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Nagito thought that the Hope’s Peak Academy file’s failure to identify the traitor was the retaliatory back luck sure to follow his game of (accidentally-reversed) Russian roulette, but that had been wishful thinking.
His plan was so well-crafted, so meticulously thought out, that all that was left to do was to execute it and leave the rest up to luck.
He sparked the lighter and gently placed it, adjusting it ever so slightly a few times until it was surely in the right spot to be tipped over when the time came. Then he carefully raised and ducked under the curtain. The rest of his tools waited in the center of the room. The Monokuma doll, the duct tape, the ropes, the knife, the spear. He was smiling, he couldn’t help it. Though none of the Ultimates took up his offer to be their steplatter to greater hope, he had one last chance to force it upon them – to play out his role to the very end.
When he taped his mouth shut, he had to coach himself to slow his breathing. His heart was pounding, heart rate high, at the thought of what he had to do next. The adrenaline rush alone was making it hard to breathe, but he couldn’t afford to knock himself out just before the finish line. Slow breaths through the nose. In. Hold it. Out. He bound his ankles, tossed the spear over the rafter and adjusted it just so, and tightened the rope on his left wrist with the spear cord in hand. The knife was clutched in his right hand. He held it tight and stared at it for a moment. Blood was rushing in his ears, drowning out the music from beyond the curtain. Deep breath in. Hold it. Out. He squeezed his eyes shut. Opened them again.
His head tilted to the left. He raised the knife and brought it down, hard, on his left bicep. The pain was white-hot and he cried out on instinct, then tried to gasp for air, both functions nullified completely by the tape. He took frantic breaths through his nose instead. He dislodged the knife. A light smattering of blood hit his left cheek.
Too deep. He hadn’t been sure how much force this would require, but that was too much. He pushed the burning pain aside, gripped the knife, and cut down again a bit lighter. He grit his teeth under the tape. He brought the knife down on his arm again. And again. And again. He moved down his arm with each strike. His left fist was covered with blood. After one last blow to his forearm, his head fell back to the pavement, eyes screwed shut in agony.
The buzz of energy rattling throughout his body no longer bore any resemblance to excitement, but he tried to convince himself otherwise. It was panic, the animal instinct to retaliate and survive. White clouds danced in his vision, growing in size, and he fought hard to take deep breaths and blink them away. If he passed out now, the entire plan would fail. Hope would fail. If he passed out now, he would drop the spear, and his death would be a true suicide. Open and shut case.
He knocked his head back against the floor a few times in quick succession, trying to clear his head, his pained groans muffled by the tape.
Logically, mentally, he wasn’t afraid of dying at all. He’d been open to it–asking for it– this entire trip. Why was his body so opposed to something his mind had already made peace with? He had to manage his time – the entire plan was a balancing act where he couldn’t move too slowly and fail to complete all of his preparations in time, but he couldn’t move too quickly and risk fainting or bleeding out before the fire could start.
He sat up as much as he was able and took aim at his right thigh instead. He couldn’t fight the need to cry out, to scream, with each stab. The underside of the tape was dampening with spit, losing efficacy with every forceful exhale against it. It was beginning to slip when, in a harsh downturn of luck, you happened to be walking by the warehouse.
Your search for the bombs was cut short by Hajime sprinting down the path and informing you through his breathlessness that, in relevant part: bombs, factory, now. Though you hadn’t seen Sonia for some time, you pointed Hajime in the direction of where you last saw her before breaking into a run yourself. You tore across the bridge and down the fifth island’s road until you made it to the factory.
The doors were already thrown wide, presumably left that way by Fuyuhiko. No one else had arrived yet. You stood in the doorway for a moment, hand braced on the doorframe, as you took in the scene of bombs, piled high in a running vehicle’s truck bed. Nagito said the bombs would detonate at noon. You had to act quickly or everyone would die, so you shook off your hesitation and decided to enter the factory and investigate the bombs as urgently as possible.
Your resolve dissipated the instant you heard that scream. It rang out so loudly over the hum of the truck engine ahead of you that there was no mistaking its origin. It came from the right. You whipped to the right and your eyes fell on the warehouse door. The scream came from within the warehouse, you were sure of it. With the bomb detonation imminent and so few classmates left on the island, you wasted no time waiting and dashed to the warehouse door. You were aware that you were, most likely, running towards the scene of a murder. But if you were lucky, you could intercept the killer. If you were luckier, you could save the victim’s life.
The warehouse door was jammed–probably locked by the killer–and you didn’t hesitate before slamming into it with your right shoulder until it flew open. Over the sound of ominous music, you heard a shuffling sound from deeper within the building, followed by a low groan. Was the music playing to disguise the sound of the murder being committed?
