Chapter Text
A hiss of air was the first thing audible, a depressurized container unsealing. The sensation of an aching, heavy body. Fretting whispers that sounded tense, borderline argumentative. The carbon steel cylinder of a revolver clicked, the sound of a hammer being cocked, and then a harsh question.
“Hinata or Kamukura?”
Eyes that hadn’t opened in months cracked, vision blurred through sopor-caked lashes, and Togami Byakuya was standing a few meters back, a gun held up without any tremor of hesitation.
“T-Togami-kun –!”
“Naegi, if this were the moment to be a tenderhearted dimwit, I’d permit your intervention, but it isn’t, so stand down.”
A whirlwind of recollections.
“Hajime, say mae, baby. ‘Meh-ah, meh-ah.’ Mae – oh! Ken, he said it! He said it, he said it!”
“Sensei! Hinata-kun ate a bug! He ate a bug!”
“Watch me, Hajime, it’s necessary for a man to know how to cook. Be careful with the knife as you chop, understand?”
“Oy, Hinata, what university are you thinking of going to?”
“Oh, you’ve played Gala Omega? It’s a classic, right? I’ve played it probably ten times, it’s always been so fun! Heh, maybe I get kinda overexcited about this stuff, sorry. I’m Nanami Chiaki, the Ultimate Gamer. What’s your name?”
A twitch of the wrist, one identity taking shape. Hinata groaned, Togami’s revolver trained straight at his forehead.
“I-I’m – I think I’m...”
“Kamukura-kun, we will be testing your multitasking capabilities. Please recite The Teachings of Confucius while performing two pushups per second. We will ask questions at random intervals. You may not lose your place in Confucius’ text at any point. Begin.”
“I-ZU-RU! C’mon, c’mon, make him hurt the way he deserves! Watch him squeal! Take control!”
“Please – p-please stop, please d-don’t kill m–”
“I-I-I’ll d-do whatever y-you want, d-don’t hurt her, d-don’t – no, no, NO – NO – NO!”
“Hajime, why haven’t you come back to me yet...?”
“Hey, Izuru. Have you ever heard the story of the rock on the riverbed?”
Hinata’s brain swam with too much, too many memories, too many visceral, tactile sensations that were burned into his mind like a white-hot brandmark. He was going to throw up.
“You have three seconds left.” Togami stated, cold and firm. “Three. Two –”
“B-both, I’m b-both, I – I n-need a –”
But Hinata doubled over and retched with a splatter, stomach acid searing in his chest, sobbing between each dry heave. There was hair surrounding him. Too much hair, too long, too black, and his clothes – Hinata was in his Reserve Course uniform, that wasn’t right, his hands weren’t his hands, his body felt wrong. Hinata started tearing at his suit, and he was too strong, the fabric shredding like tissue paper, just like...
“M-m-mae.” Hinata whimpered as he crumpled in on himself. “M-mae, pa, I-I-I –”
“Togami-kun! Drop it now!” Naegi’s order was fierce, there was a rustle of motion, and Hinata felt two people grip him on each side. “Hinata-kun, it’s okay, i-it’s okay now, breathe, alright? Breathe with me – Kirigiri-san, please, scissors!”
“J-just – just sh-shoot me, I can’t – I c-can’t –!”
“Naegi-kun.” Kirigiri Kyoko’s voice. Hinata glanced up at her, sniveling and shaking, and she was passing Naegi a pair of scissors. Hinata wanted to take them, to stab himself, to silence his mind, to stop everything –
Naegi took the scissors, and Hinata felt himself shut down as thick locks of hair were sheared into a matted, ebony pile on the floor.
“Um, is he...” A pretty young woman with a brown complexion and gray eyes knelt down to see Hinata. Her voice was pleasant, affable and familiar to Hinata. “...Is he okay?”
“He’s in shock, Asahina, don’t let your guard down so readily.”
“I saw him in the simulation, Togami-kun, he’s not dangerous!”
