Archive of Our Own

things that cannot save you

Shuichi is taken aback by the pitch black darkness that awaits after stepping out of the broken cage and into the outside world, so deep and uniform that it barely seems real; that perhaps isn't real, all things considered. He can't say.

There's something here that is not quite right. A lot of it. Most of it.

The next thing he's aware of is the low humming and beeping of foreign machinery, echoing noises, hurried shuffling of dozens of people speaking in subdued voices, That's it, we've got him, last one just went offline . Shuichi doesn't understand. His head doesn't hurt - it wants to split open and empty onto the tiles, but there's no hurt, no concussions or cuts or residue rubble.

The third thing he knows is that something heavy is being pulled off of his head, and that he's blinking, confused, taking in the sight of a wide, sterile room full of unknown instruments and technicians in white.

"Can you hear me?" A woman is asking in an artificially soothing tone of voice. She asks him a few questions.

He mutters his own name, vaguely feeling around for his missing hat, even though there's been no hat for a long while now, and attempts to process the things before him, failing to register the moment the IV needle is pulled out of his arm as he's helped up.

And then, slowly, not like being flashed by a sudden wave of colorful recollections but akin to steadily dragging his feet through thick mud, Shuichi starts to remember.

He was alone. They all were, which made things easier. This is one of the things he knows.

He was the last one to wake, they inform him, offhandedly, barely implying the lives mourned, none of them real. Just another kind of sleep. He was the last one to leave, after all, crossing the uneven threshold between the rubble on the heels of the two figures in red before him, so it makes sense that he’d wake last.

Shuichi recalls his life so far, despite the part of him that doesn’t want to, kicks and screams against all that is in the name of not wanting to; the same part of him that has always been terrified of the truth, of his and the others’ handling of the aftermath.

Was he always so afraid? He thinks he was, but his memories are murky and dreamlike, and the intensity of feeling comes with the lack of experience. He thinks that he was - perhaps fear comes to him naturally, without as much of a cause as with other people. He doesn't know. 

Shuichi focuses on what he feels instead, and supposes that he can go from there; hopes that he’ll end up somewhere nice.

He should be angry, probably, for being put on display like this, being forced to go through something like this, even after helping destroy it. He should be raising hell with everything he has, probably, calling for a revolution, instead of feeling tired.

Mostly, he just wants to see them again.

When he sees her, he knows it's her - knows that this is the her that has been watching him ever since she died, and that this is real, that she's real and not a body, blue in the face left hanging above the oversized keys in black and white, same ones that so often visited his nightmares, hand in hand with soft hands slipping through his, had him waking terrified of something that has never happened. She's wearing a plain pink sweater and jeans, and she's smiling at him.

Shuichi knows it's her, but there's still a leap in his stomach like it's all a lie, like she's here on borrowed time, bound to disappear in a puff of smoke if he looks at her too closely.

Then Akamatsu rushes towards him and sweeps him into a hug, nearly knocking them both over. "I saw it all, you did it," she says, "You revealed the truth, you got over your fear," and, "I'm so, so proud of you."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he sobs into her shoulder. Repeating it over and over, he doesn't know what he's sorry for; the full story that he didn't get, for all the people killed by his truth, or every thought that they could've made it sooner, made it together if he was smarter, or that all this doesn't even matter, anymore, even though it does, it does, "I missed you so much."

"Me too."

"I never got to…" He takes in a shaky breath. "There's so much that I want to tell you."

Akamatsu hugs him tighter, soft, and he's safe. "Me too."

There’s nothing they can do, anyway, or so they say. 

It's a routine thing, apparently: like all the other contestants, he receives a certain sum of money and a friendly warning that going to the police will accomplish very little other than causing complications on his end exclusively, and that, a little after the game ends, they'll send them all on their way. Until then, they're free to walk around the premises and watch the broadcast as they please.

This is a first, though; a difficult situation for all of the involved. There will not be any more games in the future, so some changes have been made, less money will be passed around, and this time the surviving participants will not be given an option to continue.

The word ‘option’ makes his stomach turn, as well as everything else about them, their word choices, their tone.

“I hope they die in bankruptcy,” Akamatsu comments once, angry and loud, and he’s glad that her contempt shows so easily; living through her thunder, when his own still won’t surface.

Everyone is still around, being cared for, until it's time to leave. After that, there's nowhere to go, but home, and Shuichi doesn't know what that is: he feels like his home might have always been other people.

They don't get anything else other than that; everything is over just like that. Go on with your lives, obediently and anticlimactically. You'll be adults soon, all messed up in slightly different ways than the rest of us are. Try and keep up with these feelings, an involuntary souvenir from a rotten world that never was. If you die of them, you'll be the first to know. 

The first thing he does when he's let outside is wander into the garden, sit on the first bench he can find, and cry his heart out, desperately, helplessly.

When he spots the familiar spiky hair and a smile that can move mountains, he doesn’t stand and stare. He was sure that he would, when picturing their meeting over and over in the little time that he had for it, after he learned the truth behind it all. The presumption of himself in his mind was always frozen, unmoving, stomach fluttering like it doesn’t plan to ever stop, but the real him ends up different than that.

Uncharacteristically, absurdly, Shuichi runs straight to Momota as soon as he sees him, without stopping to think. He leaps into his open arms and doesn’t even rattle him when they collide, buries his face in the crook of his neck, and breathes.

“Shuichi,” Momota tells him, one hand on his head, ruffling his hair, “You crazy bastard,” shaking with laughter or something else, “You ended it, you actually fucking ended it.”

“You’re alive.” He lets his fists tighten, balled up in the back of Momota’s shirt.

“Of course I am! I just went on ahead and left the rest to you, right? And, hell, have you done it in style. Just as expected from my sidek-”

“I love you,” falls out of Shuichi’s mouth before he can stop himself. 

A latent reaction on the trajectory between receptors and mind, Momota goes on squeezing him before he seems to register what he said. For a few seconds, he's as frozen in place as Shuichi expected himself to be, suspended in disbelief.

"He rejected you, too,” Harukawa tells him, blunt like always. The topic doesn’t need an introduction anyway.

"He didn’t answer," he says automatically.

"He didn’t have to." She gives a small, bitter smile. "I made him say it. But you didn’t."

Shuichi says nothing. He’d try to explain how he doesn’t want to push; after everything they’ve been through, it would be natural to elaborate his reasoning to his friend. He still says nothing.

“He rejected you, and you’re still on good terms like nothing happened.”

“We are.” Anything else would be counterintuitive to him. Harukawa probably doesn't get that. The ways in which the two of them go all or nothing into things are so different, after all.

Harukawa gives him a long look, almost sneering, looking down at him despite her short stature. They’re as close as at the end of the game, maybe more, but he can sense that this isn’t one of the things they can talk about anytime soon. When she turns around to walk away, she throws the words aside without much consideration, like the toss of hair.

“How half-assed.”

He used to think that deceptions mirror the observer; that, as long as you know nothing about the illusion, the only thing that you get out of the interpretation is something about yourself. That was his conclusion.

