<div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/e/e9/Isashi_Arima.jpg)</div><strong>Arima</strong>(https://docs.google.com/document/d/16bpgRwcrWneG9X-DvpTDuJJREmvdvhi3VENbf_hIUOQ/edit)<br/><br/>Arima's awakening was not so peaceful.  He was sweating slightly in his sleep, stirring.  In his dreams, it seemed the scene of his death played out again and again.  It was only a few moments, but the horror of it was burned into his mind.  A wall of fire, white hot shreds of steel, and balls of molten glass shimming with lethal beauty, racing towards him as it enveloped the train.  People, chard to the bone, or ripped apart, by the explosion, in the split second it took them to begin to scream.<br/><br/>Arima's dreams were strange.  Sometimes, the scene played out as he remembered it, a split second of cinematic apocalypse.  Others, he watched in slow motion.  More often than either, he saw the scene as if animated in a variety of styles.  Most often, it was an intricate and elaborate line drawing of his own death.  Or ink.  Or...<br/><br/>A sound on the P.A. And Arima jerked awake with a startled scream.  The young man saw a blanket sheet off of his body, no wounds, no burns, no pain, no...  “What the<em>hell?</em>”