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The overwhelming, brisk scent of peppermint fills Gentaro, making his eyes water and dancing on his tongue like a phantom taste. It’s sharp and sweet, pungent but not unpleasant. Distantly he remembers peppermint as a candy, usually unasked for and a symbol of cheap human courtesy. Now he associates it with adrenaline and dread, creeping in his stomach. The smell is pervasive, which is a blessing, because otherwise all he’d smell is rot. Ramuda gave him a bottle of wintergreen oil a few months back. Everytime they go out, Gentaro puts a dropperful into a face mask, praying that it’s enough. Mint to make him tear up. Mint to cover the smell of sickness that’s settled over Shibuya, and all of Tokyo along with it. Mint to breathe and not throw up, far sweeter than anything else in the hellscape the world’s become. He covers his face and his eyes and his head too, thick gloves over his hands, a heavy jacket to protect his arms. One can’t be too careful or too prepared. One hand grips the handle of a sword, recently and regularly sharpened. He wears a backpack, nearly empty to keep it light and spacious for whatever they might bring back. “Have we tried this one yet?” Ramuda asks, his voice muffled. Gentaro follows his finger to a grey apartment building, the glass door smashed, a slumped-over figure sitting inside. “Shh,” Gentaro cautions. “We did last month. We need to widen our search.”He can’t see Ramuda’s mouth but knows he scowls, hands balled up into fists. Bully Gentaro! How rude of him to keep track of the buildings they’ve searched and be careful not to waste Ramuda’s time. He shouldn’t have bothered, really, because Ramuda will be upset no matter what he says. “We’ve already walked so far,” he whines, gripping the nearest light pole. “I’m so dizzy! I’m dying here!”Gentaro looks down an alley, grateful again for the mint. It keeps him from inhaling the rot, bodies turning to sludge in the streets. Every manner of filth and ruin lines the once-pristine concrete. A city of millions, but that means millions dead. “I’m well aware of your hunger, but you know you’re not the priority.” Gentaro hesitates, watching a shambling figure a block away. His fingers twitch, but he stays still, frozen like a statue. Frozen like another dead body. “With any luck, we’ll be home soon.”But luck isn’t with them. Luck is lying still at home, clutching his stomach and groaning every time someone walks in the room. Luck is starving to death, and because Gentaro and Ramuda feel responsible for him, they’re out searching the dessicated bones of the city for Dice’s next meal. Gentaro barely feels his own hunger and he stays disconnected from his body, ignoring the aches and quiet fatigue. He’d rather be holed up in Ramuda’s apartment too, lying beside Dice, waiting for starvation to take them both. He’d rather Dice be with them, warm and laughing and bright. The streets seem remarkably unforgiving and he has little hope for their errand’s fruition. It’s exhausting to feel like a vulture, day after day, scavenging over what’s already been picked clean. “With any luck!” Ramuda coos. “I want cake. Fluffy, perfect angel’s food cake. Cake with frosting and strawberries, all gorgeous and juicy and red. I’m craving sugar… Gentaro~! Don’t you want some too?”The figure a block away hesitates, twisting its head. They move like loose dolls, strings untightened. Shifting and unmotivated. Gentaro’s not afraid of it. The slow moving monsters are easy to dispel and easier to ignore; it’s the fast ones to look out for. “You’re only making your hunger worse,” Gentaro says. “Be quiet. Have we checked the apartment building up there, tan, on the left?”Ramuda’s eyes narrow behind protective pink-tinted heart-shaped lenses. Brows low. “I think that’s occupied.”Gentaro wishes they could go and ask if they have any food to spare, for one starving man back at their own place. But humans are just as hostile as the monsters. “It’s a quick walk to Shinjuku,” he offers. “Plenty of office building fridges to ransack?” Ramuda keeps an ax at his waist, a heavy weapon to counter what his slender figure won’t give him. Tucked into the waistband of his pants is his hypnosis mic. It’s a useless weapon against the undead and Gentaro can’t quite reason through why Ramuda brings it with him, unless it’s for defense against humans. Between the two of them, with Ramuda’s mic, they could probably take on the isolated groups of survivors. Would they find any more food, or just make more bodies? A couple months out, and the city is empty of food—would they have better luck elsewhere, or is the entirety of Earth just as ruined as Tokyo? When Gentaro suggested leaving for the country, Ramuda discouraged the idea and it was forgotten quickly. They’re stuck in the city, for better or for worse. “Trust me, those were the first to be cleaned out.” Ramuda blinks fast. He follows Gentaro’s gaze to the slow-moving undead, taking uneasy steps in their direction. They don’t try to be quiet during the day. A couple months of regular combat, and they’ve become like a well-oiled machine, using smarts and teamwork where they fall short in strength. “If he makes you so nervous, why don’t you kill him?”“I don’t want to. It’s not really hurting anyone, is it?”“He might. Imagine him chomping into little Dice. Yummy Dice! Chewing down on his fingers like candy, devouring him slowly and painfully~. Every single zombie you leave alone will come back to hurt you, and the only way to prevent it is to kill them all! Come on Gentaro, don’t be a fucking baby!” Ramuda taunts. He pulls down the corner of his facemask to stick his tongue out, leaning forward. “Every one you leave alive makes more work for the division! Be a team player and kill them all, every last one of them, no matter how cute they were in life!”Gentaro sighs. If Ramuda has enough energy to taunt him, he surely can’t be too close to starvation. But Gentaro’s empty and not in the mood to fight, so he grips the handle of his sword. The monster—the zombie—it’s not hurting anything. But it might. Ramuda won’t let it slide. Gentaro cuts down the monster, kicking it to the nearest alley to rot with the rest of its kind and the humans they’ve slain. They halfheartedly fight over which apartment building to try next, settling on one nearly fifteen minutes away from their place. They down every monster they come across, all seven of them, and an eighth lingering by the apartment’s elevator. Bodies pile up with all the others, rotting flesh of a dead city. The elevator doesn’t work, of course. The city’s power went out some four months ago, which would have devastated Fling Posse if not for Ramuda’s little generator. They can’t run it often, and rationing electricity feels like the worst consequence of the apocalypse thus far. Gentaro figured it’d be funny to watch Ramuda’s perfect appearance decay over time, but nothing much has changed. He still looks immaculate. Gentaro misses baths. Hot and lazy, relaxing after a long day, left alone with his thoughts. He loved to break down the events of the day, picking apart and reassembling the people he saw on the streets. All the people he sees now are already disassembled or hostile and offer very little in the way of analysis. They can never heat up enough rainwater to fill a tub. The city offers a nearly infinite amount of the resources they don’t need—clothes, toiletries, shelters. There are monsters everywhere to avoid, congregating in the streets, eating from living bodies, rotting in their places. Gentaro and Ramuda could kill hundreds and there’d be hundreds more still. Survival is scavenging and walking past monsters, working together to protect each other, living creatively. Survival is a challenge but would it honestly be any easier in the country? Opening apartment doors is slow work without keys. Ramuda offers up a courtesy knock before he axes the door, working with Gentaro to kick it open once he’s destroyed it enough. They pick through each apartment, splitting up the tasks to find what they need. “Oh! Their clothes are so gross,” Ramuda laughs. “Gentaro, do you want to see?”