Now, as he is, Shuichi thinks that he might have overestimated Ouma, overestimated himself. The ability to hide; the ability to deduce the hidden. If he sees nothing, there must be nothing there. They're both human, he sees now, and the pieces of who Ouma was laid scattered across the playground, badly hidden - Shuichi just didn't think of the right places to look.

Momota believed in him, in the end. That should be enough.

"I owe you an apology."

"No, you don't." A grin, showing how much he enjoys hearing one anyway. It's annoying. Shuichi shakes the thought off. "What kinda liar would I be if I got mad every time I tricked someone?" He tilts his head, some of his expression fading. "Unless this is a lie, too, and you got it right the first time."

"No, I didn't. Let me say it, because I honestly-"

"Got you again! And so easily, too. Little did you know, I'm the real leader of the organization that kidnapped us. Shirogane-chan and everything else was all a ruse." Ouma's lips curl upwards. "You're so gullible, Saihara-chan."

Shoveling through the superfluous and the double meanings is exhausting. Not reducing Ouma to a background noise is exhausting. And yet...

"You... died for us. To help end it all." He's not getting distracted this time. Hopefully. Shuichi thinks back on the times they talked, the games and all those ridiculous threats, and resists the urge to bite into his cheek. "You and Momota-kun. He believed in you, didn't he?"

Ouma's face falls a little bit, so slightly that he barely catches it. "So, that's what this is about."

Shuichi isn't sure what that's supposed to mean, but he nods. "Yes. I'm... really sorry. I should've figured it out earlier, your true intentions. No one had to die." No one did die, but it doesn't change the fact that it all happened. He should have-

"Are we done here?"

"Huh?"

"I don't want secondhand forgiveness."

"I don't understand."

"You are so boring." Ouma looks up at him and shrugs, hands on his hips. "It was just a game, wasn't it? And I lost, and that's that on that. Momota-chan and I had way more fun than the rest of you, anyway."

Shuichi looks at him and still doesn't understand. He might be missing something important. Ouma might just be messing with him. It could be either of the two, and he doesn't know .

Ouma clicks his tongue at him. "You made me a bit angry there, just now. That might be a lie, so don't go around thinking it's not."

Shuichi opens his arms, frustrated. "What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing at all!" Ouma giggles, like he knows a secret he's not telling for the life of him. "Absolutely nothing! The game ended but we're still playing games and filling roles, and that's so dull I might just fall asleep. You're still my favorite, but in the end, you're still Saihara-chan."

He turns on his heel and hops away before Shuichi can do anything to stop him. Then he turns; raises a finger to his lips like nothing's changed, like they're still in the game and he's still lying about being a dangerous superior to thousands of people, and not just a boy, clever but as scared as the rest of them, if not more, pretending to be plotting to kill him one day.

"You still might wanna watch your back, though. You never know..."

"We could do something about it," Akamatsu tells him, "We could. One of the cleaning ladies called me a sweet girl the other day, I'm sure I could get some information out of her."

"Does she have it?" he asks, idly glancing at the others' faces. This is one of the things that changed; there isn't any more doubt between them. They know they're all on the same side, discussing things freely.

"I don't know," Akamatsu admits. "Maybe."

Maybe.

Shirogane still hasn't showed, and Shuichi doesn't want her to. Often, he doubts she even exists.

"Our looks were largely edited," he explains when asked about it. "Look at Kiibo, for example." The boy in question puffs his chest up, all grins and real cheeks and no metal parts at all. "Her appearance was changing so rapidly near the end as well; her height and weight and skin color. In reality, she could be anyone."

On the other couch, Chabashira shudders. "Imagine a middle aged, male Shirogane-san... Gross, gross, gross!"

"Well, I hope she's real," Akamatsu says stubbornly. "So I can slap her across the face."

This is one of the topics they're returning to fairly often, which makes sense: deciding on after , and their plans for the future.

"I want to have a garden," Chabashira murmurs. "With lots and lots of flowers in it."

"Gonta is not sure," their friend looks guilty saying it. "Purpose is... hard."

Hoshi smiles at him. "That's alright, kid. You'll find it. I went around thinkin' I have no one, but then realized that out here, we're all the same. Just the way it goes."

"But we've got each other, right?" Akamatsu says encouragingly. Shuichi looks at her and thinks of the sun.

He isn't saying anything, yet, because he doesn't know what goals he's supposed to be having. He wants to be forced into shape, to be told things are fine and believe it for once. He'd like a bandaid, but isn't sure where.

"I want to grow plants for magic potions in your garden. If you'll have me."

"Of course you're invited, oh my god! We're going to live together, aren't we?"

Yumeno looks down and doesn't hide her blush. "Yeah."

Shinguuji says, "I want to finish school," and this gets some of them thinking. Having their whole lives ahead of them feels strange. Shuichi is sure none of them feel very young anymore.

"Same here. Damn." Amami laughs. "I went from billionaire with twelve sisters to penniless orphan just like that," he snaps his fingers.

Momota isn't saying anything, either. He threw a few reassurances around, about how he'll be sure to think of something back when they started, but then closed in on himself for the rest of the conversation, eyes blankly set forward, miles away. He excuses himself shortly after.

Ouma and Harukawa are nowhere to be found. They both seem to be keeping to themselves, these days.

Shuichi finds him on the bench, the same one that he broke down on just after going outside for the first time. Momota doesn't seem to be hiding the half-empty bottle of hard liquor that he's holding, gaze fixed and distant in a way that makes it obvious that he's not looking at anything present.

Shuichi makes himself known with a, "Hey," and tries not to backpedal as he sits down next to Momota.

"Said I ain't gonna die before havin' a drink or going to space," his friend shrugs, a half-hearted excuse. "And I died but haven't, an' going to space isn't an option anymore, I guess. So, fuck this."

Will he get in trouble for this? Shuichi wonders if they're still being filmed, but dismisses the idea: surveillance or not, none of them are interesting enough now to be paid any real attention to.

Momota waves the bottle around. "Provided by the company. Store didn't seem to give a shit when I took it."

You aren't even old enough to drink, Shuichi doesn't say. What changed between then and now? Is this some kind of suicide prep or am I just reading too much into it, swayed with the fact that there is a lot to read into, things you're hiding just to protect?

He doesn't say any of this. Instead, he swallows.

"You told me not to give up, and you shouldn't, either. You can still finish school and go to space, make your dream a reality-"

"Isn't even my dream. Just a… thing. And I'm a fuckup, didn't you hear?" Momota considers the liquid left in the bottle, but leaves it. "You are, too."

"Momota-kun..."

"Why'd you call me that, anyway? Honorifics an' all. Like we're. Coworkers. Acquaintances or something."

This makes Shuichi pause. He didn't mean it like that. "I just wasn't sure-"

"You make a guy lose all hope, and then go confess like that. It's just. Messed up, ya know?" He grips the bottle's neck so hard that Shuichi isn't sure if he wants it to break.

"I'm sorry for inconveniencing you," he says, and it sounds even more stupid out loud than it did before it fell out of his mouth, like the contents of an impersonal email. He doesn't know how else to put it, though. He wishes he were different, better at this.

