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“Hey, are you dead?”
Kamukura Izuru opened his eyes to find Komaeda Nagito leaning over him, his gaze feverishly bright even in the dimly lit cabin.
This was not an extraordinary occurrence.
Komaeda had become a constant visitor to his cabin. Not a welcome presence exactly, but a familiar one, since his luck made slipping past his locks a simple matter of faulty hinges or stripped screws or weak welds. He often returned to his cabin in the evenings to find the door leaning off-kilter in its frame and Komaeda inside rifling through his things or cleaning his shower or sitting carefully at the edge of his bed waiting for him, afraid he’d muss the blankets if he were to sit on it properly while he waited for him to return.
He sat up, not surprised to discover that Komaeda was standing just far enough out of the way to avoid collision. Nor that he was still standing just close enough that Komaeda’s hair brushed against his cheek as he swept past him to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
Komaeda Nagito’s hair was soft against his cheek, a likely by-product of the same luck that kept his own hair smooth and untangled no matter how little attention he paid it or how long it got, no doubt.
He smelled like coconut, but then everything on the island seemed to reek of coconut so that wasn’t surprising either.
“No,” Izuru answered finally.
The answer was belated and unnecessary, but he had been trying to make an effort to answer even the most boring questions since the simulation ended. “Meditating.”
Not sleeping, never sleeping, his mind was always too restless to ever relax enough for conventional slumber, even now. Many things had changed for him since Enoshima had coaxed him from his room beneath Hope’s Peak, and many more since the simulation, but that was not one of them.
Dwelling on it would be boring though and so he doesn't.
“Ah,” Komaeda murmured, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, eyes not quite meeting his, cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t worried, of course, someone as extraordinary as you wouldn’t die so easily. Though I’m sure if you did the others would have persevered and found hope even in your untimely demise.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied dryly. “Why are you here?”
Komaeda sighed, glancing up, his expression smoothing out as the color and interest drained away, “Aren’t you supposed to already know?”
They’d had this conversation before.
Many times.
“I don’t know everything that’s going to happen,” he sighed, reaching behind him for a pillow which he tossed gamely at Komaeda’s head.
Komaeda was already stepping out of the way before it left his hands... and directly into the path of the second pillow he threw immediately after the first which startled a laugh out of him and apparently caused him to relent as the next words out of his mouth were an explanation of sorts.
“They found a body at the school.”
He frowned, ducking to the side as Komaeda threw the pillow that had hit him and fallen conveniently into his arms back at him half-heartedly.
The "they" could only be the Future Foundation.
He glanced down and found Komaeda’s bare feet covered with the clinging remnants of beach sand and sighed, legs still damp and covered in prickly goose flesh courtesy of the ocean's chill, “You realize the whole point of having Souda rig up an excessive number of death traps around the island was to discourage drop ins.”
“I suppose it was lucky I was taking a walk on the beach when they showed up so I could disable them.”
“Yes. Lucky,” Izuru replied dryly. “And what do they want us to do about their body problem?”
“You don’t already know? What’s the point of being overstuffed with artificial talent if you can’t divine something as simple as that?” Komaeda sighed, distinctly unimpressed as he crossed his arms over his chest, his lips knotting in a disappointed frown.
“I’m surprised you could be bothered to pull yourself away from basking in the light of all that legitimate talent long enough to come find me,” he replied flatly, rolling his eyes as he crossed the room to dress for company. “If they’re looking for someone to blame, none of us have left the island in weeks and killing people with my mind is not one of my talents.”
Komaeda huffed a laugh, following him to the closet and leaning against the door as he shed his night clothes and changed into the suit he kept on hand for dealing with the rank and file of the Future Foundation when they inevitably came to call.
He’d greeted them in one of the more casual outfits he usually wore once, shorts covered in sand and shirt open over his bare chest, but while their reaction hadn’t been boring, it would be tiresome to deal with a second time.
The novelty of being treated as an ordinary teenager by men he could have killed with his little finger if he’d been so inclined had worn off quickly.
The novelty of most things did.
“If it were, I imagine there wouldn’t have been much of a Future Foundation to speak of by the time we entered that simulation.”