“No,” Gentaro mutters. He picks through slender cabinets, but the resident must have cleared it out ahead of time. Or someone else, using their key. Everything in the fridge is disgusting and Gentaro is again grateful for the overwhelming smell of mint to cover the months-rotted leftovers. “Their bathroom is filthy.” Ramuda picks through the bathroom, shoving any medication he can find into his backpack. Gentaro finishes going through the kitchen and stands up, blinking until he feels steady on his feet again. Something blue is in his peripheral and he turns to ask Dice what he thinks of the place, what he found, whether he’s holding up okay or not. But of course Dice is home, and Gentaro feels an ache just as strong as hunger pains. He misses Dice and the feeling sticks, the only thing in his empty stomach.They head to the next apartment and the one after it, smashing doors and digging though the occupants’ lives. Ramuda takes their medications and occasionally points out books or other trinkets to Gentaro, but he ignores Ramuda in his search for food. It seems rude to upset the delicate residences. The need for food wins out over manners, but they don’t have to disturb anything else. Even the doors they’re careful to close in such a way that the undead won’t be able to open them. The apartments are art pieces, capturing a moment of time that the world will never return to, and Gentaro aches at their destruction. The people are gone. Likely they’re rotting in alleys or frothing at the mouth, hungry for living flesh. Or they fled the city early like a lucky few. Gentaro will never have the chance to reach them, in words or to pick from their own stories, so the least he can do is leave their homes untouched. Glean inspiration from what sticks around, in the echoes of lives lived. “I’m not having much luck.” Gentaro sighs. He’s lightheaded and tired, wishing he could tell Ramuda to call it off. He’s fine with starving to death—it’d be so restful. He’d be at home if he didn’t want Dice to live so badly. There’s nothing else keeping him with Ramuda, and by extension, not many other reasons to live. Ramuda’s quiet for a moment. “Are you sure you checked everywhere? Every cabinet? The fridge, the freezer?”“Someone’s cleaned it out already. I took everything we can use, but it’s not a meal,” Gentaro snaps. “I’ve looked already.”“Fine! Fine. Next apartment.”They’re tired. Ramuda opens the next apartment and they sense how close they are to giving up—each door is too hard to open. Effort with no reward. There’s an odd silence in the apartment. No electricity, but they have flashlights until they can open the window, and then they see the body. “Fuck! Fuck,” Ramuda swears. His fist hits the table, jostling the corpse laid out over it. Blood pools underneath it from deep wounds, still wet, body soft. It’s fresh. Oh, it’s fresh. Gentaro’s hand darts forward, almost before he recognizes he’s moved. His fingers touch the body’s hand—cool but soft, recently deceased. “He was probably starving, too. There’s nothing left here.” Ramuda slams the cabinet doors. “Dumbass should have let the zombies eat him.”“That’s worse than suicide.” Gentaro frowns. “Ramuda, I’m exhausted.”“What are you gonna do then? Kill yourself by your new friend here? Go ahead, I don’t care. I’ll just go home and tell Dice the bad news. Sorry, Dice, Gentaro was too weak to go on!” Ramuda collapses in the other chair at the table, propping his chin up on his hands. “I’m sure Dice will be sooooo sad!”Ramuda probably doesn’t intend to be cruel but his words sting anyway. He’s tired and hungry too and Gentaro doesn’t take it personally. Dice would care, wouldn’t he?“Maybe he should have just eaten a zombie. Hear that, corpsey? Maybe you should have thought of that before giving up.” Ramuda pulls down his mask, pouting. “Now we’re all gonna die.”Gentaro’s fingers stay at the back of the body’s hand. He traces upward, resting lightly on the flesh of its forearm, decay barely beginning to set in. Blood pools in lifeless skin, slowly starting to stain the undersides like deep bruises. “We don’t have to tell Dice,” Gentaro whispers. He’s breathless and dizzy, ready to be done with their trip. Exhaustion’s sinking in. “Tell him what?”“What we’re—feeding him.” Gentaro waits, waits for Ramuda to understand, waits for Ramuda to laugh at him or tell him no. He waits to be wrong. It’s all desperation. He’s tired and out of it, so he has an excuse if Ramuda reacts strongly. It’s silly. Ramuda’s brow furrows. “You want to feed him this guy?”The full weight doesn’t sink in. Gentaro digs through kitchen drawers for a good knife, weighing it in his hands. Sharp edge. “You’re suggesting we cannibalize him?” Ramuda’s mouth is open wide. “Like—like the fucking zombies?”“We don’t have to tell him,” Gentaro murmurs. “Just this once. For Dice, you know?”Ramuda grimaces. “That’s so gross.”“Is that a no?”Hungry. Dizzy. Tired. They’re over it, past desperate, grasping at any chance to live another week. Survival means doing what they would never consider, and Gentaro lets his creative mind run free and wild. What could he do? It’s been months of skipping meals and scavenging. It’s been months of starving. Gentaro is brutally desperate and willing to try anything. Haven’t they already long-discarded their comfort zones and senses of aesthetic cleanliness? What else could this cruel apocalypse take from them?“I’ll help.” Ramuda is coldly resigned. “But like, just this once. And if he gets mad, it was your idea. And I think it’s gross, and that you’re gross for suggesting it, and—”They cut chunks from the body, crudely rended, wet and cool. Ramuda grabs a pillowcase to wrap them up after Gentaro cuts off most of the skin, leaving it beside the body. They move too quickly to think the situation through, not trusting themselves to reflect. They’re numb to blood and flesh and gore, staining Gentaro’s gloves, slick and spread on the table. They take only what they need. Two or three pounds. They leave the body as they found it and close the door back behind them. Neither of them speak on the way back to Ramuda’s apartment, and Gentaro holds the pillowcase far from his body. Avoid the undead. Go quickly and quietly. Don’t inhale anything but mint until you’re safe inside, Gentaro thinks, until the rot of the streets has faded. They feed Dice meat cooked on Ramuda’s camping stove, stolen months ago from another group of survivors. Lightheaded and giddy—Dice won’t die. Gingerly Gentaro takes chopsticks and feeds Dice morsoles in soy sauce, hoping it covers the taste. Does human meat taste bad? Does it taste as bad as Gentaro feels, guilt stifled and repressed, stuck inside him? He tries it. It