"What the fuck."

Shuichi shrugs.

"T'was brave as hell, though, sayin' it," Momota says, as if mind-reading. He keeps doing this, plucking nervous thoughts straight out of Shuichi's head, right on time to tackle. "Braver than I am."

"I shouldn't have," he says, and isn't sure why. Maybe it's that he'd deny it all, everything, if that's what it takes. He needs for things to be okay so badly.

"Don't you go back on it now!" Momota leans back, lowers the bottle, "Isn' even your fault."

But it is . Shuichi bites his tongue.

"I'm an idiot," Momota says. "Should've said yes."

Shuichi can't stop himself asking, "Why didn't you?"

He should know better than to ask for an explanation, now even more so, but something stirs within him; something that can't help looking for answers, even when they hurt.

"Well, 's not that easy, izzit?" Momota throws his arms up, a bit of liquid spilling out, sloshing against walls until it stills. It's good that they're outside. "Fuckin' hell."

"I'm not good enough for you," Shuichi asserts, not a question as much as an affirmation.

It seems to render Momota speechless for a split-second, before he barks, "You're too good for me, you idiot!"

“...What.”

“You,” Momota swallows, “Never fight with me, my, stupid shit, or show spirit, and just fucking go along like I'm something, I dunno. An' you don’t even need it. You're better, it's dumb." It’s jumbled and in fragments, but he gets the point.

It's a bit harder to believe what he's hearing. It feels like he's lost his footing, like gravity quit serving its purpose and is now slowly pushing him skywards, spacewards. Was this really how he felt all along?

"You're wrong," he says, "You are so wrong," but can't articulate it any further than that, completely baffled. "I- I'm not some kind of- I go along because I want to," he finishes, and it sounds stupid and lukewarm.

"Can’t like everything. Tell me off! Come at me, or-"

"I don’t need that!"

"You don’t need me ," Momota says, "just, think you do. Never needed me for a damn thing, it just, comes to you. Don't even wanna be a leader, an' everyone still wants you to, fucking, you ended fucking Danganronpa. And I…"

Shuichi opens his mouth, but only ends up closing it again. There’s so much he wants to say that he's rendered silent.

"I'd be dead now if it wasn't for you," he says quietly. He said it before, in his usual roundabout way, without really saying it, without adding the weight.

"I know." Momota sighs, one hand in his hair. "And I'm glad. That's the problem."

It's not fair.

Of course he's biting his tongue; he knows what it's like.

He's not blind to all the bullshit, he just loves him despite it.

He wants for someone stronger to take over and fix everything that his present self can not. He’s been to hell and woke up in white, and he still freezes over things like this.

This was a mistake. Shuichi is quiet as he slowly gets up from the bench, picks the bottle up from the ground and takes a swing and doesn't think of indirect kisses and missed chances. The taste is sharp and sour and it burns.

you are trapped on the earth so you will explode

"Well, would you look at that. I fuckin' survived."

He didn't expect this at all.

Kaito can't exactly say that this is a first, wrestling with the unexpected, even though he's a hero, fearless and strong, prepared for anything and everything that comes his way, however difficult and disheartening.

He was prepared for dying. He wasn't prepared for this.

He was convinced that he did well, helping the weak, leaving the world to the people he trusts to go ahead for a while without him, with the belief that the game is over and they won. But then, he's ended up here, not having accomplished anything as grand, not even having left the damn rock. He hasn't touched the stars, has not reached even the things far closer than the entire universe, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do anymore.

Kaito knows who he is, and who he's not, but the two images clash violently, shake hands in other regards, substance mixed with empty style so that they’re near impossible to separate in any meaningful way. He doesn't know who he is.

He's Momota Kaito, and this is all bullshit.

Because, at the end of it, he killed the wrong person, got confessed to by the wrong person, and then died under the wrong circumstances.

And he didn't even die.

Everyone looks scared, more than anything, an air of gloom and resignation after having gone through watching another execution hanging above them when he steps in. Kaito clears his throat.

"And what's up with all your faces, huh?" Like someone died, jeez , says Ouma's voice in his head, sneering. The real Ouma says nothing, just looks at him, expression blank.

"It's gonna be fine. A man's honest word! You saw us out there, that plan was fool-proof! The mastermind is shitting his pants right now."

He doesn't really get an answer, but some of his friends seem to lighten up, and that's something, at least.

It’s ending. Kaito can feel it. This is going to end the right way. They’re doing good.

Ouma was just a few steps ahead of him, awake and well as the rest of them - at least physically. Kaito takes in the sight of his pale limbs, unmarred, no poison or arrows, looks at him whole and breathing steady, an elaborate grin dancing on his face. The impossible little fucker. It was a good decision to trust him, in the end, this sorry nuisance and saving grace.

Kaito can't believe this shit.

Ouma likely notices him about to say something stupid, because he interrupts with, “Good morning, Momota-chan! I watched you fuckle it up on the big screen. Poor Harumaki-chan… And you even failed getting executed! What a way to go.”

Anger comes back like it’s never even left him. It feels good.

“Shut up, you piece of shit. It worked."

“That it did.” Ouma touches his face, reconsidering. “Well, not quite as planned, since, you know, we're here now and Saihara-chan saved the day - or ruined it, depends on who asks. But, I'd say it served its purpose.”

Yeah, right. He did, though. Does. “So what, is this the fuckin’ purgatory?” Kaito says, joking; he knows what this is. He has no idea. Nothing's been making sense ever since they woke. Kaito doesn't believe in heaven or hell, but it feels like it, all the same. He hates being nothing.

Ouma ignores him. “Saihara-chan ended up being reliable, didn’t he? He was the best.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, I mean,” Ouma shrugs, shirt sliding a bit further down, revealing a slender shoulder, "We're not us, not really. Haven't they told you? We're just our boring selves now, with no talent and fake memories."

They’re themselves, though, talent and memory and all that aside. This is stupid. “Doesn't make him dead."

"Doesn't it?"

Ouma shifts when Kaito doesn't reply. There’s no use worrying about things, now. It already goes without saying what they are, and Kaito knows that his sidekick-

His-

"Are you scared?"

Kaito shakes his head, trying to shrug off the jealousy and the frustration he felt, everything he didn't get, wanting everything, taking in the distorted view from the top of the machinery, leading a show under false pretenses and getting torn down piece by piece, thinking Look at me, look at me , look at me.

"Of talking to him, of course, when he gets out."

“I’m not-” Kaito closes his mouth around the words. Claiming to not be afraid of anything at all, in the most pompous, hero-like manner that he can muster, would be stupid beyond all reason here. Ouma knows him well enough for it to be - they're both terrified, of this, and before, and everything else, so much that it pisses him off, it's not like him.

"Hehe, Momota-chan is at loss!" Ouma's smile widens, like it's all good and right, like they're not all fucked. Fake as he gets. It's getting easier to read him, after everything.

“Whatever,” he waves it off, turning his back to Ouma so he can go back to the screening room. He pauses. “We were good out there, though.”

