.” He raises the glass to his lips again and looks away. “But I’m certain there’s plenty of others that could give you a quick paycheck or two right at this very moment.”

But it wouldn’t be sustainable.

With your luck, this is basically a blessing in disguise. Someone willing to hire you would give a consistent source of income and provide as much as housing and clothing—it’d be just enough. And—you know of corruption in the industry, but you desperately need the money. Beggars can’t afford to be choosers, and Russell Fellow is a well-known figure within merchant circles. 

You take a sip from the glass in front of you. And then another. Russell Fellow eyes you carefully as you go, “Then… I’ll take your offer, sir. Thank you.”

Russell Fellow lowers his glass. And he smiles. “Good. Come with me, and you can start soon.”

The first time hurts the most. You’re scrambling to put your arm through each sleeve of your blazer, you’re hastily buttoning up the front of it with shaking hands, you throw up in the sink and you rush outside of that awful bedroom and you’ve cleaned up that previous prostitute’s corpse, and—and—you had your second task of the day, you did it, you did what they all wanted, and your debt’s only increased because of the housing and clothing costs and then the money is never enough . You could fall through the other side of the world and cascade past the Great Waterfall itself before you ever pay off your debt.

So you run to Frufoo, and you say, “Frufoo, I’m telling you to run. ”

Don’t take her away. You’ve already taken enough. Don’t make me sell her too.

So she runs away. There’s no closure. That much is the same.

Otto’s sitting in a bar. It’s not the first bar he’s been in. It’s not the last. It’s not the worst time he’s been in one either—he’s not crying, or puking, or getting kicked out or beat up or what have you.

You get a nice burn from alcohol without actually burning, but you’re not even remotely drunk this time. 

Otto just orders a drink—not too strong, not too light, something that’ll give a hit and a buzz without making Frufoo annoyed at him for getting tipsy when they’re already ambushed by bandits on the road every other week—and the bartender’s cleaning another glass with a rag when he says, “Hey, kid, you’re a merchant, ain’tcha?”

So Otto nods and tips back his cup.

The bartender was someone he finally managed to sell some metal wares to. The man apparently just needed some extremely specific parts. 

That’s the first time you’ve sold those stupid wares since you got them weeks and weeks and weeks ago. They were supposed to be successful in the market, but then they stopped being popular. They stopped being useful to almost everyone. People move on to the newest thing. The newest inventions. 

“You’re having trouble sellin’ that metal, aren’t ya?” the bartender says. “Well, I heard oil sells a ton up north in Gusteko. Gonna be mighty cold this year.”

It takes time to realize that a choice you made was a mistake. It takes even more time to realize that you’ve made a life-altering one.

“Really?” Otto asks.

“Really.”

So Otto thinks about it for a while. And then he trades in all his metal for oil, hurries to the border between Lugunica and Gusteko—

And the guards at the border say that it’s closed. That the diplomatic relations between Lugunica and Gusteko recently collapsed. And it turns out—Lugunicans don’t need or want that oil. It’s worth nothing.

The metal wares become profitable again. 

(Four years of being a merchant, and the thing you remember the most is the year you spent with Russell Fellow and Natsuki Subaru. 

That’s the thing about chains, isn’t it?)

 

Maybe this was just an unorthodox way to become a merchant, he muses, as he picks up the merchant attire his father set out for him.

He puts on the tunic. The cloak. Ties the red ribbon at the front of the cloak. Red has always been his favorite color—eye-catching. Bold. Bright. But it’s always green that balances it out.

His father pulled some strings, so now he’s been hired to work at the merchant company of an acquaintance of his. 

Frufoo’s waiting for him outside too, waiting for him to start on his way to live as a traveling merchant. His carriage has already been prepared for him, on top of that. The only thing left to do is—

Otto places the hat on his head. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he audibly and visibly gulps down his own nerves, but he really does look the part, doesn’t he? 

Like a merchant. A real merchant. He looks like his father, and his father’s father, and all his ancestors after that. He’s going to leave home, and he’s going to be truly independent. This would’ve happened sooner or later. That’s what he’s always wanted to do, even if this is… more out of the norm.

This outfit is a family heirloom. His grandfather wore something similar, didn’t he?

It’s snowing outside when he walks out to see his family waiting for him beside the carriage.

Otto’s heart skips a beat. He swallows, and then he gives them a shaky smile. “I can do this,” he promises. He bows profusely. “I—I won’t let you down!”