“That would have been boring,” Izuru replied easily, glancing back over his shoulder as he tugged off his shirt to find Komaeda very deliberately not looking at him as he kicked off his shorts and pulled on a dress shirt.
“It would be understandable, wouldn’t it?” Komaeda murmured, his voice filled with soft amusement that made his shoulders tighten involuntarily. “For them to blame us? Who would be a better scapegoat than the remnants of her Despair? Think of how much safer the world would feel, how much Hope it would bring, if we were no longer part of the equation.”
“Don’t care,” he replied, shaking his head briefly. It didn’t matter to him what the people of the world felt, he never had. He’d only helped save them last time because these people, his people for better or worse, had wanted to save them. “I'm not interested in being a martyr. Neither are you."
“Oh.... I suppose it’s just as well then that they just want us to help them investigate then.”
“Us?”
Komaeda’s mouth knit into a thoughtful frown as he finally glanced back up at him now that he was almost dressed and wearing pants again, “Well, you, but I don’t think you should go alone even if I’m not very useful and you’d be better off taking someone else, anyone else really would be more help, I’m sure, but I’d still rather it was me.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine. I would have asked you anyway. We're still not going to the school.”
He’d been very clear about boundaries the last time he’d spoken with Naegi when he’d informed him that Souda was putting in a full defensive array around the island and that rebuilding that school was a terrible idea and he had no intention of having any part in it.
“Oh... good. Then I suppose it’s lucky Naegi-san made them bring the evidence with them, photos of the crime scene too.”
Of course he had.
That was to be expected, he supposed.
Izuru glanced back at Komaeda, studying him as he finished buttoning his shirt. His pale cheeks were flushed and he was deliberately not looking at him again, “What is it?”
Komaeda shook his head and shrugged, stepping past him into the closet and taking a tie from the shelf. He’d finished doing up the buttons on his shirt and popped up the collar at the same moment Komaeda looped the tie around his neck, taking hold of the dark material and tying it with quick, efficient movements.
He stood still, listening to the soft whir of the joints of Komaeda's artificial hand, watching Komaeda’s pale brow furrowed in concentration, as he knotted and pulled the tie snug around his throat before straightening his collar.
They lingered there, silent, for a long moment, as Komaeda dropped his fingers to rest against his chest on either side of the tie.
He knows what he’s going to do a moment before they collide, but it never occurs to him to move aside.
Komaeda’s lips are rough and cracked where they brush against his own.
It’s new.
Different.
Nice.
And the way he finds himself leaning into the touch surprises him in a way so very few things can.
Whatever moment they’re having, Komaeda ruins it by turning his face away just as suddenly as he’d brought it close and bursting out into laughter. It’s too loud and too high in pitch to be true amusement. It's nervous and jittery and his hands are shaking where they’ve caught and rumpled his shirt front. He was still laughing in broken, startled huffs as he frantically tried to smooth away the damage he'd done, “Sorry, I... I... didn’t mean....”
He reached out and grabbed his wrists before he could skitter away and allow his own insecurities to consume him, “It was fine.”
Which was obviously not the correct thing to say based on the uniquely unimpressed look Komaeda gave him, all the nervousness melting away from him like ice baking in the sun.
This was not one of his talents.
He could make a bed with perfect corners and he could shoot down a goose or a plane from a mile away, he could anticipate and dodge almost anything, but he wasn’t good at this.
At knowing what to say to people.
To Komaeda especially.
The world was boring and predictable and, in far too many ways, so was he.
“We shouldn’t keep them waiting,” Komaeda commented and this time when he pulled away, he let him go. “I’m sure they have much better things to do than wait on us.”
“Fine,” Izuru sighed, shrugging into his jacket and following Komaeda to the door. “Let’s go find out who their good intentions killed this time.”
The walk to the beach is silent and terse and he’s faintly surprised to find them waiting there alone, clearly having been unnoticed by the others. That was lucky. It increased the chances that they might be able to get this business concluded and the Foundation off the island before anyone else’s day had to be interrupted by their presence.
While they hadn't seemed particularly pleased to be taking Komaeda aboard their ship, they hadn't argued against it.
Which was probably the best option available to them as there really was no telling what would have happened to their boat if they had upset either of them.