tastes like pork, dry and nearly tough the way Ramuda cooked it. Chewy. He can’t taste anything but salty soy sauce, satiating the crawling hunger he’s been dealing with for months. They eat their fill, the three of them, bound up together with their sins. They tell Dice the truth afterward and he says nothing, sleeping it off, like a truth they’re all choosing to ignore. Discomfort runs through them like an electric current. Don’t talk about it, eat and sleep it off. Quietly, Fling Posse is sustained in the new world. A month passes. There’s no shortage of bodies, fresh and rotten both, and for that none of them go hungry. Necessity makes it so the choice is taken from them more often than not, and when it’s survival vs morality, survival wins out every time. Live off the dead. They become vultures.Ramuda should feel bad. He does, somewhere, vaguely. Repressed and frozen over so all that comes through is muted sensation, echoes like feelings but not nearly as pungnant. He prefers it that way. If he thinks about it, he has a good deal to feel guilty over. He leaves Gentaro and Dice safe and holed up in his apartment. The entire building was meticulously cleared out; they made it into a hub of safety in the dangerous city. Not that he worries for his team, but even if he did, the apartment is safe. Gentaro and Dice would be hard to replace, huh?His own safety is the only thing at risk. One hand grips an ax, ready for the undead. His other hand grazes over his mic, tucked into his waistband, in case any of the living get in his way. The mortality of his enemies means very little to him and he’s free to kill as much as he needs to in this world—who’s around to stop him? He’s careful all the same, because it’s easy for one person to be ganged up on and killed. He’s quiet and quick, picking his way through the familiar city to a familiar destination. For months Ramuda’s been thinking—how could an apocalypse be reversed? Clearly it’s too late for most of the population, and he scarcely cares about them. Ramuda misses electricity and fast food and trends, makeup and boba tea and doting attention from acquaintances. He misses his hair stylist and hates having to do his own roots, and not having to harass his teammates to heat up water for his hasty showers. The apocalypse was fun for a bit, but now he’s tired, and he wants Jakurai to clean up the mess. It has to be Jakurai. Ramuda doesn’t know anyone more smug, more capable. For all his obnoxious god-complex bullshit, Jakurai is the only person Ramuda trusts to fix all this. He hates the man, but surely—if anyone could repair the world and stop the broken, mangled corpses from eating the living, it’d be Jakurai. It feels embarrassing to admit to the others, so Ramuda hasn’t said a word about where he goes on his quiet, private trips. It’s just another secret he adds to his pile, and the distance between him and the others grows. Months he’s looked for Jakurai. Months. At his office, his apartment, everywhere Ramuda is sure he frequented. His favorite convenience store and the dry cleaner. Hospitals, in case Jakurai got caught up trying to help others before the zombies became too overwhelming to control. He’s out there somewhere—he’s got to be. He’s surely alive still, because the great Jakurai would never stoop so low as to be bitten by a zombie. If Ramuda survived, so did Jakurai. It’s just a matter of finding the fucker. Today Ramuda’s trip takes him deep into the city, a decently long walk for short legs. He wants a bike. Next time he sees one, he’ll take it, but for now he pretends it’s a good workout. Thanks to all this combat and apocalyptic starvation, his body looks great! He’s on a diet of human flesh. Nutrition be damned. Long walk. North Shinjuku, there’s a little cafe, nestled between buildings and concrete parks. It’s been ages—at least a year—since Ramuda was here, and it’s changed too much for his liking. The glass door is smashed and Ramuda steps through it, two hands on the ax he holds in defense. The area is crawling with zombies. Largely the slow-moving, slow-decaying kind, rotting in their seats, pretending they still have jobs to go to and wages to earn or coffee to drink. The more lively ones are fierce and ravenous, ready to kill, and Ramuda isn’t in the mood to die. He’s careful. Maybe if he were brave enough to ask Dice to come with him, he wouldn’t feel so shaken and alone. The cafe smells of the wintermint Ramuda put in his facemask, barely enough to cover the stale rot. The lights are all off, and there’s no one to order coffee from. Ramuda misses coffee and faintly he misses the time he spent here before. They’d come together to take a break, the four of them. After battles. To think of new lyrics. Because of a bad day, a good day, a boring day. It’s a longshot, but there’s always a chance Jakurai ended up in a familiar old setting like this. Ramuda hears breathing. Coarse and ragged. Uneven. Hungry. Too close. He turns, ready to swing his ax. Kill it. His breath catches in his throat and adrenaline surges through his veins, hot and angry and ready. You’re the creatures that ruined the world. Ramuda lives in a world of monsters and he’s tired of it. Tired and angry and electrified. But he turns, ax ready to swing, and all his anger drips away. He recognizes the zombie—that’s a first. He recognizes and he wishes he didn’t. Dirty white hair, stiff and messy. Bloodstained white shirt, pus yellow and coffee brown. His eyes are clouded over, faintly pink, teeth bared. A low growl comes from his throat and Ramuda prays it doesn’t alert the other zombies. Saliva comes down in strings, like he’s something feral. An animal. Not a person. “Oh,” Ramuda breathes, tears sharp in his eyes and entirely unwelcome. “S-Samatoki.”It’s been nearly six months since he’s seen Samatoki. For some reason, he never expected to find him—it wasn’t something that crossed his mind in the slightest, not in all this time. There’s no way Samatoki would have succumbed, no way—But he’s here, and he wants to kill Ramuda. Ramuda’s small and fast, darting out of the way before Samatoki can react. He slips out of the door, watching Samatoki follow him, disturbed when Samatoki doesn’t care about grazing the shards of broken glass. Please. Please be careful, Ramuda thinks. Please don’t hurt yourself, so Jakurai can make you better when all this is over. There’s an “over,” isn’t there?His breathing comes fast now. Panic—not from Samatoki. It’s guilt, hot and sharp and overwhelming, melting Ramuda to a puddle in the streets. It’s unfamiliar and painful and Samatoki could do no worse to him with his teeth. It’s a panic attack. Ramuda’s giggling. Laughing even, bubbling up inside him, hot and wet and acidic. It burns his throat and spills from his lips, hysterical and far too loud in the dangerous city. He laughs and laughs and dances out of Samatoki’s reach, the intense feeling of sick rising up inside him. He’s going to throw up. He’s not going to, because he smells only mint, and he never really cared for Samatoki anyway. “I did this!” Ramuda screams, abrupt and ear-splitting. “I did this! I did it! I fucked up, huh! Is that what you want to hear from me? You—you just had to find me, remind me how bad I ruined everything!”Samatoki makes an odd sound, something like a roar, caught up inside him and strangled. His hands are filthy, encrusted in blood and who knows what else. He looks dead. He’s dead. “I’m