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( ONE. )
Some part of you expects (even wants, if only for some kind of release) to die on this island. It plucks you up and deposits you with a whirl and a flourish, not unlike how you've always been, with a pink rabbit excitedly calling out -- "this is our heart-thumping field trip!" And it feels like you're constantly tugged and pushed, strung up (by your joints; wrists, elbows, shoulders, knees, one looped elegantly around your slim neck) and yanked along like a puppet, like you're separate, not really a part of this or anything else. This cycle of fluctuating bad and good luck... sometimes it seems like you are nothing more than a figure on the sidelines, watching with features pulled taut.
This is just another facet to your every day collection, pressed tight like panels of glass -- you've built your world around it, had it built up around you without a word of acceptance passing your lips, never asked for this that they call your "talent"; and as much misery as it brings you, as it brings others, it's also the only thing about you that means anything at all -- and you aren't sure whether this island will constitute as good luck or bad.
Tell yourself you're just looking for a flicker of hope throughout it all; thought that's what Hope's Peak was for you, a possibility, a chance, but here you are surrounded by your classmates (they make you feel so very small in comparison) and you think, it isn't the school that is the hope you've been searching for; it's all of them. The Super High School Levels you've always looked up to, always adored, stared at with hands clasped in front of your chest (and you open wide, bare yourself, your heart, smile easily and say they can take it if they want, if it could help them at all) and always knew you were nothing more than a rabid fan hoping for a chance glance, never on the same level, merely cast in the shadow of their glory.
But standing in their shadow is more than you ever earned, anyway.
(You meet Hinata and something about him is achingly familiar, something about him sings and hums of potential and you can't downplay your interest and curiosity for yourself, but to him you are all bright eyes and sweet smiles -- "I'd like to tag along, if that's okay." -- and it's strange, a little disappointing, that he can't remember his talent and you haven't a clue what it could be either... but at the same time, it's a little exciting. A mystery you're sure you can solve, with time, if his memories continue to fall through.)
And when you're stopped, caught short, hung up and open with your feet struggling to touch the ground by a black and white bear who laughs at all the wrong times (says "mutual killing" with his never-changing features, but you can imagine him smiling wider around each syllable, like the words are old friends) and you --
Are not scared, despite the face you put on for your classmates.
The wheels in your head are turn-turning, because he says it's kill or be killed, kill or stay here forever, on this island locked away from the rest of the world. And you're thinking, that won't do. Not at all, because these are meant to be the symbols of the world's hope, these super high school students, with all their talent and possibility. They are meant for so much more... so much more than being stuck on an island with no hope for return, no hope for rescue.
If there must be sacrifices in order to let them achieve their purpose, so be it.
They all chime together with words of refusal -- we won't kill anyone, you're crazy if you think we'll do that -- and you watch, hum along with them, spout off words of friendship and trust, and you aren't... you aren't lying. Look around at the faces surrounding you, and think that you don't want them to die. Would gladly sacrifice yourself if it meant them going on, if it meant even a sliver of possibility that your sacrifice could help them in some way. And besides, your life wouldn't be much of a loss anyway, would it?
They all think you're trustworthy, harmless, maybe not all that bright (and you can't be, can't compare to the way they shine, you are nothing but a dull pebble staring in the face of diamonds) maybe a little off-kilter, a little bit of an oddball. That suits you just fine. Let them think you can do no wrong.
Let them think you are innocent when you feign disappointment when you're left with cleaning duty of the old cottage for Togami's suggested party (your luck doesn't let you down again when you all draw straws, as you expected) and when you seal a knife to the underside of the table, when you arrange everything so carefully that it falls like dominoes, and the last one clicks with the power shutting off. You feel your way back to where you'd left your weapon amid the surprised cries of your classmates, think this is what needs to happen for the good of the group, the good of the world -- and Togami knocks you back, and you scramble, frown, and then when the lights come of there he is, fallen, clothes staining red - red - red.
Ah, so Hanamura took matters into his own hands, after all.
Meant to kill you -- you're certain of this -- gouge some holes in your chest, and you would have let him, would have even preferred yourself be killed rather than Togami, but it seems that fate wasn't in the cards for you. Seems you were lucky.
There is a hollow satisfaction at seeing the pronounced shock on everyone's faces at the trial when your pretense wears down under Hinata's careful reasoning (too slow, can't you put the pieces together a little faster?) and you breathe heavy, laugh long and loud, feel a buzzing at the back of your head and a humming in the center of your chest because there is something -- so -- exciting! -- about them finding out like this, about you finally being able to spread your hands and tell them precisely what you think, precisely why killing is necessary, inevitable, unavoidable, in their very dire situation.
Do they not understand their options here? There are only two -- kill, or stay here forever. Maybe they are content to shirk their responsibilities (can't let yourself think that, maybe they just don't realize, because they cannot in good conscience be happy in letting the world fall to ruin without them) and live here in some fragile sense of peace, but you are here to show them exactly why they are wrong. Perhaps that's your true purpose here.
It comes down to: Them, or Hanamura. If they convict you, falsely, as the culprit, you all die and he goes free. And that's fine, if he's willing to carry the sole burden on his shoulders, but as the trial progresses you start to think he really isn't cut out for it. You weave a web of despair and wrap it tight around them so they can claw their way out, so their hope can shine all the brighter because of it, and he just isn't willing to fight. So you let them come to their own conclusions, let Tsumiki speak up on your behalf, smile slow and wide when they all turn their gazes of suspicion, of hatred, sometimes, on you (feel a slow fall, a pang, you never wanted to isolate yourself from them, never wanted to feel so unanimously despised, but that is a price you must pay) but they vote for Hanamura, and you watch when he dies, how the rest of the group seems to dim and flicker.