His father chuckles and pats him on the back, his eyes shining with tears. His brothers rush forward to hug him one last time, while his mother steps towards him and offers him a bittersweet smile of her own. 

“We’re already proud of you, Otto,” she whispers. “You’ve done your best, and we wish you good fortune.”

Otto’s face crumples, then. And his face crumples even further as he says his final goodbyes, but he doesn’t let his expression truly fall until he’s well out of town. 

With the cold wind rushing along his cheeks, the sound of crunching footsteps in the snow and his shuddering carriage, he takes in a deep breath. 

Then another.

This is a new beginning, and a path that he’s both excited and nervous to see until the end. He doesn’t want to let go of the one chance he has. He can’t let go of it, not when it’s finally here, in the form of this new attire he wears. It’s in the form of this carriage as well, along with the sight of his hometown fading away in the distance.

That town never liked him anyway.

You’re just fifteen, nearly sixteen, when your mother reaches out to cup your face and the bruises forming along your eye and cheeks and asks, voice hoarse, “Otto, what’s happened now?”

Behind her is your father. His hand rests on her shoulder and he looks stricken. Behind your father is Oslo—hurrying in with Regin as the two of them are holding a first aid kit.

And behind them is the window in their house. The curtains are fully closed, but you can still hear the flashing lights outside. You can still hear every bug every dog every cat every bird every—

You hear the assassins outside say, Find him. So long as he’s inside city limits, you kill him. Understood?

“The mayor,” you say. There’s that emptiness inside you again. You’re so tired. Oslo hands you an ice pack, but you don’t put it to your face. “His daughter doesn’t like me.” That always happens anyway.

Your mother puts a hand over her mouth. She was always so sensitive. You can’t tell if she’s reacting to you or the assassins outside.

Oslo tries, “Mother—Father—“ 

Your father nods. “Y-Yes, Oslo.” He looks devastated . It’d break your heart if you weren’t so cold. “Otto, you must start packing now. I… I will be able to convince them to give you enough time to leave, and I will—I can have you hired right away so long as I use my connections.” He kneels down until he’s eye level with you, and there are tears in his eyes. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you say. So much of your family’s been merchants for generations. You’ve been trained for this. It’s better if you leave them.

Your mother hugs you and shakes like she’s trying not to weep.

They’ll get over it soon, you think. Regin hides behind Oslo and Oslo takes the ice pack back and presses it to your face until the cold burns. Your father, meanwhile, grabs his coat and runs off into the night.

Your mother takes your hand, squeezes it reassuringly, and says, “Come now, Otto. Let us get some rest.”

Alright. One last time. 

But first, Otto’s lingering around the corners of a birthday party. When the most powerful figure in town has a daughter, and said daughter throws a birthday party and invites everyone in town, you can’t exactly say no.

No one’s been noticing Otto for a while. So surely, he thinks, drinking juice out of a glass with his back pressed against the wall, no one will notice him now.

Freak.

And it is okay, at first. The party isn’t anything spectacular—Otto’s never been one for parties. He’s always preferred being with a close, tight-knit group of friends over such large gatherings. Unless said close, tight-knit group was large in size, of course. 

He eyes the group chatting and laughing together near him. One of them is laughing so hard she leans on her grinning friend.

Oh.

Otto sighs heavily. He puts down his cup, turns around and—jeez, why isn’t there a clock in this room—asks the lady nearest to him, “Do you… happen to know the time, by any chance?”

That’s when the door slams open. 

It echoes throughout the room, near deafening everything else. All eyes are on the entrance now, and the intruder at the door screams his lungs out—“She was with another fucking man, wasn’t she?”

Beside Otto, the girl gives a loud gasp.

A fist grabs Otto by his tunic, dragging him away as he kicks and shouts out. All those eyes turn on the two of them, as the boy—just barely older than Otto—pulls him through the door and throws him into the cold, biting snow.

All eyes are on you. But no one else helps.

And almost the entire town was at that party. 

You crumple to the ground, head spinning and hands shaking and half-curled into fists. Why, what’s happening, why is his bad luck acting up again, what did you even do to deserve this—

The boy lifts you up and spits in your face, “Admit it, I know you were with my girlfriend, you little son of a bitch!”

You cry out, “W-wait —” 

“Shut up!” the boy snarls. “I don’t want to hear it, just stay away from my girlfriend, you freak!”