You grabbed the speaker and threw it hard. The music cut out on impact, sending pieces of the speaker scattering across the floor. A quiet fluttering sound took the music’s place, followed by a clatter, and in an instant, the curtain at the back of the warehouse began to go up in flames. Despite the confusing series of events, you were sure someone was in danger or already dead deeper within the warehouse. The music and the fire had to be ploys to disguise the murder, and you couldn’t let the killer succeed in distracting you. The flames licked up the left side of the curtains all the way to the ceiling, growing hotter and spreading still, but the right side hadn’t yet ignited.
The fire was insistent and hot on your face but you ran towards it anyways, coming within inches of the open flame to grab at the curtain and rustle through it until you could find the opening and push through. You found the split and tossed it open, practically leaping through to avoid the ever-growing fire behind you, and stumbled into an incomprehensible scene.
Nagito was in the center of the room, three limbs bound, a knife in one free hand, sitting up slightly in a growing pool of blood. His face was an expression of utter shock, half of his mouth concealed beneath peeled back duct tape. He flinched back, shocked. As he did so, his left hand tried to pull closer so he could sit up properly. The rope restrained him and stopped the movement suddenly, sending the something above him swinging erratically before it fell. With the zipping sound of quick metal on metal and the flash of something catching the fire’s light, the object fell, struck the ground to Nagito’s right, then clattered noisily to the floor.
“No!” Nagito shouted, raising the knife in his hand, to do what with you weren't sure. You lunged at him before he could follow through on whatever it may have been.
You tackled him, pinning his arm beneath you and sending the knife scattering across the floor. He was attempting to fight back, thrashing, though rather ineffectively without the use of three of his extremities. With the knife out of play, you rearranged yourself, grabbing his free wrist tight in both hands and straddling his waist, keeping him restrained. Your head whipped around wildly, searching for a third person in the room and coming up empty. You turned your attention back on Nagito, who was still writhing.
“No!” He said. “You need to leave–”
“What the hell are you doing?” You pinned his right arm to the ground and ripped the remaining duct tape from his face before grabbing his jaw and pinning his head down, too. When he flinched back and in the ensuing struggle, he’d moved further into the pooling blood, the wounds on his arm seeping still. His white hair was fanned out beneath him, the left half’s ends effectively dip-dyed red with blood.
The fire was growing, bright and hot, to your left.
“You need to leave, now!” Nagito said.
“What are you doing?” You threw back again, ignoring him.
His eyes were wide, but they were different than you’d ever seen them. Instead of insanity, or excitement, you could see the fear in them, as though something was about to go terrible wrong. Which was strange because you had come to learn that, typically, things going terribly wrong would excite him. He looked horrified now. In his own strange way.
Before he had a chance to answer you–not that you knew if he would have–you spoke up again.
“We’re leaving, right now!”
From the other side of the inferno, you could hear voices. Panicked shouting. The others had arrived at the factory and saw the fire. Maybe they would be able to put it out.
There was very little flammable material on this side of the curtain, so though the fire was devouring the curtain and presumably the other Monokuma merchandise whole, you had a good chance of escape. So long as the smoke didn’t knock you out.
“No, you have to leave me.” Nagito said. You released your hold on him to untie the rather shoddy knot on his left wrist. It crossed your mind that he might fight you, hurt you, or hurt himself further if you unrestrained him, but the risks posed by the fire and whatever else was terrifying him were greater. And though it was hard–nearly impossible–to understand what was going on inside his mind, after everything you had been through together, you knew that he wouldn’t harm you. And he had to know that you would never leave him to die.
You freed his left hand and crawled off of him, frantic, scrambling to the wall to recover the knife. It was easy to find in the orange glow of the fire. You hurried back to him and began sawing at the rope restraining his left leg. His right thigh was painted with blood. His pants were ripped there, just as his left sleeve was, but why? Why would he do this to himself?
The rope finally snapped and you advanced to the last one. He tried to sit up, but his left arm crumpled immediately. Unable to bear weight. He fell back and remained there, sprawled out, watching you through narrowed eyes. He turned his face to the fire, and you turned yours back to the rope. Almost there.
The clamor of voices picked up again. The curtain began to collapse in places, chunks of burning fabric falling to the floor and kicking up ash to mix with the smoke. The last threads of the rope finally snapped.
“Stand up!” Nagito shouted suddenly. You looked up from the rope, startled. “Stand up, now!”
You couldn’t tell if he was pleading, or if he was angry, or if it was both.
Before you could decide your next move, you heard the loud cracking of the fire grenades smashing open and saw the fire blink out at the points of impact. Then, only a second later, the sprinklers turned on.
