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Shadows shroud the black-clad figure standing over a similarly dressed body, but Keito can easily recognize who he’s stumbled upon — if not due to his stature, shoulders squared with the confidence of a well trained soldier, then due to the shock of red weaved between raven strands upon his head. The purple ribbons laced through eyelets not unlike the ones Keito adorns himself are just another dead giveaway, but something in the commander’s mind refuses to believe what he’s met with. The feeling only grows as he realizes just who Kuro is standing over, a glimpse of auburn braided hair twisting his stomach into knots. His heart feels like it’s plummeting downward at break-neck speed, and if he hadn’t been long accustomed to the sight of the dead, even his own friends, he might’ve been sick right then and there.
He’s finally jolted out of his own shock when Kuro begins to crouch down, fingers twisting in the fabric at the back of Madara’s neck. Preparing to move him, to do lord knows what with the lifeless body at his fingertips, and Keito takes a hasty step forward. Kuro freezes, movements somehow both mechanical and lax as he looks up. It’s evident what the other has done, at least to Keito’s mind, there being no way to play it off as an accident. No attempt is even made as Keito’s mouth opens and closes like a floundering fish. Kuro releases Madara, knees cracking in protest as he straightens up once more.
“Mikejima?” Keito tries, cringing at the lack of emotional control he has over his own voice in this moment.
There’s no response, not that he truly expected one. There’s no logical way that he could convince himself that Madara will just suddenly pop right up, cackling at the look on Keito’s face and the inevitable scolding that would follow. There’s no prank, no stifled grin from Kuro as he pretends that he was dragged into it. The exact opposite, really, Madara eerily quieter than he should ever be.
His eyes don’t leave the body even as Kuro’s footsteps echo through the otherwise silent hall, slowly closing the gap between himself and Keito. Not even as Kuro extends a bloody hand, grasping a shoulder and inevitably staining his uniform — normally, Keito would move away. Exclaim that he has a hard enough time cleaning the immensely inconvenient uniform that Eichi had dreamt up, one that Kuro had made himself, and that soiling it further was bound to consume more precious time from his day.
He doesn’t do any of that, the chill of shock settling into his bones instead. He faintly registers Kuro’s grip tightening, loosening, tightening again — this finally drawing his attention away to look the other in the eyes. He should hit him, he should do so much more than hit him, and he begins to raise an arm to do so when Kuro’s expression briefly falters into one of confusion. Keito’s own hand freezes halfway up from his side at this, intently studying the taller.
“What…what the hell did you do?” He begins, the question barely heard over the alarms that suddenly begin to blare over the ship’s sound system. Kuro’s brow furrows more, as if he’s fighting himself before it smooths over and he meets Keito’s eyes. Almost believably Kuro, for a moment, if it weren’t for the way Keito feels a fist connect with his cheek mere seconds later.
This, finally, shakes him completely from his reverie. Panic claws up his throat instead, a shout of his partner’s name leaving his lips as he puts his fists up to defend his face from further violence. Kuro looks extra menacing bathed in flashing red lights, still wordlessly attempting to land another punch.
Said lights continue to reflect off the frames perched on his nose as Keito strikes back, stiffened arm swinging into the side of Kuro’s head. It doesn’t knock him down as hoped, the man staggering for a brief moment before rushing Keito again. A labored sigh pushes past parted lips as he dodges, circling— this is not a mess he should have to be dealing with.
Is what he wants to think, but his life is unfortunately on the line at this very moment. As well as every other passenger on the ship, a ship that he is largely responsible for, after all. The thought that he failed somewhere, let a man directly under his nose cause harm and destruction sparks a flare within him. Irritation, at himself. Irritation, at Kuro, who would dare to put innocent passengers in his line of sights when he’s meant to protect those weaker than him. It confuses Keito immensely, cogs still turning — why, why, why — as he tries to fathom a good reason for any of this to be occurring, setting his grief aside.