“Correct, you saw him in the program meant to keep him stable.” Togami snapped back, features strained. “The parameters are vastly different.”
Hinata felt the tears pouring down his cheeks, but barely registered them. He was outside of himself, staring ahead with a dull numbness throughout his physique. It was almost comforting, a floating, quiet detachment.
“Hinata-kun, let’s get you cleaned up and changed, okay?” Naegi encouraged gently, Kirigiri helping to hoist Hinata to his feet. “Your muscles have atrophied a little, the stasis pods delayed it, a-and your erm, enhancements kind of preserved... W-we can talk about that later. Do you want your hair shorter –?”
“Shave it.” Hinata heard himself croak. “All of it, don’t care if I’m bald, just... Shave it. Please.”
“O-okay, sure! Sure, we can do that.” Naegi assured Hinata as he guided him into what resembled a gym locker room with shower stalls. “C-can you...?”
Naegi went ruddy, and Hinata dimly understood, removing his clothes. Naegi reddened further, obviously uncomfortable, and Kirigiri swatted his shoulder.
“Hinata-kun, would you like privacy while showering? Or would you rather not be left alone?”
“The... The second one.” Hinata could hear Kamukura in the monotone of his response, and he shuddered. “I. I’m s-sorry for the – please do not – please don’t leave me by myself.”
Kirigiri nodded once, and Naegi, following her example, composed himself as Hinata stepped under the shower and turned the knob, the spray cold at first, then heating up as he lathered his scalp and body. It took more than one scrub, a layer of grease and grime embedded in his skin, old blood under his fingernails.
“...How long was I out.”
“Approximately six months. Feeding tubes were used to provide nourishment, as well as IV drips for hydration with additional vitamins and minerals.” Kirigiri explained, unperturbed by Hinata’s nudity. “Prior to being placed in your stasis pods, we were forced to sedate you heavily, which allowed us to improve your hygiene to a degree, but we could not bathe you fully.”
“Because we might’ve woken up.”
“Yes.” Kirigiri confirmed. “Any maintenance we could perform was restricted by how we needed to restrain you. The stasis pods were sterilized and equipped with antimicrobial lights to prevent severe infections, and any injuries you’d sustained were given time to heal prior to the Neo World Program, but our resources were limited due to... Well, betraying the Future Foundation, essentially.” Kirigiri sighed.
Naegi passed Hinata some nail clippers, which he used as Naegi turned on an electric razor to buzz Hinata’s hair.
“Why?” Hinata rasped, peering miserably at Kirigiri. “W-was it... Can you really say it was worth it?”
Kirigiri, though reserved and overall impassive, had a haunted glaze over her irises. Naegi spoke up this time, turning off the razor.
“Hinata-kun, if we could save you, then you were our best bet in fixing the mistakes of Hope’s Peak.” Naegi uttered somberly. “The Foundation, it... It’s taken a radical approach against the brainwashed civilians. My sister and a friend of ours have been doing field work, mostly destabilizing the ongoing influence Enoshima left behind, but our orders aren’t to rehabilitate.”
Hinata touched his head, his scalp fuzzy, and he frowned in thought.
“So imprisonment? Or...” Hinata lowered his arm, comprehending. “...You’re killing civilians?”
“Munakata-sensei’s logic is not... Irrational, per se.” Kirigiri said, though her tone conveyed great distaste. “Civilians or not, the brainwashing has been thorough, and most of them are exceedingly dangerous. Given the amount of time, all who have survived this long are assumed to be responsible for at least dozens of murders. Munakata-sensei believes that the threat must therefore be purged to completion, regardless of any questionable sanity. His rationale is not unfounded, but...”
“It’s wrong.” Naegi interjected, and his disposition was surprisingly angry. “We found studies done by the late Ultimate Neurologist, his papers – it was possible to partition the mind, and possible to rehabilitate anyone. But we needed to prove it. And the best proof was by testing it on the students that had undergone the worst corruption.” Naegi stared at Hinata with blazing hope. “You, your friends, we know it’s possible.”