Water rained down from the warehouse ceiling. It tamped out the fire and drenched you thoroughly. You couldn’t help but laugh in relief. Nagito was still lying on the ground, but now he had both hands in his hair, and he was rambling utter nonsense with his eyes squeezed shut. His apparent bizarre, elaborate suicide scheme’s failure must have registered in his mind then. You hurried to help him so you could leave the warehouse, together. He didn’t fight back when you got your arms around him and hauled him into sitting up. He just kept rambling, scrubbing his face with his hands and grabbing at his hair. You’d never seen him act this way. It was hard to watch.
“You’ll have to stand up,” you said. "I can't carry you.”
He grabbed his right thigh harshly, fingers digging into the gashes there. Despite all of your recent exposure to violence, the sight made your stomach flip. You took hold of his wrist, dragging his hand away from his wounds. The downpour from the sprinklers washed the blood off of his fingertips.
You convinced him to stand and had to readjust to support him more when it became clear that his right leg was struggling to hold his weight. His muttering was a constant stream of insults, all directed at himself, mostly things you had heard before. That he was trash, that he couldn’t do anything right, that he didn’t deserve your intervention. He ranted and rambled about failing to be a stepladder for hope, about how an Ultimate like yourself shouldn’t have had to save him, about how bad his luck was. That last part struck you as funny, because you’d never felt luckier.
In some cosmic turn of good luck: You were the first to arrive at the factory. You had heard him scream. You managed to open the warehouse door. You got behind the curtain before the fire made it impossible. You got the knife away from him before he could do anything else with it. You were saved by the fire grenades and sprinklers before either of you could burn or die from smoke inhalation.
To Nagito, in some vengeful twist of bad luck: The duct tape loosened. The music wasn’t loud enough to cover the noises he made. The curtain didn’t burn fast enough. The spear didn’t drop on him. The fire grenades still got thrown, but with milliseconds to spare, the sprinklers went off and neutralized the poison in its tracks.
Outside of the warehouse, the group crowded around you and Nagito. A cacophony of crackling erupted from the factory as the interior was lit up with the promised explosion. But it wasn’t an explosion at all. Rather, the sparks and smoke of fireworks flowed out in a steady stream from the open factory door. Nagito went limp beside you.
When he finally came to, he did so slowly, as though awakening from some distant dream. His white eyelashes were still fanned across his cheeks when his breathing began to quicken, to come in more erratic bursts. His eyes drifted open eventually and he looked around the room a bit, dazed. All of the cottages look about the same, especially if you’re looking at the ceiling, so maybe he thought he was in his own room. Maybe he thought the events of the day were just a dream. But they weren’t. His eyes landed on you then, his brows furrowing slightly. You waved sheepishly from where you sat on the couch, sitting up slowly. Then, he clenched his eyes shut.
You stood and inched to the side of your bed, a bit worried about startling him. In spite of the crazy things he’s said, and the crazy things he’s done, you knew he was gentle, deep down. When he was sleeping before, and looking so peaceful, it reminded you of when you first met him (or, the first meeting you remember at least, which was at the start of the school trip). Him peering down at you on the beach, helping you up with a smile, leading you around and introducing you to everyone. So, you approached the bedside like he was a skittish animal rather than a dangerous, untrustworthy person.
His eyes were still shut. He brought a hand up to cover them, lips quirked down in a small frown. Bandages were wrapped around his left arm from his wrist until they disappeared under his shirtsleeve, some small blood smears still visible though he’d been patched up pretty well. The green jacket was hanging in the shower to dry, along with his shirt and jeans, all washed. You thought about raiding his cottage for a spare shirt but didn’t feel right invading his privacy, or leaving him alone in case he woke up, so he was in a sleep shirt of yours. He was so thin it fit well enough, and the old, stretched-out neckline sloped low enough to show his collarbone. Was his illness partly to blame for his weight? Was it to blame for his stark white hair? Was it to blame for his recurring suicidal ideation? Was that why he wasn’t afraid to try to do it?
You whispered to get his attention. “Nagito?”
He was still frowning ever so slightly. Hand still covering eyes, he eventually whispered your name back.
“How do you feel?” You reached out to touch him, hesitated, then withdrew. That might be the last thing he wanted right now. Everyone else on the island was furious with him, and here you were, afraid he might be mad at you.
He ignored your question.
“Am I in your room?” He asked, voice scratchy from sleep. “And where are the others?”
He knew the bombs were fireworks, so he wasn’t asking out of curiosity for their safety. Maybe out of curiosity for his own after the way he’d gone rogue—more so than usual—and threatened all of you. His legs shifted under the covers. Against Kazuichi and Fuyuhiko’s wishes, he hadn’t been tied up again. You took responsibility for watching him, insisting that he was too hurt to harm anyone else right now. Someone said that he was more likely to harm himself again, to which someone else said, let him. You wouldn’t.