And he drops you into the snow with one last punch to the face.

Shaking, trembling, you wipe away the leftover spit on your sleeve. 

Freak. Freak. Otto thought that it’s been long enough already, but the word brings out this visceral reaction in him—this ugly sort of anger rises in him alongside frustration, and… it wasn’t fair, then, when he first ruined his reputation and really crushed it to bits.

All he wanted was to not let his little brother down. He really wasn’t asking for much. Just a friend, maybe, if he can manage it, if they like him back a lot, and having less uncomfortable stares directed at him would be nice. 

And he certainly didn’t ask for his Divine Protection either, but he’s familiar with it, he’s comfortable with it, even after all the humiliation that’s come as a result. 

And you have a plan. 

So after the boy drops him and storms off, Otto immediately scrambles to his feet and unseals his Divine Protection. 

This is stupid. This is really, incredibly stupid and just about the pettiest thing Otto’s ever done. But he’s sick and tired of it all, right now, right in this exact moment, and he wants to prove them wrong. It’s not his fault some girl cheated, like it’s not his fault that he can speak to animals. 

And Otto speaks to them, to all these various animals, for the first time in a long time. 

He sealed his Divine Protection, of course, right after the… insect fiasco. Back then, he vowed to never use it again. To keep his family and himself safe, but also because… well... 

Otto was embarrassed. Ashamed. Everywhere he went, people pointed at him and laughed. Oh, the boy who sent in a whole swarm of bugs here. Oh, that Suwen child who’s off in his own little world. Oh, what will his family ever do with him? Always making trouble. Their business will fail because of him. Is he going to summon another swarm? Trample all our crops and disturb the whole town again?

Everyone would be better off if he was gone.

No, you’re completely and utterly done. So done, in fact, that you ask around in various animal tongues: “Have you seen her with any other man? Has she truly cheated on her boyfriend?”

No, see here!

This way, way!

I saw her, with with—

Seven of them! There were seven!

I saw that too! 

Seven men. You just barely hold back from punching the wall in frustration. You spend all that time just finding information that the birthday party ends. 

And you go back to them. That couple. They’re near the gates outside the building the party was held in, and they’ve apparently made up because they’re very, very close to each other looking a lot less upset. 

It isn’t fair. All you did was just ask for the time, and this bastard just comes to beat you up when his rich girlfriend is just as guilty as he is.

They don’t even notice you storming up to them until you jab your finger in their direction and yell, “I know the truth! You’re the eighth guy she’s been with!”

A fist collides against your cheek again . And suddenly you’re on the ground, coughing up blood and saliva, hands sinking into the snow, clothing wet with red droplets, one after the other, ears ringing as that girl cries out, “You jerk! I’ll have you killed for this!”

She’s barely older than you are, too. Her boyfriend steps forward and kicks you in the stomach, too, for good measure while she runs off past the gate and into the building.

You can hear her hysterical screams coming from inside practically bursting his eardrums:

“Father! Father! I want this boy dead right now! Look what he did to me!”

You lay in the cold snow as someone’s foot smashes into your stomach again. You’re really, really stupid, aren’t you?

Dear diary—no one really believes in you.

You run for home with your tail between your legs, and the girl and her boyfriend watch you with dark eyes the whole way back.

Regin’s hand closes around his wrist, and he’s pulled away from the stables and into the crowded streets. Panting, gasping for air, he stumbles as he’s struggling to keep up, struggling to breathe, and—

Otto yelps, “Regin, nii-san made me promise that I wouldn’t use my Divine Protection in public!”

Oslo said it’d be dangerous. That people wouldn’t like it. Which is odd because aren’t Divine Protections blessings given by the world? Why wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing? Why, when this is what Otto has been used to? When he’s lived like this his whole life? 

“Your power is so cool though,” Regin whines. “You have a Divine Protection! A Divine Protection. You even talked to Furufu! I saw you! You went all—” He makes several disgruntled, highly inaccurate ground dragon noises. “—and you talked with Frufoo! I saw!”

Wheezing, Otto can only stagger after Regin and that iron grip on his wrist, and squeak, “Nii-san said no!”

This power only helps himself. Animals don’t listen to other people in the exact same way unless they have a Divine Protection too. 

Regin makes a loud, annoyed sound, not unlike how a small dog would growl. He pulls Otto along further, and further, until they come to an abrupt stop before a group of children Regin’s age.