Kirigiri passed Hinata a towel after he’d rinsed off any remaining suds, and he dried himself before changing into a clean t-shirt, some sweatpants, and a soft set of loafer slippers. Kirigiri left the washroom after being summoned by Togami from the room over, leaving Hinata with Naegi. Hinata could feel multiple scars zigzagged below the roots of his hair, and more that littered his torso, shiny and knotted. His tanned color was ashen, a beard growing on the lower half of his face, and Hinata sensed the hyperalert perception of his mind, how his intellect was no longer restricted by human limitations of retention, how everything that entered his line of sight was instantly dissected, analyzed, and understood.
“...It’s gonna be okay, Hinata-kun.”
But Hinata wasn’t interested in his newfound genius. He was remembering his mother’s corpse, and how it felt to crush his father’s throat into gore. He was remembering how easily sinew could tear, how bones could shatter in his grip, how breakable and soft a child, an adult, an elder, was. Kamukura had memorized the different ways people would scream, but Hinata could categorize them. He knew a scream of fear from a scream of rage, how the former trembled while the latter sounded like vocal chords being shredded. How someone burning to death sounded when compared to someone disemboweled, someone strangled, drowned, or someone tarred.
“Do you know how many people I’ve killed.” Hinata whispered, and Naegi’s jaw clenched.
“I-I know it’s bad, I know –”
“Hundreds. Eight-hundred and ninety-one, t-to be exact.” Hinata answered, lip quivering as his voice broke. “And. A-and I remember them. All of them, I remember, and I kept count, b-because I thought, maybe, at some point, it’d s-stop boring me. A-and you b-brought me back, like I could – c-could ever be redeemed.”
Hinata felt his head throb, a fresh shudder of tears splashing down his front as he clawed at his face.
“H-how can you...” Hinata’s words were wet on his mouth. “W-why didn’t you j-just shoot me.”
“Because I need you.” Naegi said quietly. “Please, Hinata-kun. Please.”
“I c-can’t, I can’t e-even look at myself, I d-don’t want –”
“Your hair won’t grow back black. I-it’s darker, but it’s still brown. And – and only one eye –”
“N-no, no, d-don’t tell me, p-please –!”
“Only one eye is red!” Naegi rushed to say. “A-and we’ll get you contacts, we will, we can get you contacts, Gekkogahara-san – she’s the Ultimate Therapist – warned us of some possible triggers for you. Togami-kun called some of his employees to have supplies dropped off, you’ll have everything you need for ongoing rehabilitation until everyone is mobile and ready to leave. You’re going to have support. It’s going to be okay, Hinata-kun, you’ll be okay, b-but you can’t give up. Please.”
Hinata had brutally slaughtered his parents. The memoir he had written before the procedure had essentially acted as a map to locate and subsequently torture and eliminate people he had loved. He had brought Nanami Chiaki to her death and watched her bleed out in morbid fascination, like a sick child salting a slug. He had been the right hand man of Enoshima Junko, assisting her in orchestrating monstrosity after horrid monstrosity. How many times had he abused Komaeda Nagito? The man he had adored and forgotten? The wonderful man who had kept him alive? Hinata didn’t know what he needed, weeping wretchedly, intrusive thoughts rapidly scuttling and buzzing like roaches in his skull.
Then again... What would crying solve? Did Hinata have the right to cry? He snorted back mucus.
“I... I need a mirror. I need to see.”
Naegi’s expression felt ancient, exhausted on a level that Hinata felt sympathy towards, and his response was one tired, simple word.
“Okay.”
The first thing Hinata noticed was that his complexion, which had last been fairly brown due to being tanned in the simulation, was pallid and gray, like he had just beaten a dreadful bout of flu. Next was that he had a scraggly, half-grown beard. His buzzcut was, as Naegi had said, no longer an ash brown, but the hue of dark chocolate. And the final detail Naegi had indicated was also true, one eye a brutal, piercing scarlet, and the other an olive, hazel sort of color.