Watch when that fear, that heavy abandon, serves to make them spark brighter, and think -- that's more like it.
When you are young you find it nestled in the space beneath your tongue; lace your chubby fingers together (rope them behind your back) and hum soft beside your mother. You angle your head up and smile at the plane of her shoulder when she turns and leaves, drag disappointment between the edges of your teeth and discard it. You are a happy child simply because you exist.
You are a happy child with one hand wrapped tight in your mother's (your smile slips when her hand does, brushes against your skin and leaves it cold when it's gone) with the roar of a plane engine in your ears. You are wide eyes and bated breaths and parted lips when you see her (them, mother, father) on their knees with guns pressed against their temples; you are a scream ripped silent from the raw flesh of your throat when something strikes the top, and the metal roof of the plane is folding in under the weight of it -- and the whole thing comes careening back down to earth.
You are a lucky child, they say, when it's in shambles, people are in shambles, blood and bodies everywhere. You stand alone amid the wreckage, tighten your fists. Lucky, lucklucklucky. What good is luck when you alone reap the benefits? What good is luck when it hurts other people? But they treat it like a miracle, and you frown at their words of optimism and positivity, can't stand to see their smiles when they talk about the sole survivor of this tragedy. But you are a happy child (lucky again, they say, when they hand you over your parents insurance; can't possibly be enough to appease the loss you've suffered, but maybe it's a start) and you won't complain.
And they'll all ask, how do you get by?
And you'll smile with bright gapped teeth, kick your legs, say: "I hope."
( TWO. )
You craft words for them like pearls on a string, sing hopeful praises and drag normal people through the garbage -- worthless human trash just like you. Want them to get it, understand how they are all special, and because they are special they have certain responsibilities. They could be the best of all of you, could be the saviors of the world, yet half of the time they don't act like it, don't act like they care... and that feels fundamentally wrong to you.
Nothing can compare to them, least of all you with your wire-scratch voice and eyes that gleam at all the wrong moments, but still you're sure you can make them listen eventually. Through whatever means necessary.
And it's frustrating, because if it were you, if you had been blessed with their talents, their skills, their overwhelming hope, you would have made the most of it. Would have taken that burden squarely upon your shoulders however frail and made the world all the better for it. Would have made sure you were deserving of the gifts you were born with.
They are all so ungrateful.
Still you're committed to helping them, you'll do anything! Assist them with murders, even help them to murder you -- you'd gladly die for them! "Just let me help you," you say, "I want to be of use to you." And then Nidai is yelling in your ear, shut up! Souda's repeating: Shut up shut up shut up! You feel something collide -- smack -- with the back of your head and then you're out cold.
Wake up bound and your first instinct is to panic - you have to get out, because this is too similar to a memory you've tried and tried to forget but you calm yourself down (think about it rationally, tell yourself, it'll be okay). They've put you in the lodge where Togami was killed, and you give a sick-sardonic smile. Maybe you deserve this, then, maybe this is your penance. You wonder if they'll leave you here to starve to death, and if they do, who will be considered the murderer?
If they expect you to think about your actions and come to regret them, they'll be sadly mistaken. You don't regret any of it, would easily do it again, ten times over, and if they would just listen they would understand -- it's a sad necessity.
Koizumi comes first and nervously, never quite meeting your eyes - but she is bearing food (of course she won't feed you, and you don't blame her -- it is embarrassing, isn't it?) and she's the one to mention the game; you nod along and spill your own thoughts of curiosity. You're a fan of the Twilight Syndrome series as it is, but perhaps this could be Monokuma's new motive? She leaves with a thoughtful frown, you watch with a knowing smile.
Hinata is sent next, eventually. Ah, so they don't intend to let you die. Probably wiser on their parts if they're so desperate to avoid trials (and you know they won't, no matter what, more deaths will happen -- you're certain of this) and you wonder, not for the first time, just how long it will take before your life ends here.
You've never expected to leave this island in anything but a bodybag.
There's a heavy tension in the air even as you smile, make light conversation, drop hints -- you really think he should play the game Monokuma gave them all, even if he isn't planning on it. It's not all that surprising when he leaves; doesn't take long to get fed up with you, but you can tell the things you've said have wormed their way in. ("Don't you want to find out the motive yourself, Hinata-kun?") You'd be willing to bet he'll play the game just like you want him to.
He doesn't feed you before he leaves, which strikes you as a bit harsh.
Monomi is easily swayed, easily manipulated (you look at her with distaste, disdain) but she agrees to release you with barely any prompting. The others balk at the sight of you roaming freely (you smile easy, happy, thank Nidai and Souda for being so gentle with you) and your first stop is to play the game yourself. It isn't all that difficult to figure out, even if you aren't a Super High-School Level Gamer like Nanami. You bypass the first part and go to the second rather quickly, and the entirety of it gives you pause.The death rings a note of familiarity, after all -- Koizumi was killed the same way. How fortunate that you were able to get out just in time to help with the investigation.
You gather everyone from the credits (sans Kuzuryuu; you file his name away -- listed twice -- in the back of your mind to reflect on later; you're sure it's relevant somehow) and invite Hinata and Nanami to talk with them as well. Don't get much info, not as much as you'd been hoping. Saionji acts suspicious, but you aren't convinced she could be the killer. When the trial comes along, it doesn't take long for Hinata to side with you (even unknowingly, which is the best part -- you're always pleased when he finally starts fitting the pieces together the way they're meant to be) and soon fingers are pointing not at Saionji but at Pekoyama.
She fools you too, find yourself pressing the switch to vote her as the culprit as she stands with her mask talking about law and justice -- then the votes are cast, and she's looking down, smiling something triumphant. And you realize how many pieces didn't quite add up. Is this it, then? Maybe you'll all die now, including Pekoyama, leaving Kuzuryuu alive as she claims to be his tool, his sword, his shield.
