She would have died for them.

   Death. Was there ever a time where it did not surround her, almost as if a testament to her own mortality? Where the dead did not pile at her feet, where she could march onward without the accompaniment of a soldier’s final moments at her back? No, death was a song the brunette knew all too well, a melody that shattered promises and plans, hopefulness and hearts–a verse so common that it could now, over time, merely be labeled as routine. 

   And when fate had dictated that it was time to comprise the lyrics of their names, there was no ‘blaze of glory,’ like in the tales Mother seemed to so effortlessly breathe life into during story time. How long had it been, now? The memories, they felt so distant all of a sudden.

   Come to think of it, those stories–they had forgotten to mention the pain. The fire that would shoot through her frame in time with every panting breath, an agony that could cripple even the strongest of her classmates as they broke a sweat simply trying to hold their own weight. Those stories had glanced over the notion that death was not always swift or fair or heroic or noble or just; a romanticized reconstruction of something that could reduce even Class Zero to tears.  

   … They had left out the fear.

   Yes, Deuce would have gladly died for any of her beloved comrades. Instead, she had ultimately met her fated end alongside them. She supposed it was a fitting resolution, really. And while it would be an empty fabrication to claim that her bravery had not wavered in those final moments, they had managed to conclude their own story with smiles, laughter–even hope. And maybe, just maybe, that was the whole point.

   … Don’t you think… We were all destined to meet…?

   So, why was she here? Where even was here? Was this… Valhalla…? The musician’s head was weighed down with grogginess. Her vision, still blurred from a lingering trace of unconsciousness. Where was she? Where were her classmates? 

   “Is this… Am I dead…?”