Half and half. Hinata felt himself disassociate once more. Naegi stood at his side, but Hinata wasn’t comforted.
“How...” Hinata began, his throat thick and croaky. “How am I supposed to take care of anyone. I’m... I’m not built for this. I – what was I built for? I – I was – I was Hinata Hajime, I know – that’s me, right? But – but that’s not me. I’m not me. This isn’t me.” He pointed weakly at his reflection, and Naegi’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“Please don’t leave me here.” Hinata whispered, digging his fingernails in his jugular, wanting to slash it open. “Please, God, please don’t – I can’t – I’m not right, I’m not, I – mæ̀, pa – mum, my mom, and – and my dad – and –”
Hinata’s knees buckled, and Naegi shouted for help, but it didn’t matter, it didn’t, it couldn’t, and Hinata just needed to –
A gentle touch slid onto his head. Calming. Familiar.
“Hinata-kun.” Kirigiri said, low and kind. “I’d like you to come with me. Is that alright? Are you able to stand?”
Hinata nodded, grabbing hold by the inside of her elbows, and tailing after her. She escorted him to an office packed with monitors, the smell of stale coffee in the air. They sat on the same side of the table in the center of the room, a teapot resting on top, rivulets of steam curling up from the spout. Hinata grazed his fingers on the porcelain.
Hot. Hot tea. Teapot. Origin is Japanese. Original concept of teapots are historically dated from 12th Dynasty in China. Hot. Not as hot as fire.
Kirigiri filled a matching set of cups with a reddish tea.
Rosehip. Smells floral.
“...Brain won’t shut up.” Hinata grumbled, grinding a knuckle over the bridge of his nose. “It’s like an encyclopedia that won’t stop rattling things off.”
“Two consciousnesses merged in your one mind within a matter of minutes, so I don’t find that very surprising.”
Hinata nodded, and Kirigiri offered him cream for the tea. He raised an eyebrow.
“Ah, it’s not traditional, no.” Kirigiri chuckled. “But Asahina-san isn’t fond of sharp flavors. Her coffee is... Well, it certainly is a beverage. I’ve grown accustomed to always providing cream, should the demand arise.”
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
The question was more fearful on Hinata’s part, the lump in his throat ever present. Kirigiri took a drink, swirling the liquid in her cup.
“Naegi-kun and I spent a long time watching you on these screens. Some of those times, I loathe to admit, were when you were, erm. Occupied? I believe that may be the most tactful word choice.”
Hinata, despite being humiliated at the first taste of this knowledge in the simulation, felt nothing of the sort now. He simply nodded and added cream to his tea, because he had never seen anyone drink it like that, and it was therefore interesting to find out.
“All those days you spent in captivity, we never stopped observing you. You were never completely alone. And I, throughout that period, perhaps reaching a culmination during our brief liaison in your void, became somewhat protective of you. Ironic, as you exceed me in years, and are technically my senpai.”
“It’s fine, I’m not really very mature. He set me back by a few years. I feel more stunted than ever. Like an overly knowledgeable cactus. Or maybe an advanced algae. I hate him, and I pity him, and yet I...”
Hinata trailed off and drew a mouthful of the creamed rosehip tea. It was pleasant, delicately sweet, and fragrant. The information slotted into some crevice of his brain, locked in, never to be forgotten.
There was no forgetting, anymore. Just remembering.
Just remembering everything.
“I look up to you. You probably picked up on that.” Hinata muttered, tracing the rim of his teacup with his thumb. “And maybe it’s a comfort to me right now, because it feels really human, to admire someone. And I know I hurt you by proxy of... Of her, but at least I didn’t do anything directly to you. I know that’s selfish. But I don’t think I can blame that on my other half, that’s just... That’s on brand for me.”
“It isn’t selfish. Additionally, it is very important that you become aware of two things – refusing to use the name of those that frighten you only exacerbates their influence over you, and should be something you work to address. The other is that you are human. I became fond of you while monitoring you because, as rash and aggressive as you initially appeared, you contained sensitive depths.”