Watch with bated breath as Kuzuryuu struggles with his decision; you can sympathize with him, it can't be easy -- to win and sentence them all to death, or to save them all and live with the possibility that more will die. And either way, he loses his trusted bodyguard. You can sympathize, you suppose (maybe not empathize because you're sure there's not a person alive who'd be willing to sacrifice themselves to save you) but it's exciting! Such a twist, you had no real idea coming into this trial that such a turn of events would occur. If nothing else you're appreciative for the chance to witness this, and you wonder what kind of hope will win out over the other in the inner war that is being waged within Kuzuryuu.
In the end he saves them all (should you be relieved or disappointed?) and Pekoyama's punishment begins. You all watch as Kuzuryuu pushes past the swordsmen to get to her, watch as she folds herself around him, watch as their blood stains the ground beneath.
You think -- what a waste! Only one needed to die, only one flame extinguished. But Kuzuryuu is still alive, and Monokuma takes him away for treatment. You stand at the back of the group as you always do, watch with hooded eyes and a half-smile because you're thankful, like the rest of them. Though perhaps for slightly different reasons.
There are questions lodged in your classmates' eyes when they glance at you with drawn brows, fingernails that dig into their palms (ah, yeah, you know that look well, see it on every face, have seen it for a while; to them you are a rat scurrying through a sewer, an insect picking through the garbage. you welcome it. accept it. call it inevitable.) like -- what happened to make you this way? And you could tell them many things, not lies although they might think otherwise. You go through the list in your mind, and think, sure, you could tell them plenty of things --
(Like feeling hands around your bony wrists, too small, too frail, pressed against the inside of a garbage bag with the musky-sweet stench of tobacco filling the creases. And kicking your legs out, taking panicked breaths, feeling the plastic form around the lines of your lips, and crying, crying, that's all you were ever good for back then. Too young to realize tears do nothing but make it harder to breathe, too scared to keep yourself quiet. And feeling - alone, unwanted, unneeded, knowing you'll die out here at the hands of this man, suffocated in a trash sack.
Could tell them how now, even well over a decade later, you still wake up and can't breathe, still can't watch movies featuring kidnappers or serial killers because you know good and well that there are people out there who will string you up and gut you and you are still scaredscaredscared.
And pausing (a brief respite of choking and sniffling) when your fingers wrab around crinkled paper, and holding onto it in the dark like it's a lifeline; and blinking hazily when the bag opens and you're exhausted and out of breath and the light is too bright, and you still have the paper tucked tight in your grip. And hearing exclamations of relief, first (you're alive), and then shock (what's that in your hand?)
It's a winning lottery ticket, and you accept your prize with blank-slate eyes and a smile that falls flat but looks good enough on camera, anyway. Can't bring yourself to feel surprised. There is the bad, and there is the good. An endless cycle that you cannot escape.)
(Like taking a visit to your doctor and having him remark on your weight because you are withering -- to -- nothing; and you say you feel fine in between counting your ribs, in between taking breaks after every menial task.
He pulls you under, prods you, draws your blood out and you watch it with a strange kind of fascination, one that rocks you with tremors because you're remembering their blood, pooled at your feet, remembering how you wondered when your parents stopped being your parents and became bodies, shells, empty.
Tells you you're sick; malignant lymphoma. And you say -- ah, that's too bad. He says that isn't all, you've got frontotemporal dementia, too. Marked by behavioral changes, loss of empathy, lack of judgement and inhibition... lists things off and you aren't really listening anymore. "That's too bad."
He's got sad eyes, says you're so young. And gives you half a year, maybe a year if you're lucky.
You smile.)
But you don't tell them, because you don't know if you'd say those things changed or shaped you in any way, you feel the same. Feel like you. And you're just trying to do what's best for them, what's best for the world... why can't they see that? Why can't they see you aren't doing this for yourself (but then sometimes you dream about them looking at you and smiling rather than turning away, sometimes you dream about them saying something like "Komaeda, Super High-School Level Hope") but for everyone else?
Hinata is the only one who hears those private parts of you; can't say he believes them, because you laugh them off, ask if it gained you any sympathy.
His jaw works, he opens his mouth to speak; usually he gives up and leaves (he will never understand you, and you both know it) and when you watch him go, maybe you have sad eyes, too.
( THREE. )
They might scoff when you say you don't tell lies, when your lips are stretching all sincere and you dip your head and if they'd pay attention they'd realize -- when it comes down to it necessity prevails but there's always a sense of guilt there. Honesty is the best policy, you think.
Don't notice when your mind is growing fuzzy (rough like a static screen, buzzing in your ears, feeding you nonsensical words that you repeat and you're not entirely sure what it is you're saying and apparently no one else is either) and don't notice when your fever spikes, when you can't stop your hands from shaking, you're calling out -- "I'm not really Komaeda Nagito, it's an alias!"
And you wonder why it is you said that before you're on the ground shaking, mouth foaming like a rabid dog, and when you catch glimpses of your classmates standing over you, it's a little gratifying that some of them seem the slightest bit concerned.
You're pulled under, a flashing haze that makes your stomach churn and your head burn. Something has always been fragile about you, and now it's exploited, taken advantage of, leaving you held fast in the despair syndrome's grip. If you were lucid enough to think of such things, you'd likely be horrified at just how easily it took control of you.
But maybe that's to be expected. You would go down easier than most of the others, wouldn't you? Despite all your talk and your absolute worship of hope, you were not the one born linked to it like all of them.
