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There is murmuring all around Damon. In front of him, beside him, in the darkness behind the curtain and the light beyond it.
Discussions carry on within his team, as they do on the other side of the backstage. Damon listens to neither; he's already clarified multiple things with his team, and since Damon has been determined to go second in their order, he'll need to be prepared to make and combat strong arguments. Which means reviewing notes until it's been branded into the side of his skull.
His hands are shaky today. Each card wavers between his fingers, and Damon has to narrow his eyes to keep focus on his notes. He's healed well since… since last year— Eleven months, actually. He would have to check his calender to know for certain, but the days are growing colder, so he assumes it's close to a year.
He's worked hard to get to this particular day. Recuperating was not easy since that game concluded and he was resuscitated through a miracle. The poison he endured left a number on him, but Damon takes pride in his ability to rally under stress. If he didn't die there, then nothing outside can hurt him more. There's nothing real that can hurt him. Not anymore.
The crackle of the intercom makes Damon flinch, his heart thumping as he sits up at attention. The sudden movement makes the teammate beside him jolt in their seat, but they say nothing, and listen intently. He's grateful for that.
Damon recognizes the voice of one of the debate judges, declaring that each team is about to arrive and explaining some miscellaneous information to the audience. On cue, Damon stands, and leads his team to the left to enter the light just a few feet from behind the curtain.
The shadowed figure of the announcer is his first sight, before his eyes adjust to the sight of the crowd. Tall, slender, an elegant host for a historic moment. An explosion of applause strikes him, but Damon weathers the noise and stands proud under the spotlight. The audience has always been meaningless to him, but now it acts as a fresh immersion into his purpose in life. The one thing that continues to give Damon's life meaning; Debate.
Each team member moves to their respective seat. Damon is closest to the front of the stage, staring blankly ahead with his hands in his lap. He continues to turn over the information in his mind as the announcer introduces the topic of today's debate; 'Whether privatized prisons should be legal.' Damon is on the opposing team, so his task is relatively simple. It's a topic too simple for an Ultimate, but Damon has been assured that he needs to slowly work up his skills again. He's inclined to agree. His mind is running slower than usual.
It must have something to do with the fact that his gaze keeps drifting up. Up, and up, past the glittering stage lights and into the walkways above. Shadows shift, too high and obscured for Damon to recognize.
His heart thumps tightly. He tunes it out. It's the adrenaline of being back in his element, that's all.
The announcer continues in a smooth voice, introducing the names of those on each team. The four on the affirmative team, then the four on the opposing, himself included. He looks straight ahead and sits back at attention when his name is called; it is said with praise and excitement, an edge to it that comforts Damon. No one is reminding him of his impending doom. They're only happy that he's back in the public eye after the tragedy he was caught in.
Damon's request for no foreword commending his appearance is followed, thankfully, and they move on to announcing the judges. He has no need to pay attention to that, so back he goes to turning over information. Privatized prisons, the morality of keeping people hostage to line the pockets of those in power. Pathos is easy here, especially as opposition, but there needs to be a logical angle that appeals to those that value it. Covering all of his bases are what matters most in debates, to appeal to the entire crowd relying upon guidance.
The first speaker on his team stands. They do not look down at him for reassurance, as Damon remembers others doing in admiration of the talented man they were working with. They do not sneer, nor give him any time of day at all. However, Damon is not insecure about the amount of attention he's given, so he simply watches their back as they walk up to the podium.
The curtains are red. His eyes draw down to the connected wood boards of the stage's floor. Each step rings out beneath the polite applause of the crowd. One of the floorboards creaks, nearly inaudible. There must be so much empty space beneath here. Right beneath his feet.
His lungs rattle as he sucks in a sharp breath.
Damon forces his gaze up, fixated now upon his teammate. They're talking, a timer in the announcer's hand. He can't see the numbers on it, but it's already been going. For how long? He needs to focus. Privatized prisons, unlike government-owned prisons, have dramatically less sanctions for wrongful treatment of its prisoners… There's far less investigation of potential wrongdoing by prison staff, and major incidents are often covered up or tampered with before being reported by staff, such as…
Such as… when the host and enforcer took pity, and….
