Chapter Text
Shinya’s fingers trailed lightly over the cold, pale cheek of Shogo Makishima, trembling near imperceptibly.
The world had gone silent, the reverberating ring of the revolver still sounding throughout the field behind the now lone figure standing on the hill at the edge of the hyper oats facility. There were no other distractions, nothing reading in his ears or eyes scanning the possible threat level of others. There was nobody to blame for his actions but himself. He was the only one who could be held accountable for what'd happened here today.
Shinya had fallen to his knees, a sad mockery of what the corpse before him had done not moments before in a sad, pitiful compliance that he wouldn't forget for years to come. Something about it had just seemed so... wrong. A holy spirit falling to the muddy ground, the defiance sapped from those thin shoulders and an air of acceptance that sent chills through Shinya’s bones to think about. The body was soaked in blood now, red staining every part of the dead man.
White stained so easily.
Despite it all, Shinya couldn't help but distantly admire at the delicate features of the dead man. He hadn't been able to resist the thoughts; a sick, shaking part of him wanting to just see what expression the face of evil wore in the cold embrace of death. Another part of him simply hadn’t been able to believe that this had even happened, an impossible reality in an impossible universe.
So Shinya had pulled the body into his arms with an almost reverant care, astutely aware that the remaining members of Division One were still in the very near vicinity. But he felt consumed with the urge to take one last look, obsessed with seeing his handiwork on this pale canvas. It was a single minded drive once the thought had crossed his mind and the lolling dead weight of Makishima’s corpse had looked so unreal-- so out of place lying in the dirt and grass. A sacrilegious image. One that looked every bit like a classical depiction of a defeated angel.
Shinya dragged the body up closer to him to inspect Makishima’s face, brushing the silvery strands of hair aside. A dark smear of blood was left where Shinya's finger tips trailed, although whose blood it was Shinya couldn't quite tell anymore. He was far too focused on the remarkably eery contrast of the dark color upon the hollowed pale skin of the others face. Delicate bones in his cheekbones and forehead, full mouth and a lovely heart-shaped face. It was the tragic death of something not-quite holy, and if it were anyone but Makishima, Shinya would find a pang of remorse in his chest from the sheer otherworldly beauty that'd been snuffed out.
Ripping his hand away Shinya felt the horror bubble up like a sucker punch to the gut. This morbid fascination of the corpse's beauty-- Makishima's beauty-- was a dark path the raven was quite frankly horrified by. The sick wrongfulness of it all sent Shinya's skin prickling down his spine. He was overcome with the urge to both drop the corpse and run, run far away from Japan like his original plan had been-- and also, curiously enough, to stay right here where he was.
He felt as though he'd missed something, lost something terribly important. Like he'd had his eyes closed and just let it slip through his fingers like quick sand. Noting that his breathing was quicker- shorter, Shinya forced himself to inhale deeply before slowly raising a hand to his chest to feel the rapid beating of his heart. He carefully lowered the body back to the ground, a strange feeling pulling and pressing at his chest.
Dark gray eyes were still locked on the fallen man.
The blood was drying, the layer had been thin when Shinya smeared it. It had darkened to a lovely wine color, only to fade out to the pale of Shougo's skin where the smudged mark ended by a closed golden eye. The fingerprint was what had caught his eye. The glaringly obvious shape of a thumb- his thumb- sent a cold shiver down the ex-enforcers spine. His mark on the other. The tangible proof that in the end, Shinya was the one who had prevailed. Licking his wind-chapped lips, Shinya slowly allowed himself to hunch down once more to run his fingers over the cool skin in front of him. It was so smooth. No scars or freckles or tattoos or piercings. Just his thumbprint. Glaringly obvious, like spilled paint on a fresh canvas.
His mark.