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scar tissue

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He sat cross legged on his bed, if you could even call it that. The barren cot in his cell barely constituted as a bed, but it was better than nothing. He ran his fingers down his arm, tracing some of the still visible scars. Most of them were gone, treated away after he’d returned from a mission.

There was a few he refused to let go of. They reminded him he was alive, that everything he was doing now wasn’t for nothing. It was important. Even if his sentence creeped down ever slower, it was still high up there since the incident. He still remembered bits and pieces of his life before, holding on to the small memories of Akira. He still didn’t know entirely what they were to each other, but he was getting closer.

Ryuji had told him something, not everything. Ann had managed to cover his mouth before he said anything more. She had hissed into his ear to give it time, that he barely remembered who they were. She was right, Mishima barely remembered who they were. He had distant memories of a flash of blonde hair, a toothy grin, a broken nose. And a scar. He remembered a scar very clearly, but not one that he had.

He had to know, he just had to. Whose scar was it? If it wasn’t his, or Ann’s, or Ryuji’s, then who? It was his mission to find out. He watched everyone in the ‘Con, eyeing them every time their clothing shifted. Nothing. He never saw anything. He was desperate, it was something that was all consuming, the burning desire to know.

It wasn’t him, at least he didn’t think it was him. All his scars were jagged and old, the one he remembered was clean, a crisp line on the skin. He traced his fingers over the jagged healed skin again. “Guess I’ll never know, huh Akira-”

Mishima stopped, and whipped his head towards the door.


He hadn’t checked. He scrambled off the cot, nearly tripping over his own feet and grabbed his accessory’s arm. He shoved the fabric up, wrinkling the jacket as he tried to get past all the layers. God why did he give him so many layers, that was unproductive. He flipped his arm over, the skin smooth save for clean cut on the underside of his arm.

“Of course, it was you. It’s always you.” He mumbled to himself and dropped his arm. The fabric stayed, jumbled up against his arm. “But who are you?!” He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it in frustration. Why couldn’t he just figure it out? Obviously whoever he was, he was important. No one would tell him, every time the subject came up it was like everyone was walking on thin ice. Ann was always the leader of the operation, quieting Ryuji before he could get any real answers.

He grabbed Akira’s shoulders, pushing him into the metal door of his cell. Let everyone watch, he didn’t even care. Some life returned to his eyes, shock, he looked shocked by the sudden movement, his face even moving a bit. This had been happening more and more lately, maybe one day he’d even just tell him who he was.

“Who are you?” Mishima demanded, shoving him in to the door again. No response, not even a twitch in his face after that initial spark. “Why won’t you tell me. Why won’t anyone tell me!”

Lips moved, an approximation of speech. It stopped him in his tracks, loosening his hold on him. He could barely read lips, and they were moving so minimally it was even worse.

“I….” His voice, a real one, not just the mechanical commands that the ‘Con sent through. “I am….”

Mishima hung on his every word, quiet as they were. “Please refrain from rough handling of your accessory in the Panopticon.” Shit. He let Akira go, banging his fist into the metal behind his accessory. He slumped against him, one arm thrown around his neck for support. This was just too much, why did they have to ruin everything.

“I am Akira….” The words were soft, hoarsely whispered into his ear. Mishima jolted upright, looking at Akira for any signs life. There was nothing, not anymore, his eyes unseeing again, head tilted towards him to survey him again.

At least this time, they were getting somewhere.