The world blurs. Damon blinks. Nothing clears itself. Voices grow more distant. His surroundings crawl away from him, and the lights darken. The curtains are red, dangling with dead weight. The floorboards are heavy beneath him, old and water-stained. Probably are growing mold, he shouldn't stand here long. But there's this noise, so faint he can barely hear it, and if he can finally find it, then maybe—
Another explosion. He shudders and snaps his gaze back up, expecting to see splatters of blood spraying over the walls as Ingrid's body is partially decimated without mercy. But it's just the sound of hands clapping, of people respectfully applauding a solid argument. One that Damon ignored by thinking about stupid things that don't matter.
When they're walking back, Damon catches the slight frown their expression has. Before they sit down, they mouth a simple question; 'Are you okay?'
They know his issues. The team was informed of his continued mental recovery prior to him joining them for this debate. But Damon will not be impeded by it tonight, no matter how loudly the floorboards cry. No matter how bad he must look.
He directs his gaze to the opposition. The announcer allows a moment for the judges to write down their own notes before the debate continues. The first speaker of the affirmative team rises from her seat. Dark hair spills down her shoulders and shimmers in the light, curled at the ends. Damon can still see it floating in his mind's eye, the water rising, spilling over him every few nights, their voices calling out to him…
His fingers shake and curl into his thighs, balling up tight. He needs to calm down, was he always this weak? A chill runs down his back, contrasting the heat flooding his chest and constricting his neck. He did so well when he was trapped in the game with a timer ticking down to his death, He complied with those stupid therapy sessions with brainless people treating what they went through with too much delicacy. No one understands what it's like to see someone vomit their guts out, or drown in alcohol while being overdosed on a cocktail mix of drugs. To see someone explode and have to investigate the scattered remains of their corpse, to see someone burn alive after getting impaled on dozens of small objects. To find someone, beneath the floorboards, after he could have saved him—
His body endures a shudder as the affirmative team's speaker begins her piece. He's slow to turn to pay attention; there's something on the floor that wants him to see it, but he can't look. He doesn't need to. Damon needs to focus on doing what is good for him. The defining outline of his existence from here on, the last dredges of his old life. His purpose. The game cannot take it away from him.
This argument is important. He needs to listen, but as Damon strains his ears to catch every word, his mind remains fuzzy. Her tone rises as she goes on in her argument, injecting emotions into her statements to fight the uneasy topic. It's just what he did in the trials; raising his voice above others, demanding attention. Telling them what he saw, Toshiko's face drenched in tears, running out of the theater. There was a lever for a trapdoor at the center of the stage, and he was… he was standing there, he just happened to be right there.
And she left him beneath the floorboards. Concussed and bleeding out of his skull, he wandered the dark. Searching for another person, begging for someone to help him, bleeding all over his jumper and gold rings slipping off his soaked fingers and Damon found him curled up on the dressing room floor, eyes closed, completely still—
The announcer's voice scratches at his ears. It's too loud, he can't hear. Can't see in these bright lights, the suffocating darkness beyond it could hide anything. He needs to stay, even if he can't breathe, even if they're demanding he come back to the dining hall to hear what Tozu has to say, he can't just leave!
Eyes lock onto him. There's murmurings, a couple claps, but it's clear he's been sitting for too long. He rises from his seat, careful of the shakiness persisting in his legs. His wristband beeps as the poison is injected, but when he looks, nothing's there.
"Damon Maitsu, come to the podium."
A demand rises in a crackling tune, Tozu's lilting tone woven through like razors. But it's fine, because Tozu isn't here. Tozu is a million miles away in some prison, serving his time and having given away details on the cult backing up that stupid game. There's no reason for his heart to stutter, for the watch that got cut off of him ages ago to still burn his wrist.
He rises, and looks around as he begins to take slow, careful strides towards the podium. Chairs, where his teammates and the opposite team sit patiently. The announcer, headset on and kind words of encouragement still ringing in Damon's skull. The judges, waiting the same as the audience for his return to his life. The podium, where he's meant to present his argument. The curtains, the red curtains that he follows backstage, down the stairs, where he's been trapped for hours—
Damon staggers into a few steps, and his legs give out. There's a thud. His roommate's body falls, and he's looking down the trap door. It's just streaks of blood leading away, but Damon can hear him. He's groaning, under the crying floorboards, still gasping in the suffocating dark for someone, anyone, he doesn't want to die alone.