While said irritation can serve as excellent fuel, it may also serve as a distraction. Just enough of one to find himself suddenly swept off his feet with one powerful shot directed to the legs. The world tilts with the action, disorienting fall only stopped by the slightly sickening thud of his head rushing toward and meeting solid ground. A groan leaves him involuntarily, and Kuro’s foot once again connects with his side before he can even think to lift a hand to his head to check the damage. Dark spots dance across his vision when his eyes open once more, just in time to receive another hit while he’s already down.
It may be the lights, or the fact that his brain is bouncing off the walls of his skull, but Kuro’s eyes look almost…unnatural. Different in their darkness, almost dangerously blank rather than the steadfast, immovable calm he has spent years getting accustomed to. Sharing a unit with someone, sharing the right to command others, you tend to notice things most others would not. After all, it’s a heavy burden to share, and they frequently have to entrust their own lives to one another as well.
Unfortunately, Keito seems to notice this oddity a little too late.
Surprised that he’s still conscious, he clings to that last shred of awareness in order to focus on the feeling of blood matting his hair flat against the floor. Praying that, if anything, it’ll ground him just enough to get to his feet. Shaky hands reach up to stop a third incoming kick, succeeding for just a moment before it connects with the side of his face. Everything immediately goes black, Kuro’s furrowed brow the last thing to fill his field of vision as he leans down.
His mind feels carefully blank when he regains consciousness, every ache and sting along his body strangely distant. He recognizes his surroundings in a way, instinctually, but struggles to remember where and what he was doing mere minutes ago. Has it been minutes? Longer? Keito tries to remember, but comes up with nothing but a sharp ache in his head. There’s blood on his hands, but no bodies in sight. Footprints, almost deliberate in nature, lead a crimson path down the hallway. Keito feels that he has to follow, ignoring the way his vision swims and the way his ribs scream in protest as he stands.
His discovery only leads him to a blond man facing the other direction, shoulders bunched as he stands above a body. Both figures make Keito’s mind itch, and then melt away to static as he begins to approach. Pushed along by something he knows not, and the man with the fair hair turns to face him. He watches several things flit across the other man’s face, relief, concern, blue settling on bloodied hands before everything comes to a head — open suspicion.
He’s right to be, with the state Keito is in, even more so as fingers twitch with some distant command. Like he’s meant to lay his hands on this ‘stranger’, distorted flashes of images filling his mind. The stranger — Eichi, his hazy mind suggests — narrows his eyes at the motion.
“Keito?”
His cadence remains soft, fully facing the man he’s called out for now. Hesitant steps are taken forward, and Keito remains glued to his spot, still fighting himself. He glances past Eichi to catch a glimpse of what he had been previously standing over, and the sight fills him with dread. He’s seen it before, he knows he has, but everything melts together into a confusing blob. Part of him swears he witnessed Eichi slay the figure with his own two hands, swears he’s on the right track to revenge. The other part, thinks in splashes of black and red, of nausea and grief. Things that no longer make sense to him in his current state, leaving more and more confusion and frustration.
Inevitably, he lashes out. Eichi’s eyes widen as he advances, taking brisk steps backwards until Keito is knocking him to the ground. Fists balled upon Eichi’s chest, voicing a misdirected echo of his own question toward Kuro earlier.
“What,” a fist raises, comes down, raises once more—
“What did you do to him?!” Knuckles crash into the skin of an already sickly pallor, Eichi’s nose quick to leak droplets of blood that further stain Keito’s hands.
“ Keito!” He spits out, hands doing nothing more than digging fingers into his shoulders. His name is repeated like a mantra, ‘ Keito , Keito’ , different levels of urgency tried over and over as the other loses himself to false memories with each punch.