Time is suspended, passes with fluttering, barely-there breaths and tears at the corners of your eyes; Tsumiki looming over you always on the verge of crying herself, but in your fevered state you can still note that something else takes over when she's saddled with the care of someone. There's determination in the set of her jaw and the line of her brows, focus in her wide lash-brimmed eyes. It's almost comforting, but you lose whatever scrap of lucidity you'd held onto, fall backwards into not knowing what's real and what's not. Everything feels unreachable, fake, nothing makes sense in your mind and on the occasions when you open your mouth the only thing that comes out is nonsensical rambling.
You don't want this to be the thing that kills you, but that first night you feel yourself slip close, close, close to the edge too many times to keep count of, where you can trace your fingers in the inky void of death; maybe it's a vision you've made up, but it smudges so easily, runs thick over you, tries to pull you down where you can't come back up again. There are threads that keep you here though, keep you held fast (they're thin, you can hear when each one snaps) and Tsumiki flutters nervously around you like a bird, and you expect her to take flight at any moment -- the tension she emits is almost tangible.
Somehow, though, when morning arrives you crack open sleep-worn eyes and you're still alive.
It barely registers, though, barely registers whose in the room with you, you're muttering: "Twin Miodas are singing to me… Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream…" Raise your hands above your head, your laughter chills. "So that's how it is… Mioda was in a twin duo…" You want to grab Tsumiki by the shoulders and shake her hard, even knowing all the while that none of this makes the least bit of sense. There's an urgency humming throughout you that you can't quite understand. "'Those two take turns appearing in front of us, using the advantage they possess as twins…" You make a soft noise of realization. "That explains why there are seventeen of us on this island."
You don't notice when Tsumiki leaves, only glance up and see Hinata, and everything about you is burning, is rolling, can't seem to find your feet. Looking at him makes your eyes cross, makes you feel like there's bruises pressed against the skin of your chest when you breathe. Can't help but notice your heart is beating very, very fast.
"I’m alone with Hinata… I don’t like being with you."
He takes your blunt words in stride, leaving you wanting to gasp. "Don’t worry. I’m going to get out of here, anyway. You just focus on curing yourself of that weird illness."
You know if you part your lips nothing but venom is going to escape even when your heart is -- drumming, soft against your chest and your long fingers are gripping the fabric of your hospital gown, and you swallow but your mouth is too dry. Your voice is low and strained when you mutter: "Yeah, now hurry up and get out. I don’t even want to see your face."
And it's not what you wanted to say at all.
When Monokuma comes through, finally, and clears your mind and you can think straight again and say what you mean you breathe a sigh of relief -- hear of Mioda's and Saionji's deaths almost immediately. It's the least you can do, to try and help discover the culprit since you've been so out of commission. This kind of thing is what you're here for, isn't it?
All it takes is a look at the rope, frayed near the middle, Tsumiki's words ringing in your head ("Mioda definitely died by hanging,") and you've got your culprit.
Trials are oftentimes frustrating, watching these Super High-School Levels jump from one clue to the next, scratching their heads as they go. You wonder just how it is that someone like you is able to so easily deduce the murderer, yet it takes them an absurd amount of time to even determine if Mioda committed suicide or not. Yet your smile is placid, and you throw in questions with a raise of your brow and a hint (a helping) of sardonicism -- they'll turn their glares your way and it's not like you're going to shy from their hatred. You've long accepted your lot here.
Owari is angry because Tsumiki is cowering, crying, her arms raised above her head -- she looks like a child, innocent, blameless, frightened.
You know better.
And you say as much, because her crime... her crime is one that you cannot forgive. The other murders were committed in the name of hope; and you were always willing to take the culprit's side if that's the way things worked out, allow the rest of them and yourself to die so they could walk free. But not her.
She wears her insecurities like a cloak and you see right through them; she cracks, lashes out, pulls at her hair, screams at each and every one of you, only to curl in on herself and shake and clamor and whisper, "Why won't you forgive me already?" And you're looking at her from where she stands beside you, and she reeks of desolation and you curl your lip because she's absolutely disgusting.
And murder in the name of despair is something completely inexcusable.
In the end she accepts the inevitability of her demise and Monokuma takes her away, but even after she's long gone and you're back in your cabin on your bed with your elbows on your knees and your head pressed down, something is sticking. Love, she said, it was all on account of the person she loved. It reminds you of something, brushes against the back of your mind, but you let it go, just like you let everything else go. You suppose you wouldn't know anything about that, anyway.
You hold a slim piece of paper between your fingers, it flutters when you move, makes your heart ache with each beat. Near the center the words grow larger, flow with a practiced, elegant script that you know was likely printed by computer but it somehow feels more personal - "Komaeda Nagito, Super High-School Level Good Luck." You read the words over three, four, fifteen times, and can't seem to make them relate to you. Kibougamine. Hope's Peak Academy. You cannot fathom this letter of invitation with your name on it.
We invite you to join our school as "Good Luck", it says. Such an interesting talent, they long to perform more research on it; and maybe if you were anyone else you'd question the legitimacy of this talent, because it's just a drawing, just a pool of all of the regular high school children. Lucky to be chosen, certainly, but Good Luck as a talent?
If you were anyone else, you'd be skeptical. But you have been dealing with luck your entire life.
Still there is nothing you can do or say to convince you that you have earned this spot, that you deserve to be placed among the hope of your generation, the hope of theworld. So you leave the letter unanswered, leave it sitting idle on the top of your nightstand, let it collect dust even as you glance at it every night before bed and every morning when you wake. It lodges in the center of your chest and twists; sometimes you think you're making the biggest mistake of your life, not taking up this opportunity. (Surely something great will come of it though, as it always does.) But you cannot... bring yourself to...
They call you a week before classes are scheduled to start, and you backpedal at their questions, tell them you weren't really planning on...