Whipping around towards Otto, Regin clasps his hands together as if in prayer, suddenly breaking out into begging: “Please! Pretty please! Do your thing, like you did with Frufoo!”

When Otto closes his eyes, he sees Oslo, crouching down to put his hands on Otto’s shoulders. 

S-so… so if I don’t tell anyone about it, I’ll protect you all! R-right?  

That’s… that’s right, Otto. Stay safe, okay? We don’t want you to get hurt either.

But Regin’s already begun gushing about how his big brother can talk to animals— “My nii-san talked to our family’s ground dragon! They had whole conversations! It’s super, super neat! He can prove it!”

Regin grins wide, his face as bright as the sun above them. “Right?” he exclaims. He turns to Otto expectantly, and... he’s triumphant. Proud, even. “You can do it, right, nii-san?”

No. You can’t. You can’t just let down your other brother while risking everything for the brother in front of you.

But Regin is looking at him now, and Otto doesn’t want to let Regin down either. Maybe… maybe this will be fine. You can just call in one bug and call it a day. 

So he takes in a shaking breath, and when he exhales, his words melt into the calling of an insect instead. 

The others’ faces morph into confusion first, and then horror, because—

A writhing, buzzing swarm descends from the sky in a mass of tangled wings and antennae. As they rapidly move into the streets, they burst through into the marketplace and crash into people screaming their lungs out. 

The insects scream too— Call, call, we were called? Why? Need something, need? Why called? 

No. Oh, you called too much. You—you got anxious, and you messed up, and now there’s too many insects here.

But somehow, over the sound of the roaring chaos and distant screams, they’re so, so easy to ignore. They’re easy to ignore when another boy nearby spits, his expression contorted in disgust— “You’re such a freak!”

That power is… something, alright. Well, just… don’t use it where anyone can see you, okay? 

“You zodda-bug freak! ”

S-so… so don’t tell anyone about it?

That’s… that’s right, Otto.

Now, Regin doesn’t look at Otto with pride. He looks at Otto with… with the slightest disappointment, with sadness , as he grabs Otto’s hand and scrambles away with him in tow. And Otto’s just left a gaping, stuttering mess, his face burning and his legs threatening to give out from underneath him, as he realizes that—

Bugs are pathetic creatures that sound every bit as disturbing as they look, aren’t they? 

His Divine Protection isn’t pretty, Otto knows. But it’s his .

He’s in hell again. He can turn the noise of animals on and off like a switch, but he can’t do the same for all the people around him—he’s easily forgettable until he makes a fool out of himself. 

They look at him with that same disgust .

But the worst part will always be Oslo’s face falling as Regin cries and tugs on Oslo’s hand, stammering, “Nii-san, I’m sorry, I made him do it, I made him do it, it’s not his fault!”

Otto shakes his head and gently moves Regin aside by the shoulder. “N-No, nii-san,” he stutters, “Please don’t punish Regin! I couldn’t—I promised you I wouldn’t use my power in public and then I didn’t keep it!” He ducks his head in shame. “I’ll—I’ll seal my Divine Protection, I’ll never ever use it again!”

Regin is only ten years old.

You’re only twelve.

Oslo gives a heavy sigh. Then he reaches forward to wrap both of them in a hug. “Everything is going to be alright,” he says, smiling sadly. “That’s our new promise. I’ll—I’ll just tell Mother and Father, and everything will be alright.”

Regin sniffs. “Really?” He turns, and in a blink, he’s thrown his arms around Otto too. “We’ll help you! We’ll help you, we’ll help you!”

At first, Otto hesitates. And then he grasps both of them back, whispering, “Thank you.” His eyes sting now, and they sting later, when he does what he promised he’d do—

He seals away his Divine Protection, blocking it off to the point of complete silence. Oslo’s hands rested gently on his shoulders, and Regin had given him another hug and some encouragement before he went off to bed, but…

The silence makes him almost lonely.

There’s a fate that any good parent never wants to see happen, and it’s your child dying well before you.

In another life, in another time, the capital of Lugunica burst into flames. It wasn’t that hard, really, with the amount of wood used in its buildings and the fact that the buildings were all close enough together. 

And the fact that whoever caused it wanted it to happen so badly that it was willed into existence. 

So that fire kept devouring. And devouring. It spread fast until that entire place became a charred wasteland. 

