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        He propped his hand up with gauze atop a towel.

        In neat, brief lines he'd scrawled a circle around his wrist. 'Cut here.'

        He'd tied his arm, knowing that it would make the amputation less painful. He was a remnant, sure, but not quite a despair. He didn't want to be pleased for the likes of her. The woman he hated so much.

        The final towel occupied his mouth, already clenched between his teeth.

        Left hand. Nagito had always been right-handed, anyway. It wouldn't be a problem just to lob the other off, right?

        His hand trembled lightly - fear or excitement? - as he brandished the knife. The butcher knife was the closest thing he could find.

        As soon as he'd salvaged the hand - a lucky find amongst the crushed remains of Junko's body - he'd decided it would be a wonderful fit.

        While he wasn't exactly a despair, the feeling still gave him the same, killer high as it did the others. The only difference is that hope still came at a far more euphoric philosophy. He was both. 

        Besides. He'd rather be both than neither.

        Just look at Kamakura.

        He grimaced just at the thought. Disgusting.

        Masochism didn't extend far into self-inflicted wounds. This wasn't for pleasure, no. But for that odd, alluring despair he so despised. Or - maybe not that. Maybe spite.

        He'd carry out the name of hope using her hands.

        Hey. That's almost symbolic.

        Would it make him a slave to despair?

        If he wasn't already.

        His teeth clenched as he raised the knife to eye level, eyes drawing wider as he eyed the mark he'd left .

        If he was precise he wouldn't hit bone. Well, not too much bone. He could sever the hand.

        For a moment, he stopped, hand still suspended in the air, brandishing the blade.

        ...Ah. Why am I doing this...?

        Through the towel, he choked up a laugh, smile growing wider still.

        Despair... hope...! To worship her and her disgusting movement. To spite her with her own, repulsive hand.

        He'd always have her close. Her watching him. He couldn't tell.

        Was this an act of despair?

        Or an act of hope...?

        His laughter subsided, before suddenly resurfacing with greater, farther from sane overtones. All muffled by his towel.

        Ah, of course! He'd been so stupid!

        This was an act of both. And he had absolutely no reason to hesitate.

        Could he live like that? A hand in either world?

        He could. He would!

        A servant to the world itself.

        He sat up straighter, teeth biting closer and closer. Ah. The tie wouldn't stop this from hurting, would it?

        No, it wouldn't.

        But all he could do was smile.

        Sacrifices were made for the things you worshipped.

        The things we do for hope.

        Knife met table.

        At first, all he felt was a smothering numbness. Pain only came after.

        But he screamed all the same.