not sorry!” Ramuda doubles over, panting. He can barely see through the tears and they feel like magma down his face. “I’ll tell you all about it, Samatoki! I’ll tell you the whole story of how I ended the world!”Samatoki says nothing and his gaze is unfocused, clouded. He’s not here and so Ramuda’s secret is shared with no one, just a product of a mental collapse. No one’s around to hear him. “I was fucking around with my mic. You’ve seen all the cool stuff I can do, haven’t you? All my lovely tricks? I thought maybe I’d make up some new ones and surprise you next time, you and Ichiro and the shitty old man!” Ramuda dances out of his reach again, eyes wide. “I ran across this guy in the streets. It was late, I was bored, he was rude—what the hell, right? Might as well try it. And I did, and I think I scrambled him.”He’s crying freely now, choking on each word. “And I fucked him up real bad. I saw the outbreak on the news the next day and locked myself in my apartment, because I knew—I did that! I locked myself away until my divisionmates came for me, until everyone was already dead, and then I fucking survived.” Ramuda coughs, one hand to his mouth. Don’t be sick. Not here. Samatoki slows, finally watching him. “And the worst part? I wanted to watch the world burn so badly—soooo badly. I’m thrilled. I did this and I love it. If I find the shitty old doctor maybe he can put things back to normal, but no, I find you!” Ramuda forces a smile, big and bright. “And I’ll take care of you from now on!”It’s not an apology, but he can’t stand to leave Samatoki out on the streets. He gags Samatoki with his jacket, fast and clever, and it’s a relatively simple matter to drag him back to the apartment. It’s not an apology, but he owes Samatoki something. Ramuda takes him back to the apartment, immensely careful. Gentaro says nothing at all, merely raising an eyebrow, but Dice helps him gag Samatoki better and tie back his arms. All evidence of his breakdown gone, Ramuda is calm. Dice sits just outside the bathroom door while Ramuda bathes Samatoki. It’s a little water and a lot of work, fingers knotted up in wet hair, careful when he remembers what a threat Samatoki is. He’s taller than any of them, vicious and feral, intimidating when alive. Now he’s sombering. Nostalgic. Pity-inducing. Dice’s expression hasn’t softened since Ramuda got back. He’s careful to give Samatoki space, not taking his eyes off him. He’s protective and Ramuda appreciates it—it’s useful to him. “Why is he here?” Dice asks finally. “Why in the apartment?”Because Ramuda feels guilty. Because Ramuda wants to keep him safe for when Jakurai cures all the zombies. Because he’s a collector, and he’d love to have the entire Dirty Dawg as pets, like a cruel sort of revenge for nothing at all. “Because—” Ramuda considers it. “Because we’ll run out of humans to eat someday, won’t we? I’ll have him around to eat if we need to.” Time all blurs together for Dice. He barely keeps track of it anymore—who gives a fuck what day of the week it is? But then weeks go and months too, and he’s itching with the realization that whatever normal life was, it’s not coming back.The Dice of the past was a fuckup. Come on, he knew that much. He wasn’t going to get a job or go back to school, he wasn’t going to succeed in any of the ways people usually liked success. Fling Posse was the best thing that ever happened to him and that’s not saying much, because they basically turned out to be a bunch of cannibal freaks anyway. Jobs stopped mattering and so did days, so did time itself, and Dice finds himself far better equipped for survival. It’s messed up. He doesn’t find himself minding as much as he should, because life is never boring and he’s free from all the nonsensical expectations society put on him in the first place. Jobs are gone and so are taxes, and police, and running water. If he wanted to jack off in Harajuku now, he could, and no one would care. Ridiculous. Dice doesn’t mind. He minds the cannibalism. Maybe it would have been better if Gentaro and Ramuda never told him, because it’s all he can do to not imagine faces with every bite he takes. Do they find bodies, or kill survivors? He eats and he’s grateful, but it’s disturbing to think about, and he hates feeling as bad as the zombies themselves. Like a monster. Ugh. He stands in the hallway, caught between actions. The apartment feels uncomfortable recently, and he knows why, but he can’t do anything about it. It’s all the damn corpses in the place. Ramuda and Gentaro brought the monsters indoors. He shivers, desperately wishing for a satisfying distraction. A burger, perhaps, but he hasn’t had one in over five months. A night at the slots, but the power’s out and Ramuda won’t let him take their precious generator even to the nearest pachinko parlor, so he’s stuck with cards and a dwindling supply of cigarettes. When Dice looks up again, Gentaro is watching him from the doorway of his bedroom. Dice has been sleeping on Ramuda’s couch, not quite wanting to share the second bedroom with Gentaro. It’s too—charged. Good and scary and it feels too fragile to question, like if Dice moved in the room he’d break something intangible. Maybe Dice is just lonely. Gentaro very well might be the last tolerable man on Earth and surviving this has artificially brought them closer than they’d ever be otherwise. It’s a natural consequence of their circumstances and nothing more. Nothing serious. But God, does the air feel electric around him. Uncomfortable and enticing. Nearly as dangerous as the undead outside the apartment. And God, do Dice’s thoughts wrap around him, returning to Gentaro like he’s got them on a leash. That’s a good thing that came out of the apocalypse. He’s not sure he’d ever get Gentaro’s attention otherwise. He’s older, he’s famous, he’s a brilliant writer. It’s not as though Gentaro’s too good for him, but it’s like he’s from another world, and Dice forced himself to keep his expectations low. If the world returned to normal, would Gentaro move on? Dice feels warm in Gentaro’s presence. Safe, even if he’s saved Gentaro’s life just as many times as Gentaro’s saved his. He’s less stable on his feet, as if the world’s oxygen dropped, fluttery and less capable of putting thoughts together. What would he do if anything happened to Gentaro? “Dice,” Gentaro says, his voice soft and falsely gentle. “Do you want to come inside?”He was in the middle of something, wasn’t he? Fantasizing about all the food he can’t eat? It’s hardly a task Gentaro can’t interrupt, and Dice can’t find any excuse that outweighs his desire to slip inside. “Just for a second,” he says, setting some boundary he knows won’t stop either of them. Gentaro’s room is lit usually with candlelight, because candles were abundant and Ramuda’s stingy with the generator, but Dice thinks it suits him. Ramuda’s upbeat decor has slowly given way to Gentaro’s odd possessions, and the contrast between the room and the hallway is startling. It’s all full of arcane energy, vibrating from the walls, like the room is shaking with Gentaro’s thoughts. Gentaro’s hands go alongside Dice’s neck, drawing him close unquestioningly. The pulse of another is intensely comforting—unexpected and warm. Surely humans are hard-wired to take comfort from others, but all Dice knows is that he feels calmer under a living touch.Breath with his. Gentaro’s fingers twist in Dice’s hair, gentle but firm, and