“Wake up, please!” He nearly begs, and Keito’s heart lurches in his chest for a moment, fist held still over Eichi’s face. Harsh breath dusts over his bruised, bloody visage as they remain suspended in time. Delicate balance just barely clung to, and then upset by the way Eichi raises a gentle hand to Keito’s cheek. He flinches, and his fist comes down once more. Yet, the blond makes no move to reciprocate the violence, a smile etched onto his face. An expression laced with understanding just as much as it reads desperation.
“Fight!”
Punch.
“Back!”
Punch.
Keito’s chest heaves in frustration, fists falling back to Eichi’s chest once more. He doesn’t understand, he can’t remember — why does this guy matter? Why does he look so desperate, why is he still responding with tenderness in his grasp? A second hand frames Keito’s face.
“I refuse.”
Keito freezes, stuck and overwhelmed as his face is tilted downward. His lips tremble with his next question, mind settling as he’s held in place.
“Why?”
Eichi laughs, his grin growing as thumbs stroke a parallel caress over each cheek. Keito almost pulls away, but Eichi holds fast, grip surprisingly strong as he forces the other to continue to look at him.
In a way, it works. It helps. The familiarity that settles over him keeps the static at bay enough for Keito to feel like a human again — but it isn’t quite enough. Eichi seems to realize that as well, movements continuing to soothe as he speaks again.
“I don’t want to hurt you, if I can ever help it.”
His eyes zero in on part of Keito’s neck, smile faltering for a brief moment as he sees it. A tiny speck of hardware, embedded almost seamlessly into the skin. If it weren’t for the rush job that was clearly done to stick him with it, he may have never noticed. Eichi thanks his lucky stars, if they truly do exist, and quickly regains his smile. This time, there’s a plot behind it.
With Keito sufficiently preoccupied with his words, Eichi considers simply yanking the hardware out. The idea is quickly dashed, though, based on the way that every movement makes Keito seem one second closer to slipping again. An idea, admittedly childish, finally comes to him. He’s read enough novels, manga or whatnot to know that this is a long shot. A fantastical trope that, if it doesn’t work, will likely get him killed instead.
There isn’t much of a choice, though. Eichi’s grip tightens as he gently urges Keito closer to his own face. Confusion remains tightly painted upon his face, but that’s no issue. Here goes nothing, Eichi thinks, and swiftly joins their lips.
Keito stiffens under the kiss, confused noise escaping him. It buys just enough time for him to rip the offending hardware straight from Keito’s neck, crushing it with a closed fist that strikes Keito a moment after. He cringes, murmuring an apology that he’ll surely repeat later as Keito falls unconscious once more. Slumping forward as Eichi turns his head to the side, resting for a moment. He’s just about to roll Keito off of him when he hears footsteps begin to draw near, and quickly decides against it. Instead, he unholsters the weapon at his side, loosely placing it in his palm before pretending to have been finished off. Eyes open, wide and falsely unseeing as an unfamiliar face turns the corner with Kuro in tow.
The man grins, vicious and hungry at the sight of his target seemingly disposed of. Eichi continues to let him believe so, that the pair have finished each other off, waiting for him to turn around and finish off the last loose end. The second his back turns with the intent to kill Kuro, Eichi’s grip around his blaster tightens. The man seems to remove the same hardware from Kuro, likely hoping to salvage it, and Eichi takes his chance.
It happens fast, arm raising and pointing the barrel at the back of this stranger, trigger pulled with no hesitation. The body falls to the floor, lying still as Eichi’s blaster clatters to the ground as well, dropped with palpable relief.
Kuro seems to come back to himself in waves, finally fully there as the adrenaline drains itself from Eichi’s body. He offers a smile as the larger man beelines over to him and Keito, immediately helping to roll Keito off of the blond.
“Rest,” Kuro grits out, face forcibly impassive as he scans over the injuries the other two have sustained. Eichi makes no argument, not that he could if he wanted to. His vision is already swimming as it is, and with the mole eliminated, he allows his eyes to close.
Rest, he will.