They insist.
And you cannot fight them, don't want to, you pull your knees up to your chest and burrow into them and think you're a liar if you try to say this isn't what you want; and you've never been a dishonest person.
Your first week makes your palms sweat and your heart pound; it marks the beginning of the bright faces of your peers (some inquire "Good Luck?" like it's something intriguing, something to be praised -- "Mm, I know it's a rather lousy talent," you make sure to say) that turn clouded and hazy the longer they talk to you. It marks the beginning of footsteps that turn outwards when you stroll past, and you think... this is the way it should be. It only makes sense, because they are all the best society has to offer, and you are trash (in a garbage bag, screaming) placed in their midst. How else should they react?
Your first month gives you bruises -- when you speak to the wrong boys for too long, don't notice how their brows draw together and how their jaws clench. Question when they tell you to shut up ("Why? Oh, sorry, you must not want to listen to someone like me -") and hear a thud when their fist connects with the side of your face and you fall. Sometimes you stand in front of your mirror and count with ones are brown and which ones are blue, and black. You're lucky bruises are the extent of it. Always lucky.
Your fifth month and you are alone, eating lunch on the edges of the courtyard, curled up in the shade of a tree, and even you realize how small and vulnerable you must look. You've been feeling small ever since you arrived, but that's a small price to pay for being allowed to walk amongst the world's hope.
There's a hum from in front of you, and your eyes move slowly (sluggishly, in surprise) up long, long legs, a thin waist (hands on her hips; red nails) and two matching ponytails. Her smile snags you, makes your head tilt. Her eyes are either the darkest or brightest things you've ever seen.
She bends down to your level, purses her lips, says: "Hi."
( FOUR. )
You wake slowly, disoriented, blinking out remnants of the gas that had knocked you all unconscious. The room around you is filled with strawberry motifs, you notice before Monokuma comes in and you turn, note that he always looks so boastful somehow. Maybe it's in the way he moves (unnatural, he's just... he should just be a toy, but you all know better by now) or the nervousness that fills the area when he goes quiet. You're on-edge, and only grow more agitated when he tells you the point of this little getaway. You'll be staying here until a murder is committed! And best to hop to it, too, because there will be no food until it's done, either.
Hinata is saying, even if we starve to death, it's better than killing our friends... a lot better.
And you ask, What? You're saying it's better to just die?
(What a despairing thing to say; you won't allow that to happen. You definitely won't.)
You're all running low on energy by the time the second day rolls around, but you don't have to wait much longer before someone gets tired of this lifestyle and decides to shake things up.
Nidai Nekomaru, having been "saved" not all that long ago by having his human body changed into a mechanical one, lies on the floor in pieces. You aren't particularly moved or astounded by this "death"; besides yourself, if someone was going to die, he'd likely be your first choice. Better a robot than any of the others. It's a harsh way of looking at it, but everything about this situation is harsh. Someone has to look at things as they are, less sentimentally than the rest of the group. It seems that task falls to you.
They're all running around attempting to investigate and you stand and watch and only grow more frustrated because they're going in circles, making no real progress. Rather than standing around waiting for them all to find something conclusive, you decide to take matters into your own hands, conduct a separate investigation. You ask questions, try to form some kind of idea of what happened in your mind -- but it's already clear what you need to do to complete this investigation and understand what happened. The one thing no one else has done.
You don't want to do it -- your hands shake just slightly as they rest on the handles of the door - and you bend your head, take a deep breath, pull them open. This is the only thing you can do for them, the only thing someone like you really can do that would ever be of consequence. Besides, if you're to put yourself in danger, it'll keep them from doing the same. Them, who you've done everything for, everything you could, all so that they might have even a chance of surviving, of becoming the hope that was promised to the world.
And despite everything you've said here, you don't want to die. But if you do, you can only try to make it count, make it help... if something like that is even possible for what would surely be a meaningless death such as yours. Maybe, though, maybe, it would help them out of this mess.
The door clicks shut with a finality that, somehow, makes your worries ease. You can accept the nature of this place, welcome this game of death with open arms whether you'll manage to be the winner or the loser. There's blood on the walls and bars up ahead of you, some kind of digital combination lock on the wall beside them.
Monomi greets you inside, and you survey her coldly; you trust neither she nor Monokuma, it would make no sense to. Her presence is merely a nuisance and you tell her as much, curtly remind her: "Just don't get in my way."
She says, surely you can't mean to play this game of death! And you wonder what else she expects you to do; you've come here, the door is locked behind the both of you. Should you curl up and wait to die? No, that's exactly why you have to do this. So all of you have a chance. What's the big deal, anyway? If anyone should die, it should be you, you've always been nothing but trash. She says: "N-no! Komaeda-kun, you aren't trash at all! No one in this world is useless or trash!" And you don't say anything. It's strange, that she's trying to act more like a teacher. You can't help but think it doesn't suit her at all. Besides, she's wrong -- this is the nature of the world. Those above and those below. You have always, always been the latter. Still, the thought of being useful to all of them, even by product of your death, is... exhilarating.
You survey the room further as she babbles along pointless drivel; load yourself up with necessary supplies and look to the bloody painted walls for clues, follow the steps as they're presented, and you can't help but find this all a little disappointing. For a "game of death", you were expecting something a little more... challenging. But the concept is poor, and soon you're turning the key to lift up those metal bars. How anticlimactic.
Instead of an exit, though, before you lies a revolver on a stand.
That stupid rabbit is whining, saying, maybe all of that was a joke... and hands you the letter she found when she arrived:
"Clear the puzzles of the Final Dead Room, and win the Game of Death.
This Game of Death... is no other than the Roulette of Death!