Ouma is looking at him with a new expression, strange, difficult to read. “We?”

“Yeah, we. Screwed them game up, that's what we did.” He grins.

“You're awfully naive if you think I ever trusted you, Momota-chan,” Ouma says, daring him, hands crossed behind his back in a perfectly false image of nonchalance. Kaito huffs, almost amused.

"Whatever you say, partner."

He mostly sits with Akamatsu on his one side, bumping shoulders every once in a while and trying to make light of the situation. He knows how tense she is; her back is a stretched out spring and her mouth is a tight line when she tries for a smile. But, she smiles, and that’s the important bit.

He likes Akamatsu. She's one of the good ones, armed with guts and spirit, and he’s known this well before the end of that little time that they've known each other. Talking with her after death feels like continuing a conversation, going back to familiar.

"What do you think, how much of this is edited beyond all recognition?" she asks, hands in her lap.

"Dunno. Probably a lot." They've all seen his trial, though. It’ll be fine, Kaito silently reassures no one in particular, watching Kiibo start blowing up the entire school in a fit of desperation and anger.

"I kind of want to see myself. You know?" A troubled expression ghosts over her face, and she looks ashamed. "Back there, I-"

"Nothin' to see." He rests a hand on her shoulder.  "You did what you could, and that’s that. Not a thing to worry about."

"Yeah," Akamatsu says, "I’ll try not to," and worries some more in that obvious manner of hers.

Ouma sits on his other side sometimes, when not claiming the armchair that he sprawls over, as if on a throne, not talking much. His hair is in a bun and his purple strands are almost completely washed out, and he hates looking at the footage with every fiber of his being, Kaito can tell. But, not watching would mean he doesn't get to know .

The finale has them all in ruins about as much as the school itself, and Kaito is barely thinking straight, every piece of self-reassurance that he kept repeating for himself like a mantra all but up in the air at this point. Everyone’s waiting for the time limit and he can’t stand this, the suspense, can't stand just watching and not doing , no matter how much he might try and claim that everything’s fine.

He finds Ouma in the restroom, hands soaped up, staring into space.

"Intermission halfway done," he says, stupidly. Ouma turns to him.

"Momota-chan!" The expression is flipped from blank to delighted, so fast that he barely misses the switch. "You always did like hiding in bathrooms when things get tough."

Kaito frowns. "And what do you know about always."

"I know everything ," Ouma tells him, eyelashes fluttering, tone half-mocking. "What do you say? Would you believe me if I told you that I can see the future, past, and everything in between?"

“I'd say you know more than you want to," he replies, "and I'd also say I think you're full of shit.”

"Excellent answer!" He opens his arms, the water on his hands dripping down onto the tiles. "But that's a bzz bzz penalty you get for getting it half correct. You know, I'm always one step ahead."

"Bullshit. You died." Kaito scowls. "Right in front of me."

"Yup, I sure did!" Ouma finishes rinsing his hands and turns the faucet, looks straight at him. "You killed me, after all."

Kaito takes a step forward. The damn imaginary world is in ruins, Shuichi is saving the day, and he and Harumaki are recalling him in such a light that a big part of him, bigger than the one that's glad for the legacy, can't help but wonder if they ever knew him at all.

He's frustrated, wants to break something. He splays one hand across the center of Ouma's chest, right where he never got pierced in the first place.

He uses his other hand to tilt Ouma's chin upwards. Maybe a part of him wants, stupidly, to check to be sure. There's nothing there.

They end up missing the rest of the intermission and a part of the continued trial. They both know what’s going to happen.

“Finally, you're back! What were you, fucking in there?”

Ouma giggles. “Aww, Iruma-chan thinks we’re all as eager as she is! Disgusting girl, licking batteries and sticking vacuum cleaners up your-”

“Geez, stop that!” Akamatsu cuts him off as a self-made censor. Ouma throws her a peace sign.

“Shut- he- isn’t even really a robot!” Predictably flustered, Iruma turns her head back to the screen and doesn’t say anything else.

He watches Shuichi end it all in style, and loves and envies him more than ever. Ouma is curled up away from him, a flush on his cheeks, not sparing him a glance even once, all the way through the finale.

And then it’s done, and he doesn’t seem to be able to move.

On his left, Akamatsu is gaping at the screen, trying to process what's just happened. For a long while, none of them speak.

"You survived after all," she tells him. "You idiot."

Her gaze is set forward and she isn't smiling, but looks as if she just might. Then she steps closer and hugs him, short and clumsy, like she's not used to this human action despite wanting it badly. Kaito squeezes her in turn.

"Harumaki." He's grinning as wide as his mouth is letting him, fond as can be, but there's nothing he'd like more than to run away. He’s mad at himself for being like this. "Welcome back."

"I'm so glad. Before, I didn't get to..."

"Yeah, we're all okay! Just as I planned, actually - but you're strong, you could handle it." He's rambling, and knows he's rambling, filling the silence with nothing because it's better than the alternative, than disappointing. "Of course there's no way I would die, the Great-"

"You didn't give me an answer." Dark eyes piercing into him, stubborn, unmoving. "Back in the game. When I… told you I loved you." Her cheeks are red.

Kaito clears his throat once. "What's great about this is - they're all fake, you know? Your memories of not being able to love. This Harumaki, she never had any crap like that happen to her. So, you can walk on forward with a-"

"I am still in love with you."

Kaito feels his empty speech die out like water out of a turned faucet. Well, shit.

“She’s angry with you,” Akamatsu tells him matter-of-factly, as if that's a thing he can control. The only thing he can really do is pester her until she forgives him, which he plans on doing anyway.

Kaito shrugs, giving his all to seem unbothered, “She’ll come around. Can’t stay mad at me forever, can she?”

“Geez, you’re so insensitive!” Akamatsu clicks her tongue at him. “A girl’s heart is delicate. You never know.”

“She’s stubborn, but I’m more stubborn, believe me.”

She snorts. “Oh, I believe you.”

He’s made her laugh, though, so it can’t be that bad. Her tone isn’t accusatory anymore as they go on talking like normal, so Kaito guesses that this is just one of those things.

After, he turns to go back to his sleeping room, when Akamatsu stops him.

“If you won’t chase her,” she tells him, just as straightforwardly, “I will,” and smiles.

Shuichi is holding onto him, and he finds himself hugging back just as hard. He wants to say something big and boastful, churn out some stupid speech about bravery and how he made it, to repeat something about heroes and partners but he thinks of Ouma and hates that he thinks of Ouma, in this moment, with a beautiful boy crying against his chest and telling him that he-

"I'm sorry," his best friend tells him, though he shouldn’t be. "You don't have to answer that. I'm just glad you're okay."

Kaito stands his ground against the urge to swear under breath.

When he leans away, Shuichi is looking at him in that way, wide-eyed, vulnerable, like he’ll follow him to the ends of the earth if he says only a word. Kaito swallows.

Of course he isn’t demanding anything. It’d be easier if he were. Kaito almost wishes he were like that, forceful and loud, but then, theoretical and actual are far from being the same, and he likes this reserved and considerate Shuichi far more than any of the guys from his fantasies. Kaito takes a deep breath, and gives his best to sound normal.

