[The chaos of the scene all flies right over Shuichi's head where he's sprawled on the ground, effectively dead to the world. It can't be more than a minute or two that he's out, but it feels like an eternity. It feels like the weeks spent in the Killing Game, condensed and magnified with every spot of happiness or hope stripped out. All he can see, all he can think about, are his classmates and so, so much blood. Too many bodies, almost a dozen different reminders of all the ways he'd failed, of how useless he really is.
(Rantaro collapsed on the ground, skull smashed in and blood pooling beneath it. Kaede hanging, still swaying with the momentum she'd been jerked around with. Ryoma's small body floating, already lifeless even before it's torn to pieces. Kirumi viciously slashed and sliced and finally dropped and broken. Angie and Tenko, matching stab wounds in the back of their necks, blood leaking from Korekiyo's eyes as he's boiled alive. Miu's horrified post-mortem expression with her hands still clawing at her throat, Gonta's large form burning. An ocean of blood splattered around the hydraulic press all that remained of Ouma. Kaito spilling out of his capsule onto the floor, smiling despite the blood dripping from his mouth.)
Who had he helped? No one who'd been killed. None of the others who he'd convinced to die with him instead. The whole class of sixteen dead despite all his best efforts, despite Kaede's wishes for him to put a stop to it all so the rest of them could escape. So what if he'd figured it out in the end? It was too little and too late. He didn't manage to save anyone.
He wouldn't be any more useful here. He'd fucked up, he'd left Bart fighting alone--
It's hard to say whether that thought drags him from the morass of memories of the game or whether it's just a coincidence that he wakes up then. Probably the latter, given he's hardly jumping to his feet to help. No, he barely moves, scarcely managing to groan and turn his head away from the dirt to stare blankly up at the grey sky.
He should want to vomit, remembering everything so clearly all one after the other. But there's no nausea -- it's probably a sign of how fucked he is by now that his stomach is so steeled to corpses -- there's only a deep, deep misery, like a pit he can't imagine ever climbing out of, his own uselessness and the futility of everything numbing him to the sounds of the battlefield even as he fully comes to.
He should get up, but it's just so much easier to not. He could just lay here until one of these monsters or masked assholes kills him or something. It would save everyone the trouble of having to look after him.]
lots of drv3 spoilers
(Rantaro collapsed on the ground, skull smashed in and blood pooling beneath it. Kaede hanging, still swaying with the momentum she'd been jerked around with. Ryoma's small body floating, already lifeless even before it's torn to pieces. Kirumi viciously slashed and sliced and finally dropped and broken. Angie and Tenko, matching stab wounds in the back of their necks, blood leaking from Korekiyo's eyes as he's boiled alive. Miu's horrified post-mortem expression with her hands still clawing at her throat, Gonta's large form burning. An ocean of blood splattered around the hydraulic press all that remained of Ouma. Kaito spilling out of his capsule onto the floor, smiling despite the blood dripping from his mouth.)
Who had he helped? No one who'd been killed. None of the others who he'd convinced to die with him instead. The whole class of sixteen dead despite all his best efforts, despite Kaede's wishes for him to put a stop to it all so the rest of them could escape. So what if he'd figured it out in the end? It was too little and too late. He didn't manage to save anyone.
He wouldn't be any more useful here. He'd fucked up, he'd left Bart fighting alone--
It's hard to say whether that thought drags him from the morass of memories of the game or whether it's just a coincidence that he wakes up then. Probably the latter, given he's hardly jumping to his feet to help. No, he barely moves, scarcely managing to groan and turn his head away from the dirt to stare blankly up at the grey sky.
He should want to vomit, remembering everything so clearly all one after the other. But there's no nausea -- it's probably a sign of how fucked he is by now that his stomach is so steeled to corpses -- there's only a deep, deep misery, like a pit he can't imagine ever climbing out of, his own uselessness and the futility of everything numbing him to the sounds of the battlefield even as he fully comes to.
He should get up, but it's just so much easier to not. He could just lay here until one of these monsters or masked assholes kills him or something. It would save everyone the trouble of having to look after him.]