their lips meet. Dice likes to think he’s gotten good at this, that he’s leading and controlling the volatile charge between them. But of the two of them, he’s not the liar. And of the two of them, he’s not in control. Lips on his, light and parting. Gentaro’s reserved, but between them he becomes something different, dynamic and fluid. Dice gasps when he bites into Dice’s upper lip, just hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make him tear up. Saliva between them and Gentaro’s energy is unrestrained, hungry and nearly needy. Tongue on his, slipping into his mouth, probing and prying. Dice exhales, eyes closed, Gentaro’s saliva on his lips and on his tongue. It tastes—faintly of wintergreen. Gentaro’s hand slips underneath his shirt, caressing his stomach, up higher to tweak at a nipple. Dice’s breath hitches, overwhelmed with the urge to squirm under Gentaro’s hands. Ugh. Dice never would have pinned Gentaro as a sexy person, and definitely not as someone Dice could fall for. But he’s in deep. Wrapped around Gentaro’s finger, bent to his will. Not much of this world seems real but Gentaro’s pulse feels real. His warmth feels real. He tastes of mint. It speeds Dice’s heart, setting off an adrenaline rush without him noticing. The scent screams risk! and refuses to be ignored. Dice sees the bodies alongside the edge of the room. Gentaro’s hands play at Dice’s hips, fingering the elastic band of his underwear, but Dice can’t look away. “Your zombies,” Dice murmurs. “I can’t—it feels creepy. They’re watching.”Gentaro pauses, one hand cupped over Dice’s cock. Even through layers of fabric, arousal floods through Dice, tinged with fear and an unfamiliar self-consciousness he can’t entirely place. Exhibitionism for an undead audience. “They’re not watching. They’re not human,” Gentaro whispers, breath warm in Dice’s ear. “Why? Are you jealous?”“Jealous?” Dice frowns. “Of what? Them being tied up in your room?”Fuck, not helping. Gentaro steps back, a faint smile fixed in his features. “Go look, Dice. Say hello to my collection.”Dice approaches cautiously, not entirely trusting the bonds Gentaro secured them in. Two zombies. They’re crouching down, heavy metal collars around their necks, hands secured behind their backs. They’re gagged, and Dice is grateful. The room doesn’t smell of rot somehow, even with two zombies inside, and Gentaro must have moved the rest of his collection elsewhere. One is a woman, her hair smoothly braided on top of her head. Gentaro must have done it himself, because her fingers are decay-stiffened. She has distinctive eyes, frosted over blue and veiny yellow, a slender figure. She might have been a model in a previous life, but now one side of her jaw is shredded, exposing neat white rows of teeth and strips of muscle. The other is a man, his facial hair carefully shaped. He’s got a feral look to him, bite marks all across his neck and shoulders like he was attacked by a dozen undead at once. His skin retains some permanent tan, even without blood flowing. Dark hair. “Do you like them? This one was my editor,” Gentaro murmurs, gesturing to the man. “And this one was my ex.”“What?” Dice frowns, then steps back. She’s too pretty—is that rude to say? Something odd like jealousy flares up in him. “No way. You’ve gotta be lying, right? Why are they here, anyway?”Gentaro runs his hands through the man’s hair, still smiling. “Maybe I am. I’ve gotten tired, Dice. Isn’t my purpose to observe and entertain a living audience, regaling them with tales of themselves? This long apocalypse has left me useless.”“You’re not useless.”“Perhaps not to you. Leave me with my collection to observe,” Gentaro says. “Should I kiss you outside instead?”Dice thinks it through. Ramuda might catch them. But he wants to be kissed so badly and he craves Gentaro’s company, so it’s not like he’s about to say no. He’d rather not do it in front of Gentaro’s pets. “I’m sorry you ended up like this,” Ramuda says lightly. He dabs at Samatoki’s shoulders, and the odd dark blood that wells up slowly in his wounds, perpetually flowing. “If only you could see yourself now! Mr. Hardcore. You’re such a mess!”He giggles, but there’s nothing funny about it, not really. Samatoki doesn’t stink of rot quite so badly now. His putrefaction comes slowly, his body lasting far too long. He moves less frequently now like he’s calmer indoors. Calmer in Ramuda’s presence. Ramuda sighs, leaning forward to undo Samatoki’s gag. He still snaps. If only a squirt bottle would fix it! Ramuda wishes he was a better pet—one to be trained and taught. More like Dice. Samatoki snaps and drools and bleeds, and he’s not at all cute. Ramuda reaches for a bowl beside him. Little strips of raw meat are inside, bloody and decidedly human. It’s less fresh than Ramuda would prefer to eat himself, but Samatoki surely won’t mind, right? Feed him to sustain him. Feed him so you can eat him later, Ramuda thinks. He offers a strip to Samatoki, dangling it like a worm between chopsticks. Samatoki snaps, a low growl coming from deep in his throat. He eats greedily, making a mess. Disgusting. “Do you know what happened to Jinguji Jakurai?” Ramuda asks. “I bet you do, huh. I need to find him.”He offers Samatoki another strip, sighing. “Or else everyone dies. Maybe even Dice and Gentaro.” He hesitates. Does he honestly care what happens to them? Ugh, he’s soft. They’re around to protect him. Not because he feels guilty. But the secret grows inside Ramuda, hot and twisting. He can’t trust Fling Posse until they know, and he’ll never tell them, so they stay distant. “What happened to your division? Did you keep things from them, too? Did you say you’d protect them and fail?” Ramuda sighs, wishing he could stroke Samatoki’s hair without getting bit. “Do you have any regrets, lonely zombie?”Samatoki doesn’t respond, but he watches Ramuda move, almost as if he understands the question. Quickly, Ramuda leans forward, planting a blink-and-you-miss-it kiss on his forehead. “It’s okay. I’ll put you out of your misery and gobble you right up! You and the whoooole Dirty Dawg! And Fling Posse too someday, just as soon as they fail me!” Ramuda says brightly. “I’ll devour the whole world and nothing will be left to make me feel bad!” “Gentaro.”Dice’s voice comes through the dark, interrupting a dreamless sleep. Gentaro frowns, but says nothing, moving over in his futon. He’s tired from another supply run and scavenging, and the dark sticky blood of the undead hasn’t even had time to dry on his gloves. He wishes Dice wouldn’t disturb him, but after he wakes up he’ll probably be glad for the company. Dice slips under the covers, wrapping his arms around Gentaro’s waist. He’s wearing only boxers in a stark contrast to Gentaro, who sleeps exclusively in full pajamas. Dice is warm and Gentaro doesn’t mind the company. His room is dark. A thin sliver of light comes in from the windows, covered with some bright curtains of Ramuda’s. He blew out all the candles before falling asleep, but the faint smell of smoke still hangs in the room like incense. “I had a nightmare,” Dice says, low in Gentaro’s ear. “Sorry.”“Oh. What about?”“It sucked,” Dice says dryly. “I think I ate too much before bed. It’s weird—we hate zombies but we’re eating people too… Like monsters. We all gotta survive, but it’s not different enough.”Gentaro sighs. “You had a nightmare about morality? Here I was thinking it wasn’t really that scary of a dream.”