“Hey now, what did I tell you about that?”

Shuichi pauses. “...What?”

“Man, you got through a killing game and everything, and you still don’t know what’s what! Don't apologize so easily!” He reaches out and grabs Shuichi under his arm, punches him lightly with his other one.

Shuichi is smiling, now, despite looking like he’s honest to god barely keeping an apology for apologizing on the tip of his tongue, and Kaito’s chest squeezes with fondness and guilt. I’m such a coward .

"Momota-chan! Leaving the party so soon?"

Inside, they're still talking about what to do after. Kaito has nothing to add; doesn't even like thinking about it, if he can manage. This is normal people business, and he doesn't want that. Maybe some sick part of himself thinks it worse off that he's unremarkable; is left with a better taste in his mouth thinking that he's the chosen one, a doomed criminal, leader of a colony to inhabit another world or whatever, than being unremarkable.

"Yeah," he says, looking down at Ouma's face. There's no one else here, other than them. "You're the one to talk. Haven't even showed up, have you."

"I'm not really in the mood for talking," Ouma smiles sweetly, "with them, and especially not about that. What are we even capable of? With people like us, no one's sure."

"Makes sense, I mean," Kaito says. "We got our brains severely fucked with."

"Yeah," Ouma replies. "So, what can we do. Cry?" He asks, peering at him through slit-like eyelids. "Wanna cry? Unless you already did, in which case, wanna do it some more?"

"Shut up." Kaito looks away. "I didn't fucking cry."

"Oh, you haven't? I have, too. Bawled my eyes out. I can't help it." Ouma's eyes start watering, his mouth twisting as he starts getting ready for the fake waterworks. "It's just so sad…"

Kaito reaches to smack him, which Ouma avoids, jumping out of his reach. "Stop that, it's not funny."

Ouma tilts his head and laughs, but shuts up, surprisingly or not.

He’s been acting like an idiot, and he’s not only claiming this prompted by a headache like no other, the pain drilling into his temples almost as uncomfortable as the memory of the day before.

He fucked up, but can't say it; can't admit that he has no idea what he's doing, because, well, he should know what he's doing, shouldn't he? What else does he have going, if not that?

"I brought you some ginger lemon tea," Shuichi tells him with a shy smile. Kaito expected to be avoided; thought himself better at hiding, too. Shit. "I looked it up and it's supposed to be good for hangovers. Uh. Kaito."

His entire face is burning up, but he said it. This is another one of the things Kaito didn't expect, his stupid heart doing a leap.

He stills for just a bit, before he fills the silence with laughter. "Aw, come on, you're so formal! It's alright, loosen up a bit."

"I was trying to be less formal," Shuichi informs him politely, blush still bright on his pale face. He's so fucking cute.

"Yeah. Thanks, man." He grins down at him as he cracks the can open, downs half of the drink in one go, and doesn't specify if he meant the drink or the name.

"Akamatsu-san was talking about burning some property tomorrow in the cameras' blind spot, and was wondering if we wanted to come with," Shuichi tells him conversationally. The words make Kaito whistle in amusement.

"That girl's something else."

"I'm going, most likely," Shuichi says. He's not mentioning the day before, and it's no wonder.

So, the decision falls on him, then. Naturally. Well, he can do this. He's been through the scariest part already.

Kaito repeats this to himself, and then proceeds to tell Shuichi all about nothing and the life that he didn't lead, threading stories until it's dark enough to part ways and go sleep.

"I should go." Shuichi makes a slight move to get away. Kaito takes a breath. Come on .

“Hey,” he says, arm still looped around his shoulders. “Can I kiss you?”

To hell with running. He's decided on that, hasn't he? He's already been confessed to, and his grandpa may have never existed, but he taught him this and taught him well: a man always asks.

He watches Shuichi open his mouth, then close it, a fish on dry land. Then he closes his eyes and stands on his tiptoes.

Akamatsu smiles at the two of them showing up hand in hand, and mutters something that sounds like Oh, finally . Harumaki won’t even look at them, and Ouma makes long and meaningful eye contact, face blank and full of something like resignation, but doesn’t say anything, then or after. Not many of their classmates talk with Ouma, even still, which is something Kaito won't stand for, if he has any say in it.

He doesn't, though, not now at least. But he's gonna fix things. Probably. He'll think of something, he's sure.

It's not that different, for all the ways that it is. It's just that he's allowing himself some things that he didn't before; that he didn't even realize how much he's wanted them, before.

Shuichi clings to him and makes little noises in the back of his throat and Kaito is light-headed with the duality, a sharp tongue and a sharper mind, the shivering boy in his lap. Kaito has never been to space, doesn't even falsely remember having gone, but he remembers roller coasters, remembers running until he's out of breath.

A part of him can't help but think he's about to sail straight into a big storm, any second now. But, this was his call, and he can handle it. He's so hungry, for responsibility, attention, approval. If it crashes, he'll be there to help it up.

Something else still bothers him, though - an afterimage of purple laughter and the wish to act; a thing he can act upon, do something about.

He leans a bit further away after they part. He thinks he might have made a lifetime out of evading unpleasant conversations.

"Hey, Shuichi," he says. "I gotta talk to you, man to man."

anyone who claims to know what's going on will lie about the little things too

It's not something you experience every day; dying. Not something he can compare with something else, either - some things just are , on their own, lacking lookalikes, and lying still and corpselike on a metal plate, heavy platform surging down to crush you like a bug beneath, bones and eyes and organs, until it lands and you become a corpse and stop pretending, forever, is without a doubt one of those things.

What really takes the cake, though, is what comes after.

He didn't think he'd survive, but the claim is a silly sort of redundant. Kokichi doesn't expect that many people think of death as a temporary occurrence rather than a finite, one-of-a-kind one; life-changing. Ha.

The thought of having to go through this again some day is enough to make him feel sick, but not enough to avert attention from the beeping and the echoing and the theories swirling around in his head, discarded one by one until only a few remain, before the helmet is even taken off his eyes. It's also not enough to stop him from trying to bite one of the nurses and spitting on the other, stupidly, pointlessly.

"Can you hear me?"

The polite tone is almost mocking. Kokichi grins back at her.

"Are you happy?" he asks, and wants to grab, pinch, spit at them again. It would make no difference.

"Do you re-"

"Dead teenagers make you all hot and bothered? Or does the amount they’re paying you do the trick?"

"Do you remember your name?" She seems distraught and badly hiding it at this point, which only adds fuel to his fire.

"Sleep well at night? Good night's sleep is overrated anyway. I know I won't be getting any." He laughs, hoarse; it's been a while since he talked. Been a while since he's felt this sick, too, but maybe he's lying. Kokichi isn't sure if he's lying.

"Please, I am asking you to cooperate. There is nothing to fear. We-"

"So, did I win? Tell me if I won, Miss Nurse. Did Momota-chan win? I hope you took a good, long look at our corpses-"

It doesn't take much to accept the reality of everything. Some of the others seem to be grateful for it, but Kokichi is really not. There’s nothing to be grateful about.