“Thank you for agreeing to come with us,” one of the men commented. He was nondescript, unremarkable, painfully boring... as most surviving members of the Future Foundation were, in his experience.
“We’ll try not to take up too much of your time,” the other commented, equally unremarkable though he was taller and had a talent. He had introduced himself as the Ultimate Negotiator. He never understood for certain why they still bothered to introduce themselves to him in such a way.
He made it very clear that he wasn’t impressed and he didn’t care.
“We just need you to look over these files and we’ll get you right back to the island.”
He glanced back toward the shore to gauge the distance. 1.24 km... he could easily swim that distance if he had to, even while carrying Komaeda.
“You were in the 70th class, weren’t you? I saw your picture on the alumni site. That seems like it would be a really Hope-inspiring talent, negotiation. Of course, we’re happy to look over anything you’d like us to look over though I can’t imagine what you think we can do that the Ultimate Detective can’t. Our talents can’t begin to compare to that, can they?”
He could probably even manage to reach the shore before he felt compelled to drown Komaeda for being Komaeda.
Probably.
“Kirigiri-san thought an extra set of eyes would be helpful considering,” the man replied evenly, ignoring Komaeda’s flattery.
“Considering?” He inquired softly, as he reached down to take hold of Komaeda’s synthetic hand and pull him gently away from the Negotiator.
“Whose body it is,” the man replied as he stepped into a darkened room, beckoning for them to follow.
He could feel Komaeda step in closer, a line of unfamiliar warmth against his back, the awkwardness of the cabin forgotten or pushed aside.
It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling, but not unwelcome.
Artificial light flickered to reluctant life with a soft hum as they stepped into the room, revealing an open box and an array of pink-splattered photographs spread across the table at the center of the room.
Izuru stared at them for a long moment before stepping further into the room and turning his attention to the contents of the box: a knife tacky with blood, a blood-splattered book, a hair clip, and a baseball.
He didn’t need to open the book.
He knew exactly what this was.
Predictable.
Boring.
Despair was easy.
Hope was difficult.
Especially in a world that was finally relaxing enough to remember all its petty grievances, comfortable and confident enough to reignite old fires the moment there was no longer the shadow of despair to battle in such a literal form.
The world was boring that way.
They knew that better than most.
And the Future Foundation should have known that better than anyone.
“You’re here to tell us they’re making a movie,” he commented flatly, turning his narrowed gaze on the man smiling pleasantly at him from the other side of the table.
“A trilogy, actually,” he replied, obviously pleased with himself for his presentation. “There were some who weren’t quite onboard with the idea. Said it was in poor taste, can you believe it? Fortunately cooler heads prevailed and overruled those who were perhaps a little too close to the events to understand what could be gained, how the world could benefit hearing the full story.”
"Full story."
The first lie of many, he was certain.
How anyone could think giving the world an glossy, fictionalized version of a complicated series of truths would make it a better place was obvious, but that didn’t mean it would be effective.
He could see the consequences of this choice stretching out into the future. The trilogy would inspire an original movie and then another and another which would in turn beget a television series, a phenomenon, widely popular with the young who had no memory of a time when these fictions were truth, when the people dying on their screens were real, who couldn't conceive of a society it would truly matter if they were. From that erosion of empathy it wouldn't be long before some innovative young executive would propose a show, a reality show: real contestants, real consequences, real death. It would be so simple, to take a step and slide down this slippery slope.
First it would be prisoners, people who the masses would feel deserved whatever fate awaited them, death row inmates willing to play for their freedom, for a chance at a new life. When that lost it's spark, there would be volunteers, fans, willing to give their lives to keep their favorite show alive, thriving, to become legend. Her name would become a chant, an expectation, a promise of the joy to be had in the pain of others. Whatever she had been originally would be lost beneath the idea of her and despair would become just a word. Another boring word for the emptiness they tried to fill by becoming spectators, victims, survivors.
Eventually they would make use of the adapted island program to offer their participants the promise of a new life as their favorite character and, later, as a character they themselves created, a perfect blend of all their favorite tropes. Whether they loved it or hated it, railed against it or championed it, Dangan Ronpa would become the fulcrum of society. The order that ruled the world, that kept the peace, and the Future Foundation would control every moment of it using what they had learned from him, from the others, to fuel their great work.