“No. In my nightmare I was a zombie.” Dice is quiet for a long moment. Uncharacteristic. “I was hungry. I didn’t care about Ramuda or anyone—or even about you. I just wanted to eat.”Gentaro wishes he could ask what was different from reality, but holds his tongue. It’d be cruel to say and Dice seems upset. “I was rotting and I wasn’t myself… It was really scary. Like I was just my hunger.” Dice sighs. “I bet that’s not really how they feel, but it felt real to me.”“Ah,” Gentaro says. “What if I turn into a zombie too?”Gentaro rolls over, facing Dice. His fingers brush through Dice’s hair, tangled and warm, messy from sleeping. It’s moments like this where Dice’s age shows—he seems too young and scared. One finger brushes over the curve of Dice’s lips. Gentaro hesitates, trying to find the words to reassure him. “I’d still care for you,” he whispers. “Even if you turned. Even if you were a monster. I’d keep you with me forever and take good care of you.”“Like one of your pets?”“No,” Gentaro says. “Like the most important one. A special pet.”Dice leans forward, awkwardly missing Gentaro’s lips before he finds them, kissing in the dark. He’s warm and clumsy and lovely in his hesitation, hedonistic and oddly self-conscious in only matters of intimacy. I’d love you even still, Gentaro wants to say. Whether you’re alive or dead or somewhere in the violent in-between.But the words won’t come and he’s silent, kissing back with all the feelings he can’t speak. The three of them—Ramuda too—wouldn’t be this close if not for the end of the world. Artificial closeness. Gentaro won’t say what he’s sure Dice won’t return, and if he does? Gentaro’s writer mind would mark it like a death flag, and their love would spell tragedy for them both. “I’d keep you close to me,” Gentaro gasps, pulling back. Saliva is wet on his lips and he tastes Dice, fear and longing on his tongue. “I’d bathe you, feed you, keep you from killing. I’d let you savor me on occasion. A hair, perhaps. A drop of blood.”Or my flesh, he thinks. I’d feed you all of myself. That’s what he’s been doing, right? Working himself raw to keep Dice alive?“You’d just tease me,” Dice groans. “I’d hate that.”“I’d take good care of you.” Gentaro’s hand lingers at Dice’s waist. “Can I touch you? Can I show you?”He sees the whites of Dice’s eyes, wide in the dark. “Please.”“I’d have to gag you,” he whispers. “Because you’d bite me otherwise, wouldn’t you?”One hand over Dice’s mouth, and Dice swallows. “But we don’t need that now. Later, perhaps.”Fingertips against lips. Gentaro slips a finger inside Dice’s mouth, deep inside him. Obediently Dice sucks at it, letting Gentaro’s fingertip brush over the sharp of his teeth, over bumpy molars and pointy incisors. He pulls his finger out with a satisfying popping noise, hands to Dice’s stomach. “I’m going to make sure you can’t attack me. You understand that, right?” He reaches for the nearest of the heavy metal collars, beside the futon, empty now that he’s moved his entire collection elsewhere. Dice is breathless, nodding, and Gentaro adjusts it around his neck. Dice is kept half-sitting up, the collar attached to the wall with a chain, difficult to escape from. “Your arms, too. What if you managed to escape and killed me?”Carefully he takes Dice’s hands, securing wrists together with a cable tie, fast and improvised. Collared and bound, Dice can do no harm, whether he’s dead or alive. Gentaro slips off his shirt, slow and teasing, letting Dice’s hungry gaze take in every new inch of skin. He makes a show of it—leave it to Dice to wonder how much is in earnest. Being a liar is great fun, because Gentaro gets an excuse for everything he really means, a safe distance between himself and the world. Give him a show, and Gentaro lets himself go, because Dice can’t judge from his position in the slightest. Fingers on his own skin. He feels himself up, leaning over Dice’s body, barely too far for him to reach. Gentaro’s tongue extends, fingers against his tongue, spreading his mouth wide. Hand in his chest—brushing against nipples, and he fakes a moan—really means it, exaggerated but honest somewhere. Hips rolling against Dice’s, nudging his cock. Teasing. Dice squirms. Gentaro adores it, absolutely eats it up. “Would you like to touch me?” he asks, finger against his own tongue. Hips cruel against Dice’s, and Dice is half-hard. “Don’t you wish you could?”“Please,” Dice whimpers. “Please. Let me—”“Shh. The undead don’t talk.”And Dice is quiet as Gentaro eases off his pants, stripped bare before Dice, hands grazing the soft skin of his inner thighs. He touches himself, lightly at first, making a show for Dice. Breathy moans. Slowly he strokes himself hard, forcing Dice to watch every little motion. Bare shoulders. Smooth wrist movements. The way his eyes flutter shut, as if he’s caught up in the pleasure of it, barely aware he’s being watched—but he is, isn’t he?“Do you want me to use you?” Gentaro asks lightly. “Do you want to fuck me?”Dice chokes up. “Please.”Gentaro smiles. He peels off Dice’s underwear, letting his full length out, and Dice is hard without really being touched. Hard over Gentaro’s show, and he’s distantly flattered. “You’re so hard. It’s like you’re starved for my body,” Gentaro says. “Do you like knowing I’m only a slut for you?”He picks lines he knows will make Dice react—lines so blunt and dirty, Ramuda would laugh if Dice ever told him. It’s a truth and a lie again, and a great distance most of all. No one would believe Dice if he told Gentaro’s secrets.Dice’s face is red-hot and he turns away, too flustered to speak. Gentaro reaches for the bottle of lotion beside the bed and slicks his fingers, slowly preparing himself to ride Dice. Breath catches. It’s cold. He forces himself to take it slow, but he can’t make a good show of it for Dice, too caught up in the sensation for playing pretend. Each breathy inhale is his own. Gentaro fingers himself and Dice watches, flushed and visibly aroused. “Do you want to fuck me?” Gentaro asks, soft and breathless. “Do you want to make me cum?”“Yes.” Dice groans. “Hurry up already, you’re just teasing.”Gentaro slows down, taking the time to make sure Dice knows exactly how much he’s enjoying each of his fingers. A third slips in, spreading him out wider, and he careful to be sure Dice has a good view. “Maybe I’ll fuck myself and leave you here,” he murmurs. “You can watch.”“Please. I want to fuck you so bad, don’t leave me waiting.”Gentaro pulls his fingers out, sighing. He slicks Dice’s cock—still hard—careful not to touch him too much. Slowly he straddles Dice, pressing the head of Dice’s cock against his entrance. Slow. He wants it so badly, embarrassingly so, but it’s Dice. All his wanting is a lie to Dice, all part of the game, and it’s freeing. Now Gentaro can be exactly as slutty as he wants and Dice will never be the wiser. He lets a breathy cry escape his lips as he settles over Dice’s cock, taking his length smoothly. Dice’s eyes are tightly closed, body stiff, like he’s caught up in the sensation. Like he’s barely there, and it almost feels like fucking a zombie, doesn’t it?