There were so many dead. Either half-burnt, if you were lucky, or fully ash, if you want to consider that luckier. The corpse that people really focused on the most was the rumored Sin Archbishop of Pride—pierced through the chest with icicles by the new crowned ruler of Lugunica. 

Everyone else paled in comparison.

The Suwens stand in the forest in their hometown of Picouttate, behind their house and near the stables. This was Otto’s favorite spot. Oh, this spot right under this specific tree where the light poured through all the little holes of space between leaves and branches and wood.

Oh, look here. There’s this specific blank space in the stables where Frufoo used to stay, and Otto would sneak out everyday to visit. 

Disasters feel different when it happens to someone you care about. You forget, when you hear the bad news—oh, this swept through the entire country and massacred hundreds of people? How unfortunate. 

See, Otto Suwen was born. He was born underweight. Small and fragile, even for a baby.

Then he left one short, ominous letter at the age of twenty. I have to go somewhere you can’t reach me, I’m sorry, I love you, he said. The three statements you’ll always be haunted by even long after you’re gone.

See, Otto’s smart. He’s always been smart. He learned quickly for someone who started life ten steps behind everyone else. 

But he meant it when he said that he’d be gone. Always the one being left behind—that’s him.

A disaster never feels real until it’s personal.

Either his body’s out rotting somewhere, or he’s turned to ash in the capital, or he’s just… gone so far, far away that for once, the rest of his family will never be able to catch up. 

Now, they’re standing in front of a bunch of piled rocks and a little sign that says:

In loving memory of Otto Suwen.

“Why… why did we make a grave for him now?” Regin demands. He turns to the rest of his family, and it’s funny—he’s the one that’s a splitting image of his brother. It’s the glasses and height that are out of place. “He’s—he’s still out there!”

Framir Suwen kneels in front of their little makeshift grave for Otto and sobs into Mazeran Suwen’s shoulder. Her hands desperately cling onto the front of his black suit as he gently rubs circles into her back.

He’s trembling. Fighting back tears when his son almost never had a single one. 

There’s a single maroon flower lying on the dirt. A single golden butterfly lands on its petals just for one fleeting moment.

“It’s been more than a year, Regin,” Oslo says quietly. “We can’t keep looking forever.”

“B-But—“ Regin’s voice cracks. He sways in place, arms wrapping around himself, before he finally sinks to his knees on the cold, hard ground. The sun’s setting, and it’s turning the sky a violent orange like fire. “How—how can we just give up on him now? We searched for him for that long! How can you give up on him?!”

Oslo stands in front of Otto’s grave in the middle of the backyard that they all grew up in, and he says nothing.

“Nii-san!” Regin cries out.

A cricket chirps in the distance. The marketplace nearby is still buzzing with people, and the stall that Oslo runs has a sign saying, Closed for today, when that sign won’t go down for another month. Ground dragon carriages pass by in the street. People walk and whisper and chat and gossip—oh, the borders to Gusteko are still closed, and I hear that it’s going to rain tomorrow, and oh, my cousin was just engaged today, and so-and-so’s dog recently passed away, oh, that’s very sad, rest in peace, the flower field nearby is quite lovely this time of year, would you like to come with me? 

“He wouldn’t want us to be haunted by him forever,” Oslo says, completely numb, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Dear diary—in another life, in another time, there’s someone dying and there’s someone living and somewhere, somehow, someone has it better than you. 

Otto Suwen sits on a piece of debris with a zodda-bug sitting on his shoulder as the two of them watch Pandemonium fall like a meteor hitting the earth. 

The meteor’s already landed. And in the dust that’s settled—ashes to ashes, dust to dust—you almost want to lay down and never get up again. What’s the point of dressing for a funeral if you never see it through? He’s seen the end for everyone else so many times. 

Otto-san? the zodda-bug tries again. What are you going to do now?

That’s the thousandth time that bug has asked you that. And that’s the—od, you can’t even count, just—animals tend to call you Otto-san the moment they learn your name. It isn’t called the Divine Protection of Soul Language for no reason—why is it that the one power you have has set you back in this world when no one else is exactly the same as you? Why is it that this one power depends on communication when you can’t connect with people? 

Soul language. How sappy. You’ve never hated and loved and wanted anything so much. 

You don’t even bother opening your mouth. You just shrug dismissively, and the zodda-bug flutters up and down along with it.

You should go somewhere, Otto-san! the bug says. For the thousandth time. 

