The curtain rises on a relatively small glass box, no more than ten feet in height and width. Tsubame thrashes at the bottom, fighting desperately against the metal shackles on her wrists and ankles. A pained grunt is torn from her throat as the restraints begin digging into her arms, bruising the raw skin underneath. She struggles as if there’s a chance, as if there’s some hope for her, as if love can prevail once more.
Before she can muster up the strength to continue fruitlessly, a stream of water trickles down the top of the box. It’s surprisingly cold, but Tsubame isn’t too worried about that. The rising level of saline water is what unnerves her. Her clothes stick to her frail form, hair matted to the sides of her face, as the fluid continues its climb.
She lifts her head, stretching her neck as far as she can, and starts hyperventilating erratically. The sharp inhales quickly morph into high-pitched whistling noises. Anyone from the coastal regions would recognize it as an ama whistle, though to outsiders… well, it surely looks like she’s distressed. One last breath is drawn before she’s thoroughly submerged.
The liquid soon reaches the brim of its container, and the flow stops almost immediately. The closure is unknown to the diver, though she can tell that her cage is quite full by the unrelenting pressure on her chest. She squints up at the top, her eyes burning, and watches a lid seal off the death trap. Tsubame can’t help but wonder if that’s really it. After all the hellish work she’s been through… Is that it? But she finds herself with no time to further process the thought as a violent shiver wracks her body. Similar to a thermocline, the temperature drops lower and lower.
She tosses about in suppressed fury. No matter what she does, how much she strains, the restraints show no signs of breaking. But she can’t stop trying. She won’t stop trying. She’s made it this far, and this won’t be what stops her. She has to keep going, if only for Sachiko… That much, she’s sure of.
The blonde is so caught up in her efforts that it takes a while to notice the brine icicle forming on the lid. So that was the cause of the declining temperature. Nevertheless, it catches the light above in a hauntingly gorgeous way, the shimmering crystalline and almost breathtaking. She would’ve been in awe if it wasn’t descending towards her feet at an alarming rate. As the materialization of the ice picks up speed, the shroud of bubbles clustered around makes it harder for her to distinguish the end. She can’t see it, but she can surely feel it. Her skin, pale as a sheet from the gelid surroundings, begins numbing.
The icicle’s froth is close enough to mist her feet. She winces, jerking upward against the restraints and biting back the urge to release her breath. Searing pain -- burning, wretched burning -- tears through her feet, up to her ankles, up to her knees. In a desperate attempt to escape, she once more tries kicking against the binds, only to find that the lower portions of her legs are frozen in place.
Powder blue ice creeps further up, securing her thighs and hips in place. Crackling and fizzing fill the liquid void, a discordant tune to lull her to her death. It only gets louder and louder as the torture continues, until she feels like her ears are going to bleed. This isn’t what she wants to hear -- no, no… Violins, piano, flutes, lyrics… She wants a deep breath of a song. She wants to live to hear another gentle note. No screeching, no cracking, no, no, no...
Tsubame gives in to anxiety, her chest caving as she lets loose a distorted scream. The water quiets her forceful yelp, and what the liquid doesn’t stifle, the surrounding glass does. The only sign of the vocal resistance, to the dry viewers, is the fretful expression stretched wide across her once-grinning face.
Before she knows it, her abdomen stills, then her heaving torso and her stiff arms, and then her neck. She wants to break free. She wants to fight against this. But it’s useless. She’s useless. Wide eyes close one final time. Her lungs fill with water, she’s choking, gasping, taking in more, no, no, no, no, no, she has to survive, she has to help the world have hope, she can’t leave her love, the light of her life, the princess of the new world, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no--
One final look stitches itself into her face before she’s completely entombed in blue. Aside from the tightness of the fine line her lips make, she looks like she’s simply resting. Like she’s stuck in a horrific nightmare. How false the perception truly is.
Now, the curtain closes momentarily. Sloshing and squeaking is audible from behind velvet drapes, and the onlookers’ curiosity is satisfied as the scene is revealed once more.
Perched upright atop a marble pedestal is Tsubame. She’s in the same pose as earlier, sans restraints and incorporating an ashen crown laden with pearls. Though one hand is free, clasped around thin air, the other holds a single silver rose that’s coated in freshly spilled blood. In her final form, windblown cape flowing behind her and all, she does look just like what she had aspired to be: the prince to a new world of traditional hope.
But her role is done, drawn to a bitter close by the hands of her wary classmates. Now they must decide if her legacy precedes her or if she takes it to the grave. A legacy of lies, lament, and love, but a legacy through and through.
Tsubame Mizushima, SHSL Ama Diver, has been executed eternally entombed.
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