PS: The settings and difficulties for this Roulette are up to you!
But keep in mind that as difficult as your game is, correspondingly great or small rewards await."
So all of that was nothing more than a warm-up. You smile.
"This 'Roulette of Death'... it must mean Russian Roulette. It must mean for us to play Russian Roulette with that pistol over there, no?" As expected, Monomi is entirely against the idea of you going through with this; she's got her arms raised over her head, shouting: No! It's too dangerous! And you ignore her protests as you usually do, ask her to explain the rules since you're not very familiar with them. And she says, you simply load one bullet, spin the cylinder, put it to your head and pull the trigger. But don't do it! You have a one-sixth chance of dying.
You ask her, but is that really how you play it?
"I mean, a one-sixth chance of failure is rather boring, isn't it? Are you sure it isn't the other way around? You only leave one chamber empty... and the remaining five each have a bullet inside, meaning that you only have one-sixth chance of success... Hm, yes, that becomes a much more exciting game!"
You take the pistol in your hand, weigh it there for a moment, then place it against your head, nestle it in-between the strands of your hair; shrug off her concerns. "I mean, it’s not anything great, for me... after all, I do have Super High School Level Good Luck... If I really couldn't win something at one-sixth odds, do I really deserve that title? I mean, if I’m not lucky enough to survive something like that... you couldn't even really call it a talent. If I really do have Super High School Level Luck, then I’ll obviously be able to survive this! ...Am I wrong?"
I said, don't do it!
You pull the trigger.
The path in front of you clears, and you're led into an octagonal room; weapons line the walls -- swords, clubs, bombs, even a fridge full of poison vials. Monokuma is there, reaching out to you with files in his grip, congratulating you on a job well done. You beat the game with a one-sixth chance of survival! You really are lucky! So he gives you two things as a reward for risking your life: the Future Foundation file (think of it as volume two, he says) and a collection of yours and the other students' profiles from when you attended Hope's Peak.
The very idea of going to the same school as your peers is still... baffling, honestly. They probably felt so uncomfortable with you around; you feel the need to apologize to them even though they can remember it now no more than you can yourself.
When Monokuma and Monomi have gone you continue through the Octagon, surveying the various weaponry available -- when you see a window near the end of it (small, indiscreet) you can't help but venture over out of sheer curiosity.
You look out the window, and laugh until you're out of breath to spend.
Things are making sense now, you've got a skip in your step that probably doesn't fit the tone of this situation all that well -- clutching the files in front of you and grinning manically down at them. Your pulse is drum-drumming in your ears as you crack open the profiles, bring them close, hitch your breath when your eyes trace over the name "Hinata Hajime."
You skim his file -- and stop.
Read it again, two, three times. You want to throw it away -- say "What?" from between your teeth.
And when you return to him and Nanami, something has changed, shifted within you and it only takes him a minute to pick up on it. You have always had your coarse moments with him, times when you would leave your words grating against his ears like nails streaked against skin and walked away smiling while he was still trying to scrub the traces of you off. It was good for him, you thought, maybe he found some release in hating you as you found yours in holding tighter, in going back and forth between raising him up or grabbing his ankle as he steps and watching him fall right. back. down.
Still you bide your time, excitedly tell them about the findings of your investigation and how you managed to pass the Final Dead room. Nanami confirms that typically, Russian Roulette is played with only one bullet in the chamber. Who would have known!
Hinata, though, can't seem to stop interrupting you. It grates on your nerves, and you tell him, say: Hey, you've been kind of annoying this entire time, you know? Can you just let me talk?
He shuts up.
You're really just playing with him, though, beating around the bush until you get to the news you've been dying (and dreading) to tell him. Notice when the color starts to drain from his features, when the excited curve of his mouth leaves it gaping with confusion, when his eyes grow wider with disbelief. Of course he doesn't believe you, aha, none of them ever do. But you've never been a liar, and you think he knows, anyway, deep down. You can see it within him, that feeling that settles when you know what you're hearing is the truth, even if it's difficult to accept.
Well, you wouldn't want to accept you were nothing but a reserve course student, either. Especially since he'd gone this whole time thinking he had some kind of talent that was just eluding him. And you... you thought that, too. Thought that it would be something really special, really incredible, because Hinata... that's just the kind of person he struck you as, sometimes, even as there were just as many times you would catch his eye and think, we're really not so different.
And in the end, you aren't. Both nothing but stepping stones, there to help others on their way to greatness.
(Still, at least you never paid your way in to Hope's Peak.)
Before you know it, the trial has begun. You look around at the faces that have become so familiar to you, faces you'd looked upon with admiration... Now you feel nothing but disgust and resentment. To think, they'd all wasted their chances. To think everything you've done for them has been for absolutely nothing.
You should have known, really, that they weren't worth it. All born with the potential to shine, to light up this world, lead it out of the darkness and misery that has been folded into it -- and instead they let themselves be swayed, be pulled the wrong way. Fell down in the mud, scabbed their knees over and didn't even bother to try to pull themselves back out again.
The world has no need for them, for people who don't seize their opportunities, who don't care about the responsibilities passed to them.
You say, I don't want to die with all of you now, so I'll help you figure this out. Kuzuryuu is yelling, Oh yeah? And who was saying just a few days ago that they were fine with dying, you lying little shit? But he doesn't understand that none of them are worth even the menial sacrifice of your own life now. If they were still on a path for hope, still reaching toward it, you'd gladly die for any one of them. But there's only one left now who's deserving of any savior, and it isn't the murderer.
Tanaka is pinned down, backed into a corner but fights like a wildcat -- appropriately so, you suppose. It's not amusing; you're ready to have it good and over with, have been ready ever since you were handed that file, since you learned what everyone...