Kirigiri inspected Hinata with an appreciative fascination.
“...You loved so easily, despite your fear of it. I envied it and... Respected it. Deeply. When I visited you, in your dreams, my advice was faulty, colored by my own mistrust. I wanted to protect you from the pain of what loving easily does to a person, but it is that very thing that made Kamukura submit to you, and not the other way around.”
“Izuru... I, or he, or... We? I don’t know. I want to kill him, because I want to kill myself. And it’s – it’s so messed up, because I feel bad for him. Or maybe he feels bad for me, or we feel bad for each other, which is this inexcusable loop of self-pitying bullshit. I loved before the Tragedy, and – a-and I loved during the Tragedy, which is – I’m...” Hinata trembled, hating himself, disgusted with everything he was.
Kirigiri branched out her arm and, compassionate and painfully tender, scratched the nape of his neck, and Hinata flinched.
“N-no, please don’t –” Hinata stammered, his eyes watering from shame. “D-don’t, he – that’s how he –”
“Komaeda-kun settled you this way, correct?”
Hinata leaned his head into his palms, shoulders rattling with muted, agonized sobs. This was torture. This was torture, because it was this body, his body, these hands, his hands, that –
“M-my mom, and my d-dad, and Chiaki, and – and s-so many – I can s-see them, all of them, and th-they w-were crying, and s-screaming, and N-Na– no. No, I c-can’t say his n-name, I d-don’t h-have the right to –”
“Komaeda Nagito-kun... For a while I believed you kept him stable. When the simulation began, I encouraged the redevelopment of your relationship as I was under the impression that you would do his psychological state some good.”
Hinata spat a bitter laugh.
“He was better than me. His faith in hope ended up being the most important thing in that digital nightmare. And do you know what I did to him? During those years of the Tragedy?”
Kirigiri bowed her head. She knew. Of course she knew.
“Over and over again. Over and – and fucking over!” Hinata threw his mug at the wall. “Why am I here?! Why did you want to rehabilitate me at all?! Some monster – some –” Hinata swayed, tears splashing down his front, clawing at his scalp. “You should have let me die! Munakata-sensei was right! Togami-san should have – sh-should have fucking shot me!”
“Hinata-kun, you are, as you’re likely aware, the only person alive that has the potential to bring the other students of class 77-B out of their comatose state. All of you have committed atrocities, and despite your self-loathing, Komaeda-kun was no less complicit than Tsumiki-san or Nidai-kun, in that you were brainwashed. This was not a matter of being drugged, or inebriated.”
Hinata crumbled, burying his face in his knees, wailing desolately, wanting to rip away his skin, to saw himself into segments, to gouge out his eyes, to die, to die, to die, to die, to die.
“I’m not m-my true self, I’m – I don’t know wh-who I am. I’m – who am I? I can’t be – I can’t be – please don’t let me stay this way, please don’t make me stay like this, please, please –”
“Your situation was... Unique. Your brain was surgically restructured. You... Under ordinary circumstances, you would not be Hinata Hajime-kun. The... The torment must be unimaginable, and I am truly sorry, but this was the best case scenario.”
Hinata felt Kirigiri scratch the nape of his neck again, and he curled into himself like an insect, tumbling sideways onto her lap. She was warm, soft. So human. So alive. A survivor from the Tragedy that he had created.
“Please don’t leave me alone. Please.” Hinata breathed, pleading, sniveling onto her pants.
“I have a... Friend. A colleague, that you may benefit in speaking to. Would this be permissible?”
Hinata swallowed, trying to block out his consciousness, trying to focus on the aroma of rose tea and the brave woman that was allowing a genocidal abomination to cry on her legs.
“O-okay.”
“Okay?” Kirigiri confirmed, stroking his buzzed hair. He wondered if this was what having an older sister was like.
“Okay. I – I’ll talk to them.” Hinata sat up, scrubbing his eyes. “Can’t imagine they’ll really want to talk to a murderer, but... But it’s fine.”