He needs a longer while to get used to the knowledge that everything he thought he knew about himself turned out to have been fabricated for someone else’s entertainment, just another lie for them to laugh and point at. It would be ironic, perhaps, if it wasn't simply infuriating.

Like candy, he’s tentatively tasting the memories and thoughts, turning them over under his tongue. It's a bit tricky figuring out what is and what isn't an illusion, like ones that he so loves. Used to love. Did and does, Kokichi decides, circumstances aside.

There's no winning, he knows. They've all lost the moment they got kidnapped, after all. The people managing them have to be the lowest-ranking ones, naturally; no one nearly important enough to complain to. The only thing left to do is wait.

Some of his faux classmates attempt to talk to him, but Kokichi shuts them off quickly, even the ones he doesn't think did anything wrong. He’s not in the mood to talk.

He wonders if the higher ups are frustrated. The game seems to be a trainwreck, and Kokichi is glad.

Saihara figures them out. Lists the facts down to every detail and serves them on a platter with cold precision, a switch flipped for sanity preserved; the truth of what they were doing, and why they were doing it, too.

Kokichi should stop being drawn and attracted to the unexpected, but doesn't know how to. Doesn't know if he wants to.

Momota gives his damn best to act as him, and does so beautifully; well enough to pass for someone who watched him the entire time, since the start of it all, enough to pick up on phrases and speech patterns and the little details not contained in the notebook that Kokichi gave him the night before. He gives them all a show and goes out with a bang.

Kokichi watches them both in turn, eyes fixed to the screen, superglued. He can't look away.

He starts talking as soon as Momota joins, and it's annoying, unsurprising; of course, of course.

Momota calls him partner and rests his hand on Kokichi's back without fuss or a warning. He's not being fair at all.

Kokichi jokes around and watches the personnel and thinks about things some more, and his jokes do fall a little flat, pun more than intended, but at least he’s talking with the rest of them now. If that's even a good thing.

They watch the rest of it go down with admittedly less style that Kokichi hoped for but still good enough, the surround sound and hi-def screens the courtesy of a dying organization that doesn't know it yet. It’s more than imminent at this point, and Kokichi feels a bitter sort of pride. The first foot in their sandcastle was his, and he stomped down as hard as he could.

It’s who he is, his second nature, first, never play by their rules, he'll shake the chessboard and gamble with chocolate coins and shout You’re it when they say Marco , and he will not sit down and go quietly wherever they throw him.

Kokichi muses a little on the topic of not betraying the self that he only has by the decision of the enemy - the only one he’s got, though, nonetheless, so be it. He doesn’t think that memory is all there is, anyway.

After it’s over, he sees Momota with Saihara, acting in that gross coupley manner of theirs, and Kokichi is not surprised. He’s not hurt, either, and does not think of being picked up next to the bathroom sink, or of Momota's fond eyes, or of stupid Saihara and his stupid apology, and doesn't feel like a deflated balloon at all.

They walk pressed up next to each other and laugh with Akamatsu and Kiibo and the rest of them, and he's not angry or anything.

Because, he should've known.

On the next day, he raids the store empty of all the lollipops and gummy bears and sour stripes that he can find. Half of them he doesn't even eat, just chucks them out the window, flushes down the toilet.

The day after, they're fully restocked. No one comes to him for a punishment or a stern talking-to. They're expendable, unimportant, soon to be leaving, and the financial damage the company is about to face is at least a dozen zeros more serious than the price of a few sweets.

Akamatsu is talking about raising hell again, and Kokichi hates himself for wanting to join. He's thinking he just might.

"I wanna tell you somethin'."

Hallway. White and empty, just like the rest of this purgatory, and anyone could be watching but no one is watching, not really, so what’s the point, then. Kokichi resists a sigh and gives his best to perk up, artificial as it is.

"What did you wanna tell me, Momota-chan?"

Momota takes in a breath. "Gotta be frank with you, is all. I've been-"

"If this is about you and Saihara-chan, I have to stop you right there." The look on Kokichi's face is fittingly stern and openly honest, or so he believes, as he puts his arm out in front of himself, palm open, That's wrong . Kokichi doesn't know what is, but it seems like the right reference to make. Maybe all of this is some shade of wrong or another. It sure feels like it.

"What?"

Good. A bewildered look suits you, you dumb, handsome, fake astronaut.

"You're really slow, aren't you?" Kokichi tells him. "Saihara-chan is my favorite, but he's your bitch. You shouldn't have kissed me just to distract, geez. I might catch feelings for you. Was that a lie? It might be-"

He can't talk anymore after that, because Momota is leaning down and tilting his chin up with his thumb and forefinger and kissing him on the lips, once, short and resolute. It tastes like an energy drink and ends after a couple of seconds, far too soon for Kokichi's liking.

He's dizzy, short of words, wants to chase these lips with his own and bury his face in that ridiculous hair and he wants Momota to lift him up again. In short, he doesn't like this.

"I don't like this," he says. "Two-timing? That's low even for you."

"I'm not."

“You’re not?” Kokichi smiles, a fingertip to his lips. "Then what is this, exactly?"

"Said I wanna talk with you."

"Talk," Kokichi repeats.

Nothing makes sense, and he hates that, too. Having broken up and made some record as the world's sappiest hookup sounds mega unlikely for these two idiots. He makes himself a plastic smile. "Oh, is Saihara-chan a cuck? Is he gonna jump out of one of the offices there and tell me to fuck his husband? Oh, that'd be fun !" He claps.

"Is he a-" Momota stops himself, shaking his head. "I don't know what that means, but I don't give a damn. I like you, you little fucker. And Shuichi knows."

Well.

"And he's fine with this?" Kokichi needs a moment to recover, but he's definitely in possession of a one-way ticket to express recovery, all things considered. "I don't like liars, Momota-chan."

"Damn right he is." Momota has the gal to look offended. "I wouldn't lie to you."

“Wouldn’t you?” Kokichi goes on before he’s interrupted, “You’ll have to make things up to me, too. You acted like such a jerk, Momota-chan. Made me cry and write love letters and ruin your car with graffiti.”

“I know I have,” Momota admits calmly, “and I will.”

Gods. What kinda genius was he supposed to be, again? Kokichi has no idea. "Geez, you two are really insatiable. Can a girl say anything but yes?”

“What the fuck. Come over here.”

“Is your consent all official and stuff? ‘Cause imma climb you like a tree,” Kokichi informs him happily.

Momota shrugs, grinning. “I don’t have a fucking pen, though.”

Kokichi feels like this might be the perfect time for him to stop thinking. The world is ending and they died and they’re still in this stinky hallway of the pretend-afterlife, a fitting match for the deaths that they got, and this might be a decent mix of heaven, hell, and purgatory, as far as things go.

"Lift me up again, slave," Kokichi says, and is unclear on why, but Momota laughs, and does it, and kisses him so hard that his goatee tickles, and Kokichi feels like his brain is fried. He grabs onto that ugly hair full of gel and spike, and grins against the lips pressed to his own, and pulls.

bye bye symphony

Kaede wants a revolution.