(It's all so unfortunate, it's a blow to the gut you're not sure you can ever recover from; but you suppose, you're never really planning to. Something like this... you could never possibly forgive.)
Well, you'll have time to digest that later; eventually Tanaka is admitting to his guilt (he didn't want everyone to starve; you can approve of such a motive, if only he himself had been a lover of hope maybe you could have helped him, spared him) and Sonia's pretty eyes are wet with tears (you can't feel sorry for her this time) and then he's dead and gone like the rest.
Normally, this would be the time that you'd look over at the remaining students, admire the way you thought hope was building up inside of them, just waiting to shine, coalesce into something more pure, more absolute, more perfect...
Now you remember the way Tanaka fell, and you're thinking: one down, six to go.
It takes time but the day comes when you very nearly let it swallow you whole; when it feels like the earth beneath your feet gives way, rises up, wraps you in a shroud that blacks out all the light from your skies.
You grew up with the word "hope" held close to your chest, mumbled nightly like a prayer, slung between your ribs and thrumming frantically with the beating of your heart.
She reached in and grabbed it, tore it down, smashed it with the heel of her boot, looked at you and smiled too-sweet. At first you fought her tooth and nail, pried at the hands she had wrapped around your skinny neck, dug in with your fingertips but hers always pressed a little sharper; at first you refused to admit defeat, kept your prayers in the forefront of your mind, for when you would almost forget because her eyes were deep deep deep and dark things that once you got lost in you couldn't pull yourself back out.
It takes time, but she has you right where she wants you (when she's there, when she bends down and sings near your ear and your shoulders slump, features relax, you open up and listen) and for the first time when your lips part it isn't to sing of the beauty of hope but the allure of despair.
When she's gone you are restless, you claw at your insides, scrub at your eyes, watch your lashes fall and breathe hard - hard, clutch at the material of your shirt dampened with sweat and roll and seethe in your hatred of her. You say you'll kill her in hushed breaths, over and over (repetition is key to remembering) and each day passes and you cannot. You cannot.
You do horrible things in the name of her you won't remember later -- they all do, too. They shoot and stab, tie up their loved ones and offer them up like pigs at a slaughterhouse (and watch as they're treated as such with feasting eyes and eerie smiles) cut away the very essence of who they had been, give it to her as penance, as sacrifice, let her fill their hearts up with blackness. You never give her your heart, you never give her yourself, because there will always be a part of you that screams at the sight of her, that wants to consume her as she has consumed everyone else, that wants to make her pay.
When she dies (good -- got what she deserved) you make your way with the others, collect parts of her like trophies. Some use it to hold onto what she once was, you use it to dominate what she once was, to feel like you have some sort of control. Hack her arm off (in-between the wrist and the elbow) and stitch it onto your own, a ragged gory stump that pumps and pumps and your blood fuses together and it's disgusting, but you've done worse for her. You owe this to yourself, do it for you.
Wrap a bandage around so no one can see the abrupt change in skin tone, the threads pulling the two together -- reach out your hand (Isn't it amazing? I successfully absorbed my greatest enemy, “SHSL Despair!") and see bright red fingernails.
You hate her, hatehatehate her.
Hate yourself.
( FIVE. )
They think they've got their plan wrapped up tight, confer together in secret circles and assume you'll know nothing of it because they can't see you. Well, you're used to being underestimated, but of course you're well aware they plan to capture you, tie you up so that you can do them no harm. Little do they know you don't plan to touch a hair on their heads -- not directly, anyway.
You decide to save them some trouble and come without any resistance.
Hinata goes with you (you call out, "Come on, let's go! We used to go around together all the time when we first got here, remember?" immediately after insulting him, doing everything but reaching out and slapping him right across the face, and you know you might as well have with everything you've said to him as of late) and even if he is talentless you find you enjoy this small time spent together, even if he is angry and won't give you so much as a straight look, even if he's silent as you go -- and not for the first time you feel curious as to why it is you feel so drawn to him. Is it because you feel you're similar, that you can relate? Is it that he loves and worships hope as you do, even if he won't quite so readily admit it?
When you glance at him you wonder how it's possible, but you no longer have time to waste on such trivial things -- you're running out of it, you can feel this deadline closing in quickly... You need to get all of this over with already.
So you walk in without trepidation, and as you expect, Owari is on you immediately; she's got her arms wrapped around your neck in a vice-like grip, and they're telling you not to resist and you're saying back: I'm not. They just don't get it, though, and you're losing faith that they ever will... And that's why, as you tell them -- this is the beginning of the end.
There's a flash of bright light that envelopes all of you in burning brilliance, and a roar as the force knocks you backward -- then you're standing up among the flames, breathing heavy in laughter, raising your hands above you and relishing in this first small victory. The first of many, if things go according to plan -- that is, if you're lucky.
(And luck is usually on your side.)
So you tell them, you've got a stockpile of bombs all set to go off around noon the day after tomorrow! They're hidden, of course, but as a special favor if the traitor reveals themselves now, you'll let them in on their location. It seems a fair trade off, doesn't it? But naturally no one comes forward; not that you expected anything else. It's alright, though, it's fine... You have faith in them - in the traitor - and faith in your own talent. Faith that it will work out as it should.
A day later and they're all scrambling while you watch with folded eyes and something like a martyr's smile; you suppose their behavior is understandable, seeing as you've told them the bombs that will blow all of you sky-high are set to go off soon. Owari meets you in the dining room (again, isn't she so violent -- you wonder if she put this raw energy to use for Her, too) and you barely get a word in edgewise before she's thrown you to the ground, has her hands wrapped around your thin neck, and she's squeezing, yelling -- "I'm not joking around anymore, where'd you hide the bombs?!"
