Chapter Text
Sigma was a determined man, and he kept reminding himself of that as he dug through Fyodor's secrets, intent on telling Dazai everything he’d uncovered. His mind stayed busy with his new purpose. At first, he had his doubts about Dazai; in the first ten minutes of the game, the guy did nothing but lounge around, even dragging Sigma to a dance and marveling at how “big the hallways are!” But Dazai had been several steps ahead, seeing what Sigma couldn’t. The man was sharp. Proof of that lay in his clever method of communicating with the outside world. Sigma wondered who Dazai’s accomplice might be—probably someone in the government, someone who knew about the Time-Ability user.
Thinking back on it now, he felt a bit embarrassed for assuming Dazai would be useless. During the entire escape, Dazai had been cleverly using everything around him to tip the odds in his favor—even Sigma, as he realized when facing the Demon. Still, not to jump to conclusions, Dazai might have genuinely wanted to save Sigma from both the Demon and the Clown. After all, there was no way for him to know if the Demon could exploit the flaw in his ability, or if Fyodor held enough information to push Sigma into such a state.
What if it were the other way around, though?
He didn’t have to think twice; his mind was made up the moment he faced Fyodor. Helping Dazai was the right call, and no matter what happened, Dazai would keep his word, Sigma wasn’t going to die.
Processing secrets takes painfully long, and Sigma can’t let that happen.He’s faced situations like this before, blacking out from using his ability, but this time feels different. Now, he’s holding information that could put a stop to Fyodor’s madness. Inside, Sigma is on edge. Dazai needed the intel fast, so he pushed himself back into action, praying the Clown’s poison was nothing more than a bluff. He applied every memorisation tactic he’d used for countless clients at the Casino. Sigma felt a wave of nostalgia thinking about that place, but deep down, he knew he could never call it his home again.
He came across some simple secrets, a few embarrassing ones that Sigma felt second-hand. Others were funny enough to make him chuckle at the thought of them happening to the present-day Fyodor. But most were so disgustingly vile that Sigma had to pause and collect himself.
From a man once revered in high society to a condemned criminal locked away, he stares at his executioner with dread for the pain ahead and disappointment in himself. How many times has he died to make it this far, only to end up back on the ground? He can’t afford to dwell on disappointment. Progress is progress, and he’ll turn this overlooked mistake into a stepping stone for his future plans. He will keep sacrificing himself and others for a world without abilities. All the harm he’s done will be undone once he claims The Book. He will rewrite the world, playing Saint for a God who penned the prologue and let the story unfold with flawed yet beautiful characters.
He heard the lock clang from outside his cell before being dragged out. Large arms wrapped around his thin ones,as he maintained an indifferent expression despite the pain. He’s consumed with self-loathing over his failure, already plotting how to scrub any trace of himself from community chatter and figuring out how to reappear unrecognized for the next 125 years or more. He could easily reduce the guards to mush with his ability, but that would stir up too much chaos, making it nearly impossible to wipe out the rumors about him.
His thoughts are interrupted when the guards release his arms to forcefully tie him to a chair. Ropes digging into his skin, his blood can't flow where it is restricted, his tied limbs slowly turning red to blue. He thought his execution would begin when he could no longer move his arms and legs. How wrong could he be, as ropes wound around his neck, tightening against a vertical plank fixed to the chair. His facade cracks for a moment as his nervous system instinctively panics at the feeling of suffocation, before he forces himself back into his barely composed expression. This is when they begin, right?
This time, he knew it—another brutal end to add to his long list. Skinned alive, mutilated—that was the sentence handed down to him. They called it justice carved into flesh. Just another one, he told himself over and over, watching his executioner pick up one of many blades and move closer; sweat beaded on his skin, betraying the calm facade he wore. He’d died countless times before, but he swore this would be the one he’d never forget.
He felt the sting of his skin splitting, blood seeping through the crack as sweat mingled with it. His eyes widened, screaming would help. Holding back emotions in a moment like this only made things worse. But before he could, another rope wrapped around his mouth, gagging him right after a piece of his cheek was cut. In a strange way, he was grateful; it meant they still saw him as someone important. At least his cries would be muted, saving him a shred of dignity. His executioner turned away, scanning for more blades, clearly unimpressed with the first. Was he expecting a bigger reaction?