Acid floods Damon's throat, poison floods his veins. A hand, Diana crying over him as he dies, rests on his back. It's warm. Damon's mouth opens, and he gags as thin, watery bile spills to stain his freshly ironed pants. He didn't have the will to iron anything for months, but he did it today. He did it because today was special, because they were alive and everything was fine and now he's all gone—!!
There's cries of alarm, his name on the tongues of strangers. They try to grab and lift him up, but Damon knows better than them, lunging out of their grasps to grasp at the floorboards. He's not going to the trial, he can't move, he needs to help him, he can't keep being an idiot that lets them both die for nothing!
Arms hook under his, dragging Damon away. Through vision drenched in tears, he reaches out, Kai's name spilling from his lips in a hoarse, broken voice. As always, Damon remembers that nothing could save them. There's nothing left to save.
"Will you talk to me now?"
Another sob wracks Damon's frame, stuttering his gasps for air. He can barely make any noise, with his throat sore from several hours of struggling to be soothed into a rational state. Even now, Damon continues to suffer the aftershocks.
"It— It stopped being this bad ages ago."
Wenona's sigh on the other end of the phone is slow and thick with exhaustion. He didn't want her to know about this. But of course she had to stay up in the evening, watching the televised event. Watching him break down crying on stage. "None of us are having a smooth transition back into normal society after the killing game, including you." He hears the roll of her chair against the floor as she presumably stands up from her desk, still stuck at work this late at night. "I still don't understand why you're trying to return to debating, of all things."
A lapse in conversation drags itself through the mud. He's calming down now, taking in precious breath as his sobs lull. It feels undeserved. Like he shouldn't be here to do this.
"… You said you hated debating, Damon."
This stupid conversation again. "I don't hate it." Damon hisses, hunching over the side of his bed. The streets are barely lit outside, his lamp staying on. He can't remember the last time he's turned it off. "It just—"
"You don't see yourself returning to debate, as it is a dead end for your life." She stomps on his attempts to fight her claim and cuts where it hurts. When it's clear he's going to stay quiet, she continues. "That's what you told me after our fourth week in the hospital. We were discussing our futures, and you said that to our faces. What changed?"
He remembers saying that. He also remembers speaking to someone about his job prospects, and found nothing else he had passion for. He still doesn't feel up to anything else; debating has etched itself into Damon's being, his entire life is defined by his ability to argue for what he needs others to believe. His abilities are part of what led to everyone's survival throughout the killing game.
"… It should be easier." He replies, melting into hesitance. It should be, but the idea of getting back on a stage makes his body start to shake again. The poison injected into him at the end of the killing game didn't kill him, but it's left him uncoordinated and ill in ways that still persist almost a year later, after rigorous medical treatment. One of its mercies is that it left his voice intact, and he hoped to take advantage of the second chance he was given.
"You can't throw yourself into the deep end and expect to swim." Wenona huffs with contempt. "It won't be easier without time."
"How much time, Wenona?" He snaps back. "I can't allow myself to be limited by that game forever. None of us can. It's been a year, I've been stagnating for far too long." He hisses without meaning to. Damon takes a second to breathe, then continues slower, without regard for room to reply. He knows Wenona would cut in anyway, as she always did. "I can't sit idle anymore. I want to do… something with my life."
He can feel her stare through the phone, sharpened to a blade's edge. "So your best idea is to walk into a dead end and bash your head against the wall until you stop throwing up on stage?"
Her words sting more than expected. Damon seethes involuntarily, balling up his free hand into a tight fist into the collar of his loose pajamas. "… Sorry." Wenona sighs after she lets the moment linger. "I shouldn't speak in such gruesome terms. But you understand what I'm saying."
Not a question, but a fact. He accepts it without a flick of his tongue. He misses fighting her teasing, when he would offer gifts he could buy with the untold earnings he gained from that stupid pachinko machine. He wonders if she still wears the tree necklace. He knows Kai was wearing the fake piercings.
His lack of response is enough for her. "You did your best, Damon." Wenona tells him, in the same slow, exhausted cadence she held after the third trial. "Now go to bed. We can discuss your future prospects more after rest."
The phone goes silent in his hand. It takes several minutes for him to put the phone down on the nightstand, to roll over onto the bed, and close his eyes. Damon returns to a restless sleep, in a cold, empty bed.