Akira and Ann Kurusu travelled the world together. Her modelling career took the pages of the magazines by storm. Nobody was quite sure what her husband did - "a bit of everything" was the answer they most often got. But he never left her side, and their marriage was as sure as anything. They both cried at the altar. Morgana was an adorable ringbearer.
Ryuji Sakamoto busted his ass as a track coach during term time. Every evening, he came back to the little café Haru Okumura ran in the alleys of Tokyo. She gave him peace, he gave her laughter. They watched slasher movies together and wondered about their future.
Makoto Nijima became a detective. She had her wits, a keen sense of justice and a punishing uppercut. It soon became a saying that there wasn't a crime she couldn't solve. She went to her friends wedding, then looked at the photos of them, and of Ryuji and Haru, and cursed her mistakes.
Yusuke Kitagawa made art, made friends. Every time he contacted his old friends, he'd tell them about how he'd been whisked onto some new project in some new country by his girlfriend. He added cooking and music to his repertoire of artistic skills, although writing eluded him. He was happy, although sometimes he missed his childhood exploits.
Futaba Sakura refused to get a desk job. She made her own company. She coded revolutionary privacy apps and database management tools from the upstairs room of LeBlanc, where her father still made curry and coffee. He'd been getting a little slower at it. She didn't like thinking about that.
They were happy. They remembered being heroes fondly, but they could move on.
***
He woke up. He hadn't expected to.
He launched himself upright, hands pawing at his face. Lungs heaved for air, and eyes stared around the room he was in. When that didn't work to convince himself, he stumbled out of bed and looked around. Hotel room, he realised, and made for the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror.
Alive. Older, somehow, but alive.
How?!
A chuckle rose from his throat, bubbled up and out of his mouth. It gouged at him as it turned into wild, elated laughter. He forced himself to stop.
Alive. Somehow. He had to figure out how. The why could come later - some sick game, possibly. Something to torment him for a bit longer before launching him back into the abyss, like a rodent in a maze with a cat waiting at the exit. But he needed clues, signs, portents. Something to ground himself.
He went back to his bed, ignoring the tacky decor of the room. His phone was on the bedside table. He picked it up, and then dropped it again as he saw the date and time.
How long...?
No. Focus. He shook his head and grabbed it again, searching for clues with shaking hands. His email inbox was empty, except for booking confirmations for this hotel and plane tickets to a country he'd never heard of. His bank account wasn't closed - in fact, the numbers involved made him nearly drop his phone again. No calls or texts. The news was full of people and events he didn't recognise and couldn't begin to reconcile.
News.
He thought about it, brow furrowed. It was a gamble. It would only hurt himself. But surely...
He put a name in. The first result made his eyes widen and a bark of laughter spit out of him. Of course. Of course! Even when he was dead, they -
Hang on. What was this? He looked at another article further down, and shook his head. Similar surname, but they couldn't be related. And there was nonsense about a flying city in there. An April Fool's Joke, probably.
He searched the rest of the names, a sick curiosity driving him. Not all of them came back with results, but the ones that did made his stomach churn and his face contort. Of course. They'd lived their lives. They'd found love, become successful. It had been years, and they surely hadn't spent a thought on him. Gone on like nothing had happened, like he'd never existed.
Black hate churned, and he forced it away with a shudder.
Well, this was definitely what he deserved. Coming back to life in a country he didn't know, many years after his death, to be taunted by the success of the people he hated (or tried to, anyway). At least he had money. But he knew from experience that it wouldn't soothe his ills. It hadn't before.
He searched his own name. Nothing came up. He tried again, looking harder. Still nothing. He tried a few other names, and got them - including one that gave him a spike of terrible burning satisfaction that forced him to navigate away. But nothing about him.
Was this really some kind of hell, made just for him? He'd been scrubbed out! Maybe they'd asked for it to be done, the little shits! Clean consciences for all of them! He snarled and made to fling the phone away, and then something caught his eye. His thumb had brushed the home button, and he was looking at the home screen, and all of the apps on there.
Including the bright red and black eye staring at him.
"Oh my," murmured Goro Akechi, and began to laugh.
The Past Bites Back
ZFRP 2021
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