You're smiling around the sound of your own gasps, muttering words you know will infuriate her, and her nails are digging in and her fingers are closing around your aching throat (she mutters, Fine then... just die.) and your vision is darkening, fluttering, and your heartbeat grows steadily softer -- there's a moment where you think, who cares? Maybe it's better I go out this way.
But the next thing you know she's released you, and you're coughing and pulling yourself up off the ground, looking at Nanami and the dark handprint she left behind on Owari's cheek. Give her a thanks she probably doesn't want for saving your life. They're all looking at you expectantly, and the truth is you want them to find this eventually (so long as it's a game, so long as they work for it -- otherwise what's the point?) so you relent rather easily, tell them all you've moved the bombs to a place they've visited at least once.
The bombs are set to go off in a short amount of time -- you suggest they all split up.
Make sure they're listening before you leave them to it, say in your hushed voice: "It’s all right... Everything is going to be okay... There’s no way that hope can lose... If it’s the total hope which can overcome any sort of despair, then there’s no way it can lose! And... I trust you guys, who I've spent all this time on this island with. And most of all... I trust my Super High School Level Luck. So it’s all right... If one truly believes in hope, then a path will be made clear."
(It's a complicated plan, takes a while to set up -- beforehand you've already grabbed the vials of poison from the small fridge in your room, swapped out the contents with one of the many fire extinguishers in the doll factory -- you breathe inside a gas mask, wonder how it's going to feel when it's curling its way down into your lungs -- and placed the poisonous extinguisher back among the others.)
Then when they're all distracted, you make your way back to the warehouse; look up at it and feel a firm resolve in-between shaking nerves. It's too late to go back now, not that you want to. Not after all you've done.
You start with the panels.
The others should all be investigating, looking for the "bombs" you've set up, finding the truck with its motor running, set to go off at noon. They'll be frightened, surely, panicking, maybe. You've told them that they can stop it -- that is to say, the traitor can stop it. All they have to do is step up, give themselves away. And you don't expect them to; you never did. It was obvious from the beginning they would refuse to do such a thing, so you've taken matters into your own hands. It seems you always have to do that where they're concerned.
When the fireworks inside the truck go off, make a colorful display against a gritty backdrop, and they're all marveling over the fact that they're still alive, that you lied (you're an honest person, but there are times when you have to put aside honesty for necessity) you've already set the Monokuma panels in a line from the door, flicked open a lighter and placed it at the end of the line, near the base of the curtains; watch it flicker and burn for only a split second before you move on.
And you've already slung a spear up over the ceiling beam by the time they're watching the second half of the video you prepared for them, tying up your legs tight while a mournful hymn fills the space around you. It's achingly familiar, achingly desolate. ("How was it? Were you startled? But really, think about it... where would I get bombs strong enough to blow up this entire island? And even if I could... how would I control them?") You're focused entirely on the task at hand, tugging the weight at the end of the spear down, down so that the sharp, glinting point is angled directly above you (your eyes settle on it and hold for one long moment, trace the edges, then look away) and then taping your mouth shut with your free hand afterwards.
("But what happened? Was the traitor revealed? From what I’m guessing... the answer is no. So, what really did happen? I’d like you to come tell me. I’m waiting in the warehouse next door, so come over there and I’ll see if my guess was correct. I’ll announce the identity of the traitor. All right, then... see you soon.")
Now you breathe in deep, grip the knife with the hand that isn't holding the spear aloft -- you move quickly, before you have time to stop yourself, slash it nimble, deep into your left arm, and the shock makes the weight slip through your fingers for a split second before you're finding a grip on it again, and there's warm blood on your face and your chest is heaving... But you force yourself to keep going. Your legs next, run the blade along the tops of your thighs (it burns as it goes, snags along your flesh and rips and tears) and watch as blood soaks your pants; and ithurts, you can't so much as scream, can barely move, can't do much of anything except cut, and cut, and cut. If the pain is anything to go by, you suppose, this could count as really, really terrible luck -- even if it's self-inflicted, right?
And your luck constantly balances itself out. With the bad... always comes the good.
(You can hear your own words in the back of your head, wonder what they thought of everything you said -- the last message they'll ever receive from you: "My role in this story is over now...")
You can only put your faith in this talent of yours, this gift that you've always considered trash. Can only hope it will be enough to hold through this time, just once more.
("But I have faith. That my actions will be the cornerstone of the hope of the world.")
Blood is the only thing you can see and smell anymore, all your own; your hand is slippery when you place the knife carefully, blade-up, inside the Monokuma doll, place it gingerly arms-length beside you. Another twist of your body, and you're slamming your right hand down against the blade, and it's shoving its way through your skin, past your tendons and bones, impaling your palm.
("And… if that indeed happens…")
Your mouth stretches against the tape, makes muffled sounds that would be screams if it were free; but you're done. You're done. Your part in this is over, now, and the only thing that you can do anymore is wait.
("Praise me.")
You've still got your grip on the spear and everything is blurry at the edges; you are shaking - trembling - quaking.
You hope they come quickly, because you're bloody and broken and you're ready to go, now.
("Tell everyone of my feats.")
Think you might hear the dull bang when the door is thrown open, sending the panels toppling down, but her song fills you up entirely (you think it only appropriate it should be the thing to take you away) and soon the room is ablaze, and you could be laughing -- could be smiling when you start to smell the poison (you're choking and you're scared, terrified -- you wanted a release but you never really wanted to die) when it coalesces in the air around you and gathers in your lungs and smothers you.
("Raise statues to me.")
The world is fading away, and in those last moments you feel inexplicably young.
("Worship me.")
The weight of the spear slides lightly out of the grip of your hand, and then it
drops.
("Call me... Super High School Level Hope.")