Full Rest
It didn’t matter. It hurt so much and it didn’t matter. No matter what you said or what you voted, Shiwa Hirayama was going to die. A bad person? A good? Perhaps they were no worse than the scientists that promoted the game in the first place.
A child, like the rest of you. Unfortunately, like those before them...
It’s time to die.
CULPRIT: SHIWA HIRAYAMA, SHSL HARPIST DESPAIR [♫♫]
A single spotlight shone down on the raised dais of an operating theater. There, under the harsh light like an animal before dissection, was Shiwa, strapped upright to a chair. Across from them, a television screen on a wheeled stand, blank. Snaking over and around them, cuffs and wires, sprouting from fingers, locked around their chest, cutting uncomfortably into them when they breathed out, and a heavy silver collar around their neck, all connected to a second machine on top of the television, displaying several jagged lines in different colors—respiration, perspiration, heart rate. The naked fear on their face as they struggled, wriggling in the restraints and throwing their body from side to side to try and tip the chair, made them seem like a different person—but it was the same person it had always been, too weak to have a chance of escaping, too afraid to think clearly. They even screamed once, not seeming to realize no one was coming to help them, that it was a pointless gesture. As if in response, the screen blinked to life—black background, blue words, like the announcement when they'd first woken up.
Is your name Hirayama Shiwa?
They stared at it, chest still heaving, their inability to take a full breath making their head swim. No further words appeared.
"Yes," they whispered, hesitant, dragging it out.
There was a pause. Calibration complete. Question one: Are you or have you ever been a member of SHSL Despair?
Their eyes widened, head turning desperately from side to side. "I never wanted—"
There was a low tone from the machine, a low buzz from the collar, before a pulse of electricity left them spasming and choking on their own breath and then sagging in their restraints.
Lie detected. Question two: Did you plan the deaths of your fellow classmates and the staff of Shiawase Hospital?
Their voice was more ragged now, but they spoke faster, perhaps hoping their desperation would beat the machine. "They were always going to try to get rid of me, they would have—"
Another buzz from the collar heralded a stronger burst of electricity—if they hadn't been strapped in they would have fallen to the floor.
Do you believe you deserve to be set free?
"I never did anything wrong!" they wailed. Another shock. The smell of burning hair choked the room. Their head was pounding, too heavy to lift. Every part of their body pulsed with pain even after it was over. The screen wheeled closer, demanding attention.
Did you lie to them—all of them—about even the smallest details of yourself?
Did you ever care about any of them?
Did you ever regret anything?
What are you afraid of?
Who are you, really?
They were sobbing now, almost to the point of incoherence, flailing madly with the last of their drained strength. "I don't know I don't know Idon'tknow! I didn't mean to! I did—some of them! I do regret it! Everything, I'm scared of everything! Dying, interrogations, poisoning, omens, other people, anyone knowing anything for real—everything! I don't know!"
There was a moment of silence. Shiwa, exhausted, lifted their heavy head and tear-streaked face to see the screen. The final sentence was still there, blinking accusingly. Did that mean it was over?
Then, before their eyes, the screen cleared, and was replaced with one final message. Lie detected.
"I didn't I didn't don't please don't—"
The only response was a low tone from the machine and a final warning crackle of electricity. Then, as though hit by a bolt of lightning, Shiwa Hirayama spasmed for one final time in their restraints and lay still.