“Hm, you may be surprised.” Kirigiri retrieved a walkie-talkie from her pocket, clicking it on and talking into it. “Fukawa-san, if possible, can you please meet me in the office? Hinata-kun is here.”
There was an inaudible sound from the other end, but Kirigiri appeared to understand it as an affirmative.
Hinata kept fluctuating between snot-dripping histrionics, hyperventilating, and stony apathy. He was currently entrenched in the latter, staring into space with a strange feeling that he couldn’t quite identify.
And then the door to the office creaked open, and a thin, frail woman with messy twin braids and overlarge glasses peeked inside.
“Y-you... Called me.”
“Fukawa-san, thank you for coming. If you recall, we had a brief discussion prior to the NWP shutdown. A favor I requested. I believe now would be the best time.”
The skittish woman, Fukawa, crept father into the room, kneeling on the opposite side of the table. She bore a peculiar expression, one that Hinata’s furiously keen mind identified as a cocktail of conflict, both internal and external.
“Hinata-kun, this is Fukawa Toko-san. Previously known as the Ultimate Author, and one of my fellow survivors.”
“Uh. Nice to meet you.” Hinata’s addressal was flat, unemotive. He was so tired. “Not to be rude, but I’m gonna be honest and say that I doubt one of your stories can make me feel better. I’ve read some of your works, they were great, but – but I’m sort of. Past that point.”
“I-I’m. Not just an author.” Fukawa gathered a breath, a muscle in her cheek jumping. “Y-you puh-probably d-don’t know, or i-if you do, it’s – it’s from a c-case file.”
Case file? Interesting.
Hinata shunted away the thought.
“If you were... Fuck.” Hinata hissed a groan through his teeth. “If you lost someone close to you because of me, I’m sorry, I know that doesn’t –”
“I’m a serial killer.” Fukawa interrupted him, chillingly level. “I’m Genocider Sho. I d-don’t. I don’t sh-share memories with her. B-but I’ve... W-woken up, at the wrong times b-before.”
Hinata’s ennui, his tireless analysis, were drowned into submission by shock.
“You... You’re a serial killer. You?”
“Me.” Fukawa replied dully, her hands folded neat and formal on her thighs.
“I u-used to think that – that w-we were different p-people, and... And w-we kind of are, and we k-kind of aren’t. Psy-psychologists d-deemed it as Dissociative Identity Disorder. I-it’s puh-pretty terrible, s-since...” Fukawa chuckled darkly, her lip curling. “Since I-I’m b-basically a stereotype f-from a s-slasher film. I h-haven’t killed anyone in a w-while, b-because S-Sho’s type is, um, v-very specific.”
Hinata registered something stirring in his chest. Empathy. He was feeling with Fukawa, rather than observing, which meant...
Which meant that Kamukura had internalized what Hinata had spent so long trying to teach him.
“What, uh... What do you mean you’ve woken up at the wrong time?”
“I’ve seen how s-she does it.” Fukawa murmured, an eerie horror glinting in her intelligent, inky irises. “I’ve h-heard them. The b-boys she killed. I u-used to think I – I just h-had bad dreams. But they were real. A-and she’s still here.” Fukawa tapped her temple.
“Sho i-is... Is a p-part of me. S-she was b-born b-because I h-had some... I was... D-do... Do you l-like stories?”
Hinata hesitated, but slowly nodded.
“Yeah. Both of us, we... I like stories.”
“Th-then... You can’t be th-that bad.” Fukawa breathed a laugh, unsmiling. “I-I’m b-better at telling stories than – than t-talking about it, s-so, this is j-just a story.”
Hinata had never understood a stranger’s rationale so instantly before, and he politely motioned for Fukawa to proceed.
“There...” Fukawa closed her eyes, and her voice changed. From stuttering and trepidatious, it bloomed into a silken, melodic example of flawless articulation.