The fighting’s stopped. You can see the Sword Saint, walking out of the still-standing throne room—almost untouched with whatever protection the Purge King placed on it. The throne room still looks the same, like any moment now, he’ll reappear on his throne with the Blue Lightning and that wolf demihuman at his side.

The Sword Saint stares at the ground, and it’s almost like he’s mourning. 

Earlier, a couple knights carried out two corpses—the former (and missing) maid to the Margrave.

And the Purge King himself. 

Oh, did you hear? The maid strangled the Purge King to death. Right over the scars that were on his neck the whole time. And then that half-devil ran in and killed the maid and then ran away! Isn’t it good now that they’re dead? 

They won’t even be missed by anyone. 

Even from a small distance, you can make out the dark, dark spots in the Purge King’s robes where you stabbed him.

You should go somewhere, Otto-san, the bug tries again, and if it were human, it’d be pouting at him right now. 

Go somewhere.

Otto reaches inside his pocket and takes out that half-crushed mana crystal. Crimson. Gold. Etc. Whatever other fancy color names you want to use. Because you thought it’d still be worth something, even if it’s cracked at the edges. 

Maybe it’s enough to start traveling. You have a few coins now too. You could go somewhere. Anywhere. Somewhere better than a shed in the woods.

Maybe you’ll finally get to sleep in a warm, comfortable bed. 

“Why are you still here,” Otto asks the bug on his shoulder. “You don’t benefit from being here.”

The bug chirps out a reply immediately— You look sad! 

Otto scoffs. Sad? You’ve only cried about four times in your life. His nose wrinkles in disgust. “I’m not sad. ”

There’s a lot of things to do now. You need to sell this mana crystal and rob Russell Fellow blind and talk about something other than death and money and food and plans. Fuck, you’re so tired of planning what to do next. How to kill this person, how to deal with corpses, how to make it until tomorrow, how to not break down screaming, how to please authority after authority figure that’s got you on a leash you’re about to choke to death on. 

You made a deal with Anastasia.

So you want to drink clean water. You want to bathe in the most soothing bath of your life, you want to smash every mirror in this country, you want to be able to wear gloves without being reminded of everything that’s ever happened to you.

You seem lonely! the bug chirps.

You saw the way that maid and the Purge King’s corpses looked like. Thin and haggard like street dogs with matted fur, skin sticking to their bones with how starved they were, eyes and faces practically sunken into their skeleton with exhaustion. That’s how deep bitterness goes. 

That girl—there were still raw indents in her wrists from where she was chained to the wall. That’s the thing about chains. 

What about your family?

“I’m not lonely,” you lie.

You don’t know anything anymore. But you want something good. For once . You’re asking for so much, and you want it badly. You want to feel the sun on your face. You want to sleep, and laugh, and cry, and you want to get horribly sick but know that someone will still tuck you into bed and hug you goodnight. 

The bug is flying circles around you now, buzzing, Otto-san! Otto-san! Don’t lie! Bad! 

You want to not be scared of freedom. 

Just go, Otto-san! the bug exclaims. Just go! Go where you want! You want, don’t you? Go! 

You know where you want to go now. But you don’t know if you’ll be wanted back. 

You stand up anyway. You stare at the mana crystal in your palm, tug down on your gloves anxiously, and start walking away. Away from that stupid throne room.

The zodda-bug follows after you anyway, twirling around rapidly— Otto-san! You’re going? 

The thing is, zodda-bug lifespans aren’t long at all. Three days, maximum. You know that the one following you is going to die. 

Otto lets the zodda-bug keep following him anyway. Just for now. It can leave whenever it wants. It’s not like you’re forcing it to follow you.

Where going? the bug asks excitedly.

And you’re nervous. Your nerves are twisted into knots and bursting into butterflies but—

“I’m going to go to my brother’s place,” Otto says quietly. And you don’t have to leave me, he doesn’t add. But it’s there, out in the open. “I haven’t seen him in a long time. It’s a few days of travel from here.”

Maybe you’ll even get to see it before you die.

The zodda-bug spins around in circles and yells, Yay! You’re gonna go see him! 

And for a moment, Otto closes his eyes. His voice comes soft. “Yes,” he says. “Finally.”

There’s a hole in his chest where his heart should be. And there’s tangled-up rage, knotted like tied rope, screaming about how unfair any of this is. Why did he make so many mistakes to the point of it leading him here? Why did he have to make so many problems for everyone who’s ever cared about him? 