“They’re around. Some of them are investigating the factory. They’re going to visit. In shifts.”
‘Visit’ was a nice way to put it, but he surely understood what it meant. He nodded ever so slightly.
“You’re going to ask me to tell you everything.” Nagito said. It wasn’t a question, just a statement. And he was right–you had a duty to the others to get some form of explanation for the fake bombs, the warehouse, the videos he filmed, and so on. More importantly, you had to get the password to the ruins from him. But it was the middle of the night, and you were confident in your classmates. There was no risk of a murder tonight. Questioning could wait until the morning.
“I know, but not right now. You should sleep.”
He must be so exhausted, in every possible way. You don’t fully understand his motivations or the extent of what he had planned, but his actions took a clear toll on his body. Some of the cuts were deep, and he bled enough that he’d passed out. Mentally, surely he was rattled. His plan was elaborate and confusing and the end goal remains to be seen, and all of it falling apart had to be distressing for him. Probably more so than it was for you to break into and rip up his plan right at the end, which is saying a lot, because you were rather distressed. Are rather distressed.
Nagito uncovered his eyes slowly and squinted up at you. You tried not to look worried, which would probably only serve to confuse him. At every turn since you’d woken up on this island, he could never understand why you cared about him. He’d always brush it off with some odd comment about being worthless and then diffuse you with a compliment to your talent when you tried to challenge the way he spoke about himself.
Why were you going to do it? The question was on the tip of your tongue. You wanted to ask so badly – needed to know what the explanation could possibly be. The thought of walking into that warehouse too late and finding him lying there, dead, haunted you. But you couldn’t ask him that, at least not now.
You reached out at last, now that he was watching and wouldn’t be startled by it, and gently brushed his hair off his forehead. His frown was deepening and his eyes were misty and you couldn’t stand the sight of any of it, so you started to step back from the bedside.
“I’ll be here if you need anything,” you whispered, drawing your hand back away from his face. His hand caught yours before you could get far. His grasp was weak. You scanned his face, looking for some explanation, waiting for him to talk.
His eyes flitted between yours, lips still downturned. His left hand clenched and unclenched where it laid above the blanket. After what felt like an entire minute, he spoke up. “You’re not… going to lay down too?”
You looked at him for a moment, lips parted, considering the question and the request hidden underneath it. It wasn’t unlike when he was tied up in the old dining hall and asked you to feed him, then to stay and talk to him. Sometimes he just had a funny way of phrasing things. When you went back over that night with a blanket and pillow for him, he asked if you were going to lay down then, too.
You stole a glance at the door, still locked, and through the narrowed blinds, it was dark outside save for the moon’s pale light. You were exhausted, but too afraid to sleep and lose sight of him. If you were laying beside him, you would know if he got up and tried to leave. Maybe it was a good idea to just do it.
“Okay, yeah,” you sighed, turning to face the bed again. He shuffled further towards the wall to make room, gritting his teeth as he did. He let go of your hand to lift the blanket and you wasted no time before crawling in and trying to make yourself comfortable. It was weird being here, in your cottage, in your bed, with Nagito. It wasn’t exactly the circumstances you had imagined, or secretly hoped for. But you were so relieved he was here, and your heart burned with the knowledge that he wouldn’t have been here, or in his own room, or anywhere at all anymore if you hadn’t found him when you did.
He was lying stiffly beside you, uninjured arm at his side, looking up at the bed’s canopy. And he was the one who effectively asked you to share the bed with him. Since he had asked, you gave up on holding back your desire to reach out to him, to comfort him in some way. Your fingers brushed his arm and you kept them there, assessing. His head tilted towards you ever so slightly. You looked at him, questioningly, and his arm pressed back against your hand in response.
Taking it as a sign of invitation, you shuffled a bit closer until you could feel more of him. Head resting on his shoulder, holding onto his arm against his side, legs barely brushed against his right. You stopped there, hyper aware of the gauze-wrapped cuts on his right thigh. He reciprocated a tiny bit, probably just as much as he could handle at the moment, turning his head fully to you, face against your hair. It probably smelled right–like you–since you’d had the chance to shower after the morning’s incident. Nagito, on the other hand, still smelled faintly of smoke and blood despite the change of clothes and medical treatment. Underneath it, though, he still smelled distinctly himself, like you remember from before. Something soft and kind of sweet, like chamomile.
He was so lucky to be alive, you thought. One small change could have set off an entirely different string of events, but in this reality, he was safe with you, at least for now. If he tried to sneak away somehow, you would know, and you would stop him again.
You could feel his slow breaths by your forehead, and his pulse where your hand was grasping his wrist. Once you were sure he had fallen asleep, you closed your eyes, too.