“Look at me,” Gentaro says, barely rocking his hips over Dice’s cock. “Open your eyes. Savor the flesh only you get to see, like you’re hungry for it. Like you want to devour me.”When Dice opens his eyes again, Gentaro starts moving, slow and tentative at first. He’s tight on Dice’s cock, smooth, his face flushed. Dice isn’t big enough to hurt, but the sensation is still overwhelming, and Gentaro has to work to obscure his reaction. “I wonder if zombies can get hard,” he murmurs, sinking all the way down on Dice. Breathless. Dice says nothing, biting his lip, and fuck—he’s cute. He can do little more than move his hips slightly, toes curling, caught in the collar and hands bound. He’s powerless under Gentaro. Little more than a human dildo. His pace increases. Down and up again, taking in Dice’s length, breathless from the sheer sensation of it all. He feels Dice against him, inside him, penetrating deep. God, how they use each other. God, how they must love each other, even in the hellscape the world’s become. No part of this is survival—it’s passion, plain and simple, a luxury they can barely afford. Gentaro adores it and Dice’s gaze on him, the act he puts on, the pleasure he wrings from Dice’s body. Faster. Gentaro rolls his hips, skilled enough to give Dice a good show. Dice is struggling not to make a sound, groans stifled inside him, so he nearly sounds like one of the undead. They’re both reduced to primal instincts—something just as feral as glutinous predation. Are they any better than the undead? Gentaro knows it matters very little, but he can’t answer in absolute. “Are you going to come?” Gentaro asks, moving quicker. “So fast, Dice. Does watching me really do it for you?”“Yeah,” Dice says, biting back a groan. No hesitation. Gentaro is nearly flattered, but Dice could get off to anything, and there are only two men left to judge him. It’s hardly a vetted review of his sex. There’s no one left to find talent in anything, so he’s left to take Dice’s word for it. Gentaro’s hands splay out over Dice’s chest. Separate and distinct beating pulses and flushed skin. Life exchanged equally. If Gentaro tries, he can imagine Dice undead, caught between life and death. Would anything be different between them?One hand to Dice’s face. Look at me. Soak in the experience. Don’t you dare close your eyes and reject what I give you. Faster, and Gentaro’s breaths come heavy, ever motion causing pleasure to run down his body like a shiver. Legs trembling. His face is flushed and little white shocks slip over his skin. Electric bodies. He’s overcome. Dice groans, head twisting to the side to try to stifle his voice. He comes and Gentaro feels it deep inside him, wet and hot and ecstatic. He twists Dice back to face him, holding his face with one hand, and Gentaro strokes himself off. Keep going. He wrings every bit of pleasure from Dice, letting himself get louder, breathy moans slipping from his lips like liquid. It’s barely a show for Dice anymore—barely a lie. Gentaro lets himself go, melting and coming entirely apart in pieces. He strokes himself off, coming on Dice’s stomach and chest. Breathless. He’s almost ashamed when he pulls himself off Dice, fumbling beside the futon for scissors to cut Dice’s hands apart. Shaky and too fast. He wipes Dice down quickly, dizzy, hands trembling while he cleans himself out. “Don’t you want to rest?” Dice asks, voice dazed. “Can you unlock me?”Gentaro sets aside Dice’s collar, letting himself lie beside him. It’s oddly sincere and vulnerable, far more than the sex is. Disguises and lies stripped off. “I won’t leave you alone,” Gentaro says. “No matter what.”It’d be a lie to promise Dice protection from death. He can only offer the certainty that he won’t leave. Every individual shadow looks like a monster in itself, cast down empty hallways, over linoleum floors. Dice can’t keep his flashlight steady enough, trembling in his hand. If he could grip it with two hands he’d be able to keep the beam steady, but he can’t drop his bat. He’s proud of the weapon. It’s pretty badass, he thinks, studded through with nails. Ramuda helped him with it a few months back and he’s been using it since, even if it looks a bit worse for wear now, and he hates having to wash brains off of it. Disgusting. Mint lingers in his mouth. His pulse comes fast. Adrenaline, comforting and disturbing both, but this is the kind of rush Dice hates. The apocalypse isn’t fun anymore. “Gentaro?” Dice asks, watching the shadow Gentaro leaves, stiff and unmoving. “You good?”“I hate hospitals,” he mutters. “Ramuda, can’t we cut this short?”“Toughen up. We gotta check every room!” Ramuda says brightly. “Every single one! So the faster you guys go, the faster we can leave!”It’s dark and cold in the building and Dice has already grown bored. Some god awful combination of boredom and sickening adrenaline rush, disturbing and unnecessary. “I fail to see why you’re so set on exploring hospitals.” Gentaro’s voice is dry, disgust lying beneath. “Surely you’ve acquired enough antibiotics through your raids, right? Or perhaps you’re here for another reason.”“Uh, none of your business?” Ramuda poses, then lets it fall. “Look for medications. Look for tools. Look for food, I guess, but we probably won’t find any. And lastly if you see anyone you know, tell me right away, so I can build my collection!”The charged anger between Ramuda and Gentaro is nearly palpable. “No big deal! Let’s just like, split up. Stay close enough to hear each other, and we can make this quick!” Dice offers. His arm is tired, and he lets the flashlight beam fall. “It’s not like we’ve seen any fast zombies yet, right?”Ramuda shrugs. “If you guys die, I’ll be super mad, so don’t! Okay?”Gentaro makes a disgusted noise, turning on his heel to a hospital room. Ramuda shrugs, taking the room on the opposite side of the hall. “Okay. Sure. Good luck, guys,” Dice mutters. Fuckin’ rude. He can’t pretend the other two make any sense to him, so it’s all he can do to keep the peace while they figure themselves out. He shines the flashlight over a long desk, neatly in the center of the hallway. A lone zombie sits in a chair behind it, slowly turning it back and forth. She doesn’t move when Dice shines the light on her, gaze unfocused on paperwork she’ll never complete. Medications. Food. Tools. Anyone Ramuda might know. Dice couldn’t possibly remember everyone Ramuda used to know, so he focuses on one thing at a time—where might medications be? Is he collecting first aid supplies, or trying to get high? Dice hopes it’s the latter. He nudges open a door to a supply closet, and then further down the hall. The flashlight is heavy and he sets down his baseball bat, leaning it against the desk. Rustling noises echo down the hall. Dice shines the flashlight in one room, taking a hesitant step into the hospital room. Something distorted and tall stands inside and Dice’s eyes narrow, trying to pick out the shape. When it moves he lowers the light, mint and rot mixing in his lungs. Don’t startle the quiet hospital residents. Leave them be. He turns toward where the others are. She’s there—the rotting nurse, up from her chair, too close. He stumbles back but there’s another behind him. Yellowed teeth. Putrid breath, strong enough to make it past the mint. Wide human eyes and frosted undead eyes meet, and Dice freezes, for just a second too long. Something behind him. And he feels pain, sharp and sudden and bright. Pain, and an overwhelming, suffocating terror. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck—”Ramuda freezes. Dice’s voice shoots up, high and loud, shrill and sudden. His terror runs through the hospital floor, and Ramuda jumps like he’s been shocked. The door. The hallway. Dice leans heavily against the desk in the center of the wide hall, wide-eyed, watching Gentaro cut down the few hungry monsters gathered. Good, it’s dealt with. But Dice’s fingers pull away from his neck, crimson red stained. Oh. Unexpected. Ramuda moves fast, pushing Dice down, pulling his hand back from his neck. Blood wells up in neat crescents, beading up and looking like jewels. He was bitten. Gentaro pants, kicking back the bodies he cut down. His sword falls, carelessly abandoned and he’s at Dice’s side. “Fuck,” Dice mutters. “Ow.”“Which one bit you?” Ramuda asks, his voice cold. He keeps a grip on his ax, held loosely at his side. “I don’t know. The—” Dice gestures broadly. “One of them. Sorry, I got distracted, and they just…. Fuck.”Gentaro’s hands flutter at Dice’s neck, caught between keeping pressure on the wound and cleansing it somehow. If it were a limb bitten, Ramuda would do the hard thing and cut it off, saving Dice. It’s much harder to kill him, but it’ll be a necessary act. He’s preparing himself to do it. Gentaro surely will understand the necessity of it. Dice is too strong to let turn, and he wouldn’t want to become a monster—a threat. He’ll be fast-moving after he turns and Ramuda’s not willing to risk his life for a zombie. Ugh, he doesn’t want to feel guilt, but it wells up like blood in a wound he can’t see. Hospitals are risky—any enclosed busy space is dangerous. Ramuda wanted to chance it because of the chance he’d find Jakurai. It’s another mistake, piling up on him, and he can’t bury the guilt fast enough. “I feel cold,” Dice says. His teeth grit, muscles contracting, little jittery spasms underneath his skin. Gentaro’s fingers knot up in his shirt, forming fists, knuckles white. Inevitability hits them all. For all the artificial distance they’ve imposed, in secrets and lies and silence, they’re close. Cohabitating and cooperating, finding themselves in the new world. If Dice dies, there’s no way Ramuda and Gentaro will stay together. Carefully forged balance lost. Ramuda will be alone. Gentaro’s surely come to this realization, his head against Dice’s chest. “Please. Please. I can’t—I don’t want to lose you.”Ramuda’s grip tightens over his ax. He’s not in the mood for crying and Gentaro is annoying him. This kind of frenzied, unstable emotion—he doesn’t want to feel responsible. He won’t feel responsible. “Turn me.” Gentaro looks up, his words strangled and forced. Uneven. Unsteady. “I won’t leave you, Dice. I don’t—I don’t want to be without you. I—”Dice tries to answer but his jaw clenches. Shaking. Whatever causes the change, it’s neurological, and Ramuda’s not sure he’ll have a choice in Gentaro’s plan. Dice will turn and Gentaro wants to be turned along with him, so Ramuda steels himself. He’ll have to kill them both. Easy. Simple. He doesn’t really want to drag both their zombies back to the apartment—it’s not worth it. Ah, well. He’s only sorry to lose his protection. But he’ll be alright on his own, surely. Ramuda raises the ax. Dice shakes underneath him, entirely unaware, caught up in his own diseased brain. Gentaro is inconsolable and Ramuda blocks it all out, crying and shaking and desperation. Kill him. Be done with it. It’s not like they mean anything to him. Sharing his apartment, struggling for food, survival—it was for Ramuda’s own selfish sake. He doesn’t—could he truly stand to be lonely again? Fuck. Fuck! They’ve always been there. Dice and Gentaro—he can’t see a life without them anymore. He’s unwilling to be alone. They’ve been here, protecting him, keeping each other safe. Ramuda’s part of a team and the individuality he sacrifices is worth it. He loves them. He loves them. The ax lowers. “Hey! Listen. I need to tell you something,” Ramuda says, teeth gritting. Tears spring to his eyes, entirely unbidden, and he’s angry. “This is my fault. All of it—I did it. It’s my fault.”Dice’s eyes roll over to him, questioning. “I think I caused the whole epidemic. With my mic—I was messing around and I started it. I’ve been trying to find someone to fix it but… it’s my fault. I don’t think I’m going to find him.” Ramuda swallows. “But I can try to fix it with my mic. We—we can try it.”“That seems impossible. How could you have—” Gentaro starts, frowning. His face is flushed, words unsteady. “How does any of it work? Hallucinations? Fatalities? I don’t know. If it doesn’t work, it’s fucking over.”Mic in hand. Ramuda turns it on, hot with adrenaline, keenly focused. He’s a genius somewhere—a prodigy, an innovator, unmatched with a mic. He’s beyond talented once he focuses. After all, he started this. They take Dice and move him into a locked room. Let the sound echo. Loud and bright and focused. Take care of Dice one last time. Breathless. Gentaro wants it just as badly as Ramuda does, maybe even more, and in their desperation they test the strength of their bonds. Work together to save him. Echoing words. Carefully picked. Gentaro brings the sheer power of will, vocabulary that drips from his lips, becoming something formidable and solid once it meets Ramuda’s heat. Ramuda’s all skill and experience, working on undoing what he did before. What exactly did he destroy in that man he met on the street, so many months ago? What harm did he do, that’s happening to Dice in this instant, and how can he repair it? Pick the right words, Ramuda. Neutralize it all. Counter it, like you’ve countered opponents for years. They forge a rhythm, a flow, a construct to a witless desperate emotion. For Dice, for the glue that binds them together, for the selves they find in others, for the team they’ve made. When they finish, they’re out of breath, panting like they’ve run a race. Dizzy and exhausted. Dice’s eyes are wide, his brain possibly turned to mush, blood dripping from his nose and collecting on his lips. His hands shake, body stiff, pupils dilated. He’s alive. Ramuda exhales a breath he’s been holding far too long. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive—for now? For now, and it doesn’t matter, he’s alive and Ramuda did it. For now, he’s alive. Gentaro won’t cry twice but they both hug him, tight together, a living breathing trio. “I’m sorry.” Ramuda buries his face in Dice’s ugly coat, arms wrapped around him. “I’m really sorry. I fucked up.”“It’s okay,” Dice murmurs. “Yeah. Yeah, it happens, I guess.”Held together, and he can hear Gentaro’s murmurings, his soft “I love you”s on loop. Gentaro is silent with his doubts, and maybe it wasn’t Ramuda’s fault at all, but a horrifying chain of coincidences. Dice lives and he may be cured, may not be, may be delayed or suspended or too lucky to die but they’re grateful. And fuck Jakurai, anyway! This one’s on Ramuda. Even the shitty old doctor couldn’t have done this! He healed Dice. He stopped one man’s transformation, he made this team, and they’ve survived all this time on their own. It’s been him this whole time. It’s been them this whole time. Forget the world. Maybe they deserved the apocalypse. Ramuda hasn’t changed his stance on that—the world’s an ugly place, and it always has been. This cruel apocalypse was deserved, undeserved, fair and unfair, and Ramuda finds himself unable to care. He cares for Dice and Gentaro. He loves them. Forget the world, forget Jakurai, forget paralyzing blame and guilt that rots up one’s heart. “I’ll fix this,” Ramuda says, low and muffled. “I’ll make it better for you guys. I’m—fuck, I’m sorry.”