FOR THEY CANNOT DIE ANYMORE, BECAUSE THEY ARE EQUAL TO ANGELS.

[cccorp]

Today, the canals of Mac Anu flow as gentle as they always do, gondolas drifting lazy through the paths of sunlight cut bright across the water. Shops and vendors line the stonework streets along the waterways, a general murmur of NPCs circulating through their preprogrammed business keeping Mac Anu, as always, feeling maybe a little more alive than a real city.

There is one particular bridge that nearly every player's taken at least once, because it connects to a great many other places of interest, and it's wide enough for easy travel. Besides, with the professions update, they've put a fishing spot on the other side of it. NPCs with fishing rods litter the spot in alternating shifts, their laughter mingling with the calls of shopkeeps advertising cheap prices for some simple plants to get started crafting with, and the clink of forks and plates at a restaurant nearby, its customers singing the chef praises.

Below the bridge, a gondolier passes, humming, his gondola drifting along its circuit through the canals, his tune in rhythm with the passing conversation. As he comes out from under it and sails further away, he glances up at the bridge, as if he were expecting something, and he seems to see it. His gaze remains fixed there until, eventually, the water takes him out of sight again.

Today, you might notice that at the base of this bridge, just before your feet, is a red sort of smear.

A little further down the bridge, about a fourth of the way along it, is a person collapsed on the ground. The red trails to him, fallen forward.

You see upon approaching his hand grasping at his throat at the singularly cut sliced deep into his neck. His one good eye wide and unblinking, he is—among all the laughter and conversation on either side of the bridge; in the shadow of the clock tower, which stands a silent witness, the sun at its back—no longer breathing, his body cool to the touch.

Perhaps this could be considered a kindness: for one who failed, time and time and again, to grasp the desire to live, maybe he found some suggestion of it in his last moments, his hand at his throat, his palm smeared with dried blood, a curious anomaly in the deathless Mac Anu. Fragment had, after all, taught him a great many things. Should he not be grateful for one more, no matter how permanent the lesson?

Mithrun is dead.

Comments

[tinged]

Hien-kun… if we don’t find out, and then this happens again - when we, when we could have done something to help, I-

[ they haven’t struggled for words until they started playing this game. and they struggle now to convey this heavy thing weighing their heart down. twenty-one years of not realizing this was a problem they could have, and now they feel like a child learning to speak. ]

To me, it’s not just about the other players, but if something happened to Hien-kun, too. Or Zelkova-kun.

I only have this one life to make the choices that are right to me, only this lifetime, no matter how short or long, to care. Even if the truth is hard, even if it’s something I might not want to hear.

Does that… does that make sense?

[selfconcept]

[ hien, pointing to himself: me????

Either way, Hien is confused by Hani's admittance. They're trying so hard and all Hien is confused about is how they're concerned about him, even if everyone is involved in the periphery. He never thought of himself as one of... any group, really. He always felt left out, never having a sense of belonging anywhere.

They only have one life, and so does Hien. The difference between them regarding their attitude about it is depressingly obvious.

Nevertheless, he gently puts a hand on their head. A headpat. ]

Yeah. I understand.

[ He hates himself more than anyone, but it still warms his cold, dead heart to see someone like Hani finally putting those feelings into words. ]