Utterly convinced of their path was righteous and true. But for all their empty promises of a better tomorrow, the Future Foundation had only ever truly excelled at paving the road to despair with their efforts to reach it.
But that...
That was a problem for another day.
“You’re all very stupid,” he replied finally, earning a huff of breath against the back of his neck that could almost have been a laugh as the Negotiator’s face contorted briefly with rage before settling back into an expression he probably thought masked his irritation.
“You shouldn’t say that, I’m sure their talents would make a film version of events shine brightly and bring hope to many,” Komaeda commented his voice soft and almost reverent. His admiration for them had dimmed a bit in the years since Hope’s Peak and all that happened there, but it would take more than a brainwashed, despair-fueled murder spree to put an end to it altogether.
“And despair to even more. Being talented doesn’t make them smart.”
“I suppose not,” Komaeda admitted finally and he didn’t need to see his face to know the look of disdain he wore. “Did you think we’d be more supportive about this then they were?”
“No, they didn’t,” Izuru answered before the Negotiator could speak. “But they don’t truly know what happened here, only what Naegi, Togami, and Kirigiri told them. They came to convince us to give them the data recordings.”
“Recordings?”
“Naegi had recordings made of our time in the simulation in case the Future Foundation needed proof that we had changed.”
“How exactly would recordings of us murdering each other be helpful? Ah, that’s right, it was supposed to be the virtual reality equivalent of a get-along shirt originally, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“If you two are quite finished,” the Negotiator snapped, red-faced, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Since you have it all figured out you could just make this easy and tell us where the recordings are.”
“Destroyed them.”
That much should have been obvious.
“Wh-what?”
Apparently not.
“I destroyed them,” he repeated, more slowly though he doubted saying it again would make him understand it any better. “Make something up.”
“Oh. I... I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell us what happened to you?” The man asked, flustered and grasping at straws. He was smarter than he’d assumed if he were skipping threats and moving straight to just asking politely.
Komaeda laughed, leaning away to cross his arms over his chest, “Don’t you have the Ultimate Novelist working for you? Why not ask her to write something for you? She does still work for you, doesn’t she?”
“We did. She told us to... uh... go... well, that is, she said no,” he finished sheepishly. “So, um... won’t you... please tell us what happened?”
He could sink their boat, kill both of them here and now... but there would be others. Others who would come and disturb their peaceful days again and again. Though in the end they would finally give up and just tell whatever story was most convenient for them, it would be several long months of regular irritation until that time.
They liked to think of themselves as the good guys, after all, and good guys at least tried to tell the truth.
Even if they had to badger the details out of a group of traumatized people to do it.
Better to just put an end to it now.
“The same thing that happened during the first killing game,” Izuru offered finally. “Only with different people and in the end it was all a simulation and the killing game was initiated by a virus. The survivors escaped and everyone woke up, alive and well and free of the brainwashing program that had made them despair in the first place. I’m certain you know the rest.”
“But that’s....”
“All you’re getting. Figure out the rest of the gory details yourself. Don’t come back. We’ll see ourselves back to the island.”
“We will?” Komaeda inquired, but he didn’t protest when he took hold of his hand once more and used it to tow him out of the room past the nondescript man who watched them go in silence.
The swim took longer than he anticipated though he still didn’t attempt to drown Komaeda and they arrived back on the shore in time to collapse against the sand as the boat vanished into the distance.
As they lay there on the sand, catching their breath, he finally asked the one question he didn’t know the answer to.
“Why did you kiss me?”
“Because I wanted to. Did it surprise you?”
“It did.”
“Oh,” Komaeda commented thoughtfully, flopping over onto his back and splaying out like a starfish. “It was awful, wasn’t it? Being kissed by someone like most have been terrible.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I don’t have enough comparative data to make an accurate assessment.”
“Oh. Well,” Komaeda rolled onto his side and he could feel the weight of his gaze though he didn’t turn to make it. “We could try it again sometime. If you want... though can’t imagine why you would want to do that with someone like me.”
“Okay,” he replied after a moment, turning his head just enough to see the smile that turned up the corners Komaeda’s lips.
He did not dwell on where that decision would lead.
He rather liked surprises.