She wants justice, and for someone to be punished for what they've done.

Perhaps she should be more forgiving, more main character-like; maybe, but, she never was a main character, after all, never anything other than a sad, angry kid that no one would miss. She's not a hero, and these people wouldn't be deserving of kindness even if she were.

Someone took her, ended her, messed with her head and forced her friends to murder each other just to get off on the drama, and she wants them to pay.

The feeling doesn’t leave her, even after making a mistake and getting punished for it and just starting to get the hang of feeling alive again, only amplified by the knowledge of a gone past self and a group of powerful people who are used to doing things like this.

Kaede is glad she's alive. This means she's got another chance to fight.

Amami greets her from one of the sofas in the spacey viewing room, one of his feet up on the pillows and the other leg thrown over the armrest.

“So, you’re done for as well, huh,” he tells her. He’s just as relaxed and mild-mannered as in game, and Kaede can hardly accept that this is the reaction of someone whose death she caused not a day ago, real or simulated.

Amami’s eyes widen when she gets to her knees and bows down to the floor, forehead all but touching the tiles. “I am so, so sorry. I was stupid. I don’t know how to ever repay-”

“Hey, it’s all good.”

Kaede squeezes her eyes shut. "No, it's not. I messed up. I..."

"Come on," Amami tells her again, "Get up here."

When she looks up, he’s still smiling.

“I killed you.” She wishes he’d get angry, or try to hit her, or - something.

“Nah. I survived, didn’t I? We both did.”

She can’t believe this.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I mean, it wasn’t real or anything. An’ I was hella stupid, too, charging in like that. No wonder the mastermind wasn’t there to show.”

Of course they weren't. Kaede should have known; should've guessed, somehow, or just believes it because she wishes she had. She should have been smarter.

But she wasn’t, and the only thing she gets now is following things through, doing the best that she can from now on.

She sits down next to Amami and watches, and hates that she’s watching. She’d grab and break every monitor in the room if it weren’t the only way of seeing if her friends are okay.

Perhaps this amount of worry isn't necessary; after all, the worst thing that could happen is, they all die and end up here. She could be thinking this way, but Kaede knows what dying is like. Days after, she grabs at her throat at times like she’s losing air; hears the ghost notes of an overgrown piano echoing through and feels nauseous thinking about ever again trying to play.

Anger is boiling inside her, ready to spill.

She watches Hoshi get himself killed, never knowing how much he meant to people, and watches Toujo get executed, fighting for a cause that doesn’t exist, never learning to do things selfishly. She watches Angie go, after latching onto the divine and otherworldly to distract everyone from the here and now, and Chabashira, naive and pure-hearted, before she even got to find out her love was reciprocated. Then Shinguuji, whose love was nothing but a scripted, made-up lie.

It’s livelier, now, but it’s no reason to celebrate. It means that less of them survived in there, that there’s more deaths that the sick people behind this got to enjoy.

Somewhere along the way, surprisingly or not, Kaede ends up rooting for the strong, quiet storm of a girl who would kill for the love that she needs so desperately. She wants to talk to her, wants to hold her hand.

Iruma dies and comes to furious, scared and at loss, her screams carrying through the building, while Gonta is confused more than anything else.

Strange as it might be, the next two deaths give them hope.

"Hey, hey, Shinguuji-chan," prompts the sing-song voice of the petite boy they've all grown to fear, that no one knows how to feel about anymore; identity is so fickle, these days, "Shinguuji-chan! What do you think is worse: knowing that you don't even have a sister, or that you'd totally fuck her, if you did?"

"Ouma-kun!"

"What is it? I'm just asking a question, is all."

"How does it feel to be a massive piece of shit, you stinky little retarded hemorrhoid?" Iruma launches at him like always, most likely not even because she cares that much about Shinguuji but because she cares a lot about herself having gotten murdered.

"Piece of shit?" Ouma snort-laughs, almost like he's having fun. "Aww, but that's not nice, Iruma-chan! I'm not even the one who got offed by toilet paper, like a true-"

Iruma smacks her hand down onto the armrest. "Oh, I'm gonna fucking..." 

“What, what? Try to kill me twice?” Ouma swings back and forth on his chair.

"No killings,” Kaede asserts sternly. “We got another chance and we're not wasting it. We can go through this together."

"Funny of you to say, Akamatsu-chan! Considering how you've killed before, and all."

You did, too, Kaede doesn't say. Shifting blame accomplishes nothing.

“Yeah, I did," she says. "Or, at least I thought I did. And I know how awful it is. We can’t start fighting and fall into their trap. The only important thing is that we have each other, right?”

The claim is an empty one, but it’s sincere, and Kaede won’t even try to pretend it’s anything but what it is. They’re all in this together, after all, and she was all over and done with lying ever since around the moment she found herself with a noose around her neck.

“Now that’s adorable as fuck,” Iruma comments, at the same time as Ouma chirps, “Imma puke rainbows, y'all.”

They look at each other.

“Hey, twinsies!”

“ Hell no!”

“Haha, that’s cute.”

“My ass is cute.”

But things seem like they’ve deflated a little bit, and Kaede shakes her head in relief.

Shinguuji isn't saying anything, mostly in a daze of sorts, looking strange without his mask. Kaede makes a mental note to check on him later. It must be tough.

She didn't kill him.

She only thought she did. Everything that happened was just the mastermind's lies. She's innocent.

"Hey look, it wasn't you, after all," Amami turns to her to say, good-natured, casual, like this is about the weather and not his own bloody murder. "That's a relief, haha."

Kaede thinks about the footage they were fed, and of guilt, lives lost and playing the savior and all the missing spilled blood, of all her small hours spent staring at the ceiling.

"Motherfucker," she swears.

When Kiibo crashes into the bars of the bird cage, shaking the foundation of their prison to the ground and freeing them in an explosion that kills him, Iruma gets up from her chair and screams.

Getting to hug Saihara feels better than she imagined. She missed him so badly.

Kaede strokes his hair and feels protective as anything, even though it barely makes sense for her to be. She wants to apologize once more, but he ends up doing it instead, before she gets the chance to.

She ends up making a wet stain on his shoulder and isn't ashamed for her tears.

They're all a little older and a little sadder than she remembers, even herself - maybe especially herself. At the same time, she's struck by how young they look, all of them, without the flashy uniforms and oversaturated complexions that she didn’t even notice the game gave them. They're just kids.

"Angie's God is cruel," the girl says, looking different without the glam and the shine in her skin, washed out if anything, "But He let us live. So, He has to be good after all. Right?"

She sounds like she isn't sure if she's seeking an answer with her last comment or not, the punctuation barely a question mark, but Kaede nods anyway. She doesn't know what to say.

"Angie thinks it will." She smiles to herself, one hand on the sofa, like she's reaching for something.

Harukawa must have talked about something with Momota, because she seems to be avoiding him, as much as they've been trying to keep together ever since they got out.

Saihara is not wearing a hat anymore, hasn't been for a long time, but he’s still thoughtlessly lifting his hand up to cover his face, an attempt at hiding, whenever he seems to forget himself.