…just… just fix it. It’s going to be alright, maybe, for once. He doesn’t want to end up dragged out by knights from the ruins of his own bitterness. 

Otto keeps walking away from the wreckage of it all.

His family can stop mourning him now, at least. That time is gone. It’s dead and gone and over with and if only they could stop remembering him. If only. You hate it and you want it so badly that you hate it even more.

You just want to find home again.

Any Otto in any timeline starts life the same way, right? 

It takes five years after his birth for him to learn how to write. 

The quill feels clumsy in his fingers, and he can barely register the faint scratching of the tip dragging across paper. Through all this haze, he can pick out chirping from outside the window, quiet murmuring underneath his dangling feet, incoherent screeches from somewhere in the sky perhaps, and…

Oslo brightens. His lips move, but you don’t know what he’s saying.

Blinking, Otto follows Oslo’s eyes down to the paper.

Thank you for everything, says his messy handwriting. 

It’s just gratitude. That’s all. You're supposed to thank people, right? Especially for those who gave you life, and who still stay, no matter how distant you are.

Not that Otto blames his family. They’re all so nice. Even though he’s such a blank slate. Even though he doesn’t even bother protesting as Oslo takes him by the hand, the paper in tow, with a breathless smile stretched across his face.

He places the paper back in Otto’s hands, before darting off to drag out their parents and Regin.

It leaves Otto standing in the middle of the room, clutching the paper to his chest as he wonders just how much four little words would mean to them. 

It’s only words, right? How would that even compare to the lack of noise they’re all so used to, anyway? 

How would that compare to feeling?

But when his parents come rushing in, when Regin and Oslo stand off to the side expectantly, Otto’s suddenly overwhelmed. Just a bit, in a way that he’s never been before.

It eases as soon as his parents crouch down, their hands hovering around him as they read the words thank you for everything, and—

Before, all he could hear, all he could comprehend, was just the steady beat of his heart—and if he brought his hand to his chest, he could feel it too. Steady, tangible, among the constant cacophony of noise, and the one thing he could understand.

Everything has a heartbeat, right? Just like the fact that everything dies someday. 

And even he has a heartbeat, even though everything is always the same, incessant noise, and there’s no reason to care about any of it at all. There’s no reason for anyone to care about him, too, when all he ever will be is just that sound. That stupid, incessant sound, drowning him and any sense of feeling out.

Now, as his parents wrap their arms around them, shaking with their own overjoyed sobs, his face crumples. Contorts. And then a cry breaks free from him, and then another, shrill and frail and new. 

It’s overwhelming.

And as he clings onto them desperately, as he presses his head into his mother’s shoulder and weeps, he can feel their heartbeats, he can feel how steady and real it is over that noise. He can hear his own voice too, crying his lungs out as Oslo beams at him from the doorway with teary eyes, and as his parents smile at him in a way they haven’t in so long.

He didn’t mind before, when everything was the same. When he couldn’t comprehend a single thing. And he doesn’t mind now, when they’ve still stuck by him all this time, so he smiles back because he can. 

Because he wants to, and maybe it’s wobbly and unpracticed, but it feels like home. It feels like living, like being born all over again. Like a fluttering heartbeat, and maybe he’s finally found his heart here.

This is what they call love, isn’t it?

Notes:

heya heya thank you for reading!! :DD

so technically this fic's been more than a year in the making - i made the original version for a fic contest on a rezero discord server. afterwards, i planned to rewrite it for a veryyy long time and then never got to it until reactionist had another contest - the theme was hurt/comfort (with any amount of hurt and comfort you want) and i thought it was the perfect opportunity...

here's some notes if youd like to read:
- otto's ground dragon's name is iirc fluffle in the official english translation of the light novels? which is absolutely adorable and i thought "ok theres no way a little kid Didnt name that ground dragon". that and if you look at her design - she looks so soft yet so strong? a perfect match for a disaster prone little kid.
- maroon has 3 definitions. a brownish crimson color. a firework that makes a loud bang as a signal or warning. and - to leave someone trapped and isolated in an inaccessible place.
- i just think that wrath/pride otto has the personality of a mean wet street cat that honestly just needs food and a bath and cuddles (not that he'll ever admit that last part) (bc he literally is a mean wet street cat)
- the motif about otto having a diary is a reference to rezero break time season two!! theres a lot of otto centric episodes in there called "Otto's Diary" where he basically writes in his diary / are related to that. very interesting episodes to watch imo :o