“There was a young girl, born in a hospital as most infants are. This child, the embodiment of irony, rested peacefully in an incubator cusped against another machine that cradled a cold corpse of the neighboring babe. A terrible fight broke out between two women just outside of the room, as one of these infants belonged to one of these mothers, and one of the two were dead. Rather than mourn, as one would expect to occur for a mother witnessing their child’s demise to do, the two women forged a contentious agreement. They would both mother the one child left alive. By a stroke of fortuitous fortune, not to be classified as benevolent or actually lucky, both of these infants, the one that breathed and the one that did not, were sired by the same man.
“And so this familial unit was structured on spite, two women that would never know whether the child they raised was their own, and a father that cared little either way. This infant became a toddler, grew into a young girl, and would be locked in closets and deprived of food and water. This young girl was abused by her mothers and tortured by her father. This young girl was robbed of any social understanding, knew naught of companionship or safety, and was scorned by those around her within and outside of her home. There comes a time, after such damage, that the mind can do many things. Will it harden in the face of adversity? Or does it fracture? And if it does fracture, there is an additional mystery. If two cups are shattered, how does one know which piece of porcelain came from which cup? Did that other infant perish only to have her soul latch on to the nearest host? Was the one infant tortured truly ever just one? Because when she entered teenagerhood, the girl split, of one body, and two minds. One meek, the other exuberant. One afraid, the other bloodthirsty. One me, and the other her.”
Kirigiri offered Fukawa a cup of tea, which she accepted with a muted ‘thanks,’ while clearing her throat.
“For... For a long time, I h-hated her.” Fukawa’s storytelling persona had faded back into her usual wavering annunciations.
“A-and, sometimes, I still do. B-but in a strange way... Y-you’d think I’d b-be more ashamed, a-and maybe I’m d-despicable f-for even saying this, b-but... You get t-tired of it. S-she says she s-stopped killing because Togami-sama told us t-to stop, or b-because there a-aren’t any m-men she wants to kill. But... But I d-don’t think that’s true. I th-think she j-just needed someone to l-love her, j-just like I did. I... I don’t know whether my half-sister’s soul attached to me and became Sho. I f-feel like that might be an insult to... To the dead.
“B-but she’s... I’ve got to take c-care of her, because I’m all sh-she has. S-so, I hate her, but I a-also love her, because she’s the closest thing t-to a sister I have. And I th-think she feels the same. She – she started k-keeping a diary w-with all of the things she d-does when she – when she’s i-in control. B-because she knows I w-want to know. She d-did that for me, a-and I do it for her. I kn-know everything she did, now. I-it’s not the same as you, b-but... But...”
Fukawa drank the rest of the tea in her cup, glaring into it. She cast Hinata a meaningful glance, raised the cup, and threw it against the same wall where Hinata had violently chucked his own, where it burst into fragments. She rose to her feet, approached the mess, and picked up two random shards.
“I’m... I’m j-just a novelist. I’m not a d-detective, or an analyst, or h-hope personified. B-but if y-you like stories, I d-don’t think you can be all bad, because you... Y-you understand m-metaphor.”
Fukawa held out the jagged pieces of porcelain, and Hinata let her place them in his hands.
“D-does it matter w-which cup these pieces came from? They’re... They’re both b-broken, after all. It’s n-not their fault that they got shattered.”
Hinata chewed on his lip. His left and right hands had, since he’d first met Kirigiri, been the manifestation of his talent versus his emotionality. Now it was one hand containing the Hinata that had existed in the simulation, a version of himself that had honed his talent and fallen in love with Komaeda all over again. The other hand held Kamukura, all of the atrocities he’d committed, and all of the confused, infantile, pained guilt that the man had brought on himself. And then, in the middle, in his heart, he was Hajime, the man trapped in a prison of his own body, forced to watch himself murder and abuse and destroy.
And then there was his mind. Where they were blended together, swirling around like a slurry of conflicting personalities. If Hinata took a step back from it, if he just observed it, if he just did what he did best, he could see why it was so painful. Hate and love were very similar emotions, and he was vacillating between them like a ticking pendulum.
