Closed starter for @blyavod
The moment the first burst of bullets hits the concrete wall behind him and the loser out in the open on the street stares back at him for a hot half second before his brain catches up on the piece of concrete lodged in his abdomen, Niragi knows he won’t find him here.
It’s loud. Messy. People screaming, dying, running in fucking circles like live target practice, not stopping at all for anyone, least of all some brat trying to talk them into catching a bullet for him.
Which is good.
Tokyo is huge, but the Spades Arena cuts a big chunk out of the space he has to comb through for him - or some white hoodie, blood-drenched in the dirt. Hopefully not, because that would mean there’s no smart little brain left for him to put a bullet through, watch the lights go out, make him look like the corpse he acts like.
Trouble is, Tokyo really is huge.
It takes Niragi less time to change the bandages every day. He bites down less hard on the bullet he is saving for the brat, still trying to muffle the sounds as much as possible because if he has to hear himself fucking scream again like he did at the hospital when he was tearing his shirt off his body together with his skin, he’d rather shoot himself.
What aren’t really scars yet pull whenever he moves. Pill bottles rattle in his pocket. Enough morphine to kill the brat several times over. Enough to keep him moving, mouth dry, dizzy in the sun, so he sticks to early mornings and late afternoons, huddling away in whatever corner he can find at noon and midnight.
It’s gonna be the last thing he does. Maybe. Probably.
He’s seen people die in games from broken wrists, twisted ankles, a simple cut because they never bothered to keep up their shots back in the real world.
And then there’s him, or whatever shadow he can spot in broken shop windows, the rare mirror that’s still intact somewhere, never looking at it for more than a single breath.
He’s gonna die.
But he’ll do it after Chishiya. On his terms, and not when some self-important shit feels like playing justice with a lighter instead of just throwing himself off the roof like any self-respecting person that hates themselves that fucking much.
So he keeps moving.
Looking.
Squinting through the scope of the rifle, eyeing his visa, dreading the day the number runs down to zero. No energy to waste on clubs. Or spades. No diamonds with his head this foggy from the morphine.
So he ends up at hearts again, in front of thick prison walls and some decorative little iron gate set between round, two-tone towers as if pretty architecture ever made rotting away more pleasant.
At least the inside is honest. Bare walls, grey on grey on grey, easy to hide the dirt. Everything a fucking drag just like the corridor to the registration area.
Niragi hitches the rifle higher on his shoulder before he steps into the room, grabbing the last collar off the table while every eye around him goes straight to the gun.
Works every time.
He glares at the girl in a stupid doll’s dress smiling back at him like that would help her at all, then clicks the collar shut around his neck.
Registration complete.
The screen on the wall comes to life almost immediately.
Difficulty label: Jack of Hearts
Guess the card suit that appears on the back of your collar. However, you may not look at the symbol yourself. The time limit is one hour per round. In the final five minutes, enter your cell and disclose your symbol.
The lights in the hallways leading away from the room light up and it’s the same fucking routine as always: people staring, wide-eyed, sweating already, first at whatever gets revealed, then back at the useless idiot next to them like trust and charity conquer all when it’s just another iteration of the survival of the fittest.
If you do not answer with the correct symbol, it is game over. The collar will explode, and you will die. Additionally, when the time limit reaches zero, the symbol on the collar will reset and change for each round.
And right on cue, the mandatory village idiot starts promoting exactly that – help each other. Hallelujah.
Niragi huffs, one sharp exhale, before he catches on to who the idiot is talking to through the haze.
Short. White. Answering in that voice that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand to attention.
The voice overhead keeps on rambling, but he isn’t listening anymore. Chishiya’s right over there, against the wall, hood up, non-smile in place.
And all Niragi does is stare.