Thinking it was a pause in the torture, he shut his eyes and let his head drop, facing the ground, trying to block out the throbbing pain in his right cheek. When he opened them, he saw the bloodied floor and the piece of skin taken from him. It hit him then—the rope in his mouth wasn’t for dignity, but to keep him from vomiting, if there was even anything left to throw up, a precaution his executioner had thought of. The bastard clearly knew his way around a blade, which made him all the more terrifying. Fighting his instincts, he lifted his head and met the executioner’s amused stare.
He let his face be held, watching as the blade slowly rose to trace the side still covered in skin, moving with deliberate care so as not to break the surface. It was mockery—the other clearly enjoying his work, playing with condemned sinners, making them squirm, giving pain he deserved. He considered activating his ability then and there; after all, those who defy him must be judged. But even that, he couldn’t bring himself to do. What he had done is a sin, but does it count if it was God that called him to do it? Saints don't stay pure for long.
A thumb dug into the raw muscle of his face, and the sharp pain jolted him into a desperate fight to stay conscious. It was the same pain that pulled him toward the edge of blacking out, yet somehow kept him standing. He panicked; if not for the ropes binding him, he’d be thrashing, inching forward, trying to reach the man before him. But even if he could, without a clear head, how could he judge if the man’s actions were still justified? Maybe it would be easier to just give in to his body’s instinct—but would his executioner allow it? No. When the blade sank into his other cheek, pain erupted on both sides—one searing, one cutting. He felt the shapes of letters being etched into his skin, spelling out his crimes for the world to see.
Bleeding out in someone else’s grasp was never a pleasant thought for him. That was his last musing before he blacked out from the pain, the final image burned into his mind being his executioner’s gleeful face.
He wondered if applying these memories to himself would make him like Fyodor. Having seen so many helpless people suffer, feeling their pain more deeply than most, he believed he was meant to be their savior.
When he woke, he immediately told the nearest ADA member everything he’d memorized about the Demon. “I’m telling you—please, listen to me—” he urged a woman with purple hair. Yosano Akiko, he recalled. He had memorized each ADA member back then. She looked surprised to see her patient, who’d been in a coma longer than expected, suddenly awake and spilling every detail he knew about Fyodor. Her eyes narrowed as she shifted to a calm yet firm tone. “Calm down, Mr. Sigma...? You’ll wear yourself out trying to tell me everything at once,” she said, pulling out her radio. “Hold on, I’ll bring someone who can handle this information more carefully. Sit tight for now.” She stepped out of the vehicle—was it an ambulance? Sigma hadn’t noticed before—but he did as told, settling back into his bed.
As he takes in his surroundings and organizes his thoughts so the listener—likely Ranpo Edogawa—can follow, his eyes fall on two beds. One is his, and the other? He has no clue. Probably for someone who needs it more than he does. Sigma tries to steady himself; he hadn’t noticed before, but sweat clings to his skin and his heart is racing. He takes slow, deliberate breaths, blowing on his thumb and checking the pulse in his wrist. His head throbs as the adrenaline fades, leaving him achy and drained. Not just his head—his whole body hurts. He realizes then he has no idea how much time has passed between each incident.
He felt relieved that he had listened to the Doctor's advice and sat down; if not, he'd be back in the cold ground. Passed out and left with new injuries to fix.
Sigma tries not to dwell on it, but the guilt is hard to ignore. He can count the times Fyodor manipulated him, yet the memory that stands out most is stabbing Director Taneda to learn the location of a page from The Book. That was the spark that led to the Detective Agency’s downfall. Sure, other members of the Angels played their roles, with Fyodor as the mastermind. But would they have succeeded if he hadn’t obeyed the Demon? Maybe not—Fyodor is relentless, and Nikolai would never let him run. Nikolai had been there too, aiding in his escape and ensuring he couldn’t flee.
If he could turn back time and defy the Decay, would he? No, he wouldn’t. He’s certain of that; his casino means more to him than a few lives. Yet, seeing those same lives help him, the bandages wrapped around his body as proof, leaves him conflicted. Would he truly put his own selfish desires above the Armed Detective Agency?
"Are you sure he knows something important?" a man's voice broke through his thoughts. Ranpo Edogawa. Sigma turned his head toward the sound, and there he was, standing with Yosano. "Dazai told us we could trust this man. He might still be experiencing aftereffects from his coma," Yosano explained to the brown-haired man, also making sure Sigma heard. Sigma appreciated the clarification. "Well?" Ranpo now addressed him directly. "Tell me what you know."