“Can I ask... How do you...? Or, uh. Maybe...?” Hinata rubbed the back of his neck, peering askance. “How do you – can you expect anyone to forgive you? And – and is it fair to think it’s even possible? Because... Why would they. Why would anyone?”
Fukawa blinked, nibbling her thumbnail, not responding immediately.
“I-is... I-is it f-fair to expect anything from a-anyone? I d-don’t need p-people to f-forgive me. I have t-to live with wh-what I’ve done, b-because the-there’s no way to change the p-past. Y-you can either move f-forward, or you die, b-because s-staying still makes y-you no better than – than a c-corpse. I n-never h-had friends b-before now. When you forgive someone, it’s n-not because they e-expect you to. I-it’s your own ch-choice. The same g-goes for – for everyone else. All we can do is... A-all we can do is remember, and r-repent as best we can.”
“Naegi-san has been a rather good influence on you, Fukawa-san.” Kirigiri commented, smiling, and Fukawa shrugged, crossing her arms protectively across her breast. “You’ve been writing about it, correct? Sho-san’s story.”
“I... I was told i-it might be a good idea. Komaru-chan s-said it, b-but N-Naegi-kun brought it up too. It’s darker than what I u-usually write. But... It isn’t bad. Komaru-chan l-likes it, so I d-don’t mind w-writing it.”
Hinata realized he could breathe. He could breathe, he could talk... He was alive. It hurt, it was miserable, and he wanted to go to sleep, but he was alive. He refused to be a corpse, not yet, not when he’d created hundreds of others.
Crying solved nothing. The least he could do was help fix things.
“Fukawa-san, uh... I can’t exactly judge, seeing as, you know, I’ve probably killed a lot more people than you, but you helped me. So I’m grateful. Thank you.” Hinata said earnestly, and Fukawa squinted at him as though she had to make sure that he wasn’t lying. “I’d really like to read your new book, when it’s finished.”
“W-well, y-you should. A l-lot of my fans are dead because of you, s-so I need readers. B-but if it m-makes you feel better, I think... Some things are inevitable.”
Hinata raised an eyebrow, and Fukawa got a buzz on her walkie, readying to leave.
“L-like I said, I’m just a n-novelist. But everything is a s-story in the end. The Tragedy is j-just another story, and we’re all p-participants. W-write your own, l-literally, or figuratively, s-so that you know you... You know y-you did your best. M-my friend is calling me. M-my best friend. I’ve g-got to go help her, or, um, you know.”
Fukawa fished a taser out of her skirt pocket, her expression resolved.
“...My sister does.”
And she left.
The room was silent for a while, and Kirigiri sighed.
“...You know, I quite liked that tea set.”
Which for some reason, made Hinata’s chest flutter. Pain, confusion, apathy, and guilt notwithstanding, there was something Hinata was now exceptionally good at.
Everything.
“I can fix it.” Hinata replied, composed and confident, because he could. There were things he could do, and if there were things he could do, that meant he was in control. “I can fix it, leave it with me and I’ll send it back. First I need to wake up my friends.”
A contained smile spread over Kirigiri’s lips, pale irises twinkling.
“Well done. What do you need?”
“What do I...?” A switch clicked on in Hinata’s mind.
“I need several buckets. I need Gekkogahara-san on call at any hour, I need benzodiazepines, testosterone shots, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, strong painkillers, a solid supply of ondansetron – it’s an anti-nausea medication, they’ll need that. I need changes of clothes, a place I can clear out for a therapy room, an area for exercise, and a lot of liquor and cigarettes. Actually, I’ll need a lot – based on their neurological state, I can’t currently establish the exact time period that each of my classmates are gonna be in stasis. If I write a list for Togami-san can he get everything we need?”
Kirigiri stood up, gazing at him with pride.
"Undoubtedly. Let’s go, then.”
And filled with a blazing, motivating fury that Hinata had never felt before, he and Kirigiri descended to the lower levels, where he, Hinata Hajime, prepared to do what he did best.
Take control.