In the corner of the room, Yumeno is napping in Chabashira’s lap. Ever since they got out, she hasn’t left her side once, not even for sleeping or going to the toilet. If she’s not inside my magic circle, she might disappear again.

Toujo is sitting very still on most days, not doing much or speaking to anyone, thinking things over. It's hard to lose a purpose so uneventfully, so suddenly and fully. Still, she accepted the cup of tea Kaede made her the other day, and that's a good enough start.

She guesses that they all need time.

Some of them have a hard time remembering. Some don't want to accept that their memories were fabricated; how could they have been, when they feel so real?

For a long time, Kiibo is beyond himself.

"I have a name!" He says over and over. "I have a name, a real human name, and I'm real. I'm real," he repeats a few more times, continually transfixed by the fact.

Iruma calls him a real boy and kisses his cheek, and Kiibo turns his face away, flustered.

They've talked some about it before; their lives before and who they were. They’re all orphans, as normal as it gets, and they were all picked for having no one to come back to. It’s easy to make some people disappear, ones that won’t be noticed if they did. Ones that are the most likely to idolize the talented in their isolation, something to latch onto, since everything else is so broken on its own.

Kaede wants to do something. She could tear the walls down with her bare hands, for her friends, for their safety, for everything that's been done to them by this rotten, fucked up world.

"I know that look," Harukawa tells her calmly. "I've seen it a lot before." A shadow passes over her face, and Kaede can see she's thinking about correcting herself - she hasn't, she's never killed, or perhaps even seen a dead body, even if blood and guts keep her awake at night.

"What look?" Kaede asks quickly to distract, and somehow succeeds. Harukawa's expression switches from troubled to thoughtful.

"You want to kill," she tells her. "That look."

"I’m not sure," Kaede says. "But, I am so angry . I'm so mad I could burst."

"Me too," Harukawa says.

"I don’t think I’d kill. Or, at least not right away. I want them to realize what they’ve done, to us, and so many others, everything. They messed with our brains, and our bodies, and I can't even function like before."

Harukawa nods. "I'm different than in there. I can't… move the way I used to. The way I feel I always have."

She doesn't say anything else, doesn't seem to know to shape it. Kaede understands. For all they are, their memories felt real to them - still feel real to them. After coming out of her post-execution shock, she tried tap practicing the piano on flat surfaces and got disheartened every time when she couldn't get it perfectly like the Kaede in her memories. Her fingers are stiff, clumsy, she feels like she lost a part of herself with no warning at all.

"I get what you mean."

"I lose my breath more easily," Harukawa adds, folds in on herself with something like shame. Kaede sighs.

"No talent, body doesn't listen. I feel older. Like an old lady." She laughs. "It's frustrating. Give me a cat and some knitting yarn and leave me somewhere to recover."

"I could never take care of a cat."

"Me neither." Kaede says, then, "We could try. We could get one. You have experience caring for real children, too, so, how hard can it be?"

"I don't." The girl says quickly. Her voice is flat, final.

"But they're still there, aren't they? In your heart. All those misbehaving kids," Kaede says and forgets all about how silly she must've just sounded when she sees Harukawa's mouth twitch into a small smile.

"So?"

"So - we can do it. Whatever we want to." Kaede raises her arm and makes a fist. "Let's prove them wrong."

Later, Kaede notices Momota wandering towards the garden, a bottle of whiskey in hand, and doesn't comment on it or make herself known - he doesn't seem to be in the mood to talk.

She doesn't say anything some time after, either, when Saihara waves at her passing by. She smiles as she waves back, then points to the direction Momota went in. Sheepishly, Saihara turns and heads there straight away.

Kaede nods to herself, satisfied.

When she sees them together a day later, she knows they've resolved whatever issue they had between them, and she's glad.

Ouma joins them after a while, looking more awkward than Kaede's ever seen him and badly trying to hide it.

Eventually, even Harukawa agrees to start spending time with them, hesitantly, despite herself. Momota, being Momota, did it again.

It might be having looked at them through the screens for such a long time that did it, but she feels like she knows them better than anyone.

The time they're let go is nearing, and Kaede is full of fear and anticipation in equal measures. In here they're prisoners, but at least they're together. The outside is another story.

Kaede slaps both of her cheeks hard enough to warm them, frowning at the thought. She does want outside, wants to meet the world head-on.

She wants to tear this organization down to its roots, too, but she won't make the others come along with her for that. She's got plans of her own, and this time she will be smarter, waiting until she's sure. She's learned her lesson.

There's another thing she wants to do, and it's scary, but no amount of fear will stop her. She chooses a moment in which they're all in the viewing room, all the screens now empty and turned off.

"I want to ask you something," Kaede says loud enough for everyone to hear, and watches as her friends' faces turn to her one by one.

Some of them hold grudges, she thinks. Some of them are scared. Then: she can do this.

"They said they're letting us go soon," Kaede starts. "We said we'd stay friends when we get out, way back when we thought we're way further from each other than we really are. Now, we actually got out, one way or another; we're not in the killing game, and we're alive. And I still want us to. We've been through hell together, and I love you all, and I want to stay in touch."

Kaede holds her breath.

It might've sounded cheesy, or stupid, and decisively not at all like those effortlessly eloquent speeches that she served in the sim, not the uniting words of a brave leader, but they're the best she's got, now, and she hopes it'll be enough. She's not a protagonist anymore, and she doesn't want to lead, either, as much as she wants to keep this.

"So, what do you say?"

Chabashira is crying. Shinguuji is smiling behind his palm, as Hoshi nods with approval. Next to him, Iruma and Kiibo are holding hands, and Saihara is blinking rapidly, like he doesn't want to show too much of what he's feeling.

A voice cuts through the silence.

"Ohmigosh, Akamatsu-chan is so cool and preachy! It's like she didn't even try to kill anyone!"

"Ouma-kun." A warning from Saihara, which proves to be a little ineffective, considering the way they're sitting.

"What, what? Did ya wanna steal her thunder after all? Lead them all into a better future and-"

"Shut up! What them ?" Momota scowls at him, his attempt-threatening tone meeting a similar fate as Saihara's, the three of them all but in each other's laps. "You're fucking one of us, too."

"Who's he fucking?" Iruma laughs loudly from her belly, like her own joke is the best thing she ever heard.

"Noo, ew!"

"Haha, she said the fuck word!"

"Guys, please. She did ask us a question."

"I'm in." Harukawa says it calmly, with certainty. "It's you, after all."

Kaede feels warm.

"Me too!"

"Of course. Was that a question? That was a question, right?"

"A remarkable speech. Yes."

"Gonta is friends with everyone!"

"I thought we decided on this already."

"Oh, but Akamatsu-chan is insecure, see…"

Kaede sits there, listening to the conversation derail and fork, splitting into smaller groups, parts of a bigger whole. She also feels whole, like she's finally performing a piece that she spent so much time perfecting and chewing over.

She's thinking of trying piano again some day, for real, after they're let out. She wants everyone to hear her play.