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Harukawa Maki wakes up, curled in an uncomfortable wooden chair behind an old-fashioned school desk. She's stiff and sore, and across the room a small boy has his head pillowed in his arms. His hair is purple, his school uniform is black, and what she can see of his expression is twisted in discomfort.
Harukawa pulls herself from her chair, joints popping with each movement, and crosses the room to shake him awake. His head shoots up the moment her hand touches his shoulder, and he looks at her with wide eyes.
“Erm.” He says. “H-Hi.”
Harukawa raises an eyebrow at him, but the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Hey.” She replies. “Do you have any idea where we are?”
His eyes dip down, like he isn't sure he wants to hold eye contact any longer. He shrugs.
“Well, I think we should go outside and look around. More people might be nearby.” Harukawa pulls him out of his chair before he can offer his opinion on the idea. He lets her. “Harukawa Maki.” She introduces.
The other keeps his gaze on the ground. “O-Oh. Mine, uhm, my name is Ouma Kokichi.”
He holds his hand out to shake, rethinks the action, then retracts to awkwardly brush his palms against the pant of his uniform instead.
Harukawa snorts, rolling her eyes and walking to the door. “C’mon. Let's go.”
The walk is almost silent, aside from the metal screeches in the distance. Ouma doesn't seem like he's the social type—or even the 'interact with other human beings on a regular basis’ type—but he hovers as close to her as he can. From the corner of her eye, Harukawa can see him flinch with each distant sound. It’s pure stubbornness that stops her from doing the same, but she can sympathize. She speeds up so they can move just a little bit further from the whatever the hell that is just a little bit faster.
Just as the two of them reached a hall with a set of double doors labeled ‘Auditorium’ at the end of it, the ominous quiet is broken with a loud crash and a scream. Ouma replicates the sound and grabs Harukawa's hand, sprinting down the remainder of the corridor while dragging her behind him. He throws open the door, then throws them inside it. A little over ten people turn to look at them after their abrupt entrance; Harukawa waves, Ouma flushes and slinks behind her. It takes a moment for him to realize he still has her hand, which only manages to make him fade paler. He lets go like she'd somehow burned him and wipes his hand on his pants again. Harukawa does her best to ignore it.
“Oi! You get chased by those creeps too?” A girl with brunette twintails calls from the back of the room.
Harukawa raises an eyebrow. “Creeps?”
“C-Chased?” Ouma panics.
“Yeah! Those giant metal fuckers?” One of the other students interjects from the other side, the tallest and most muscled in the room. He scowls, and jabs his thumb in the direction of the person directly to his left. “I woulda took 'em out, but that little pansy bitch made us run instead!”
The aforementioned person, his white hair tucked under a cap, bristles. “Just because I didn't want to die doesn't make me a, a...” He fumbles.
“We didn't see anything like that, but we heard some weird noises.” Harukawa explains. “There was a scream though, not too far from us. Sounded like it was another girl.”
A blond boy surveys the gathered teenagers with a thoughtful grin, twirling a strand of hair around his finger. “That would be about right. Just waiting on two more.”
Harukawa opens her mouth to ask what that was supposed to mean, but two more students burst into the auditorium before she can get the words out. They're panting and sweating, shaking and leaning into each other as if they'd faced death itself. The conversation cycles back to the giant metal monsters that lurk out in the halls.
Then five color-coded bears appear.
Then a monochrome one.
The world explodes into bright lights and colors, then fades out altogether.
Harukawa Maki—the Super High School Level Assassin—wakes up, curled in an uncomfortable wooden chair behind an old-fashioned school desk. She's stiff and sore, and across the room a small boy is sprawled across his own desk. His hair is purple, his clothes are white, and his head is lolled to the side while he snores with his mouth open.
Obnoxious.
Harukawa leaves him in the room without a second thought. She doesn't know who he is, nor does she care. All she knows is that he isn't her problem.
The hallways are full of overgrown plants and ominous mechanical noises in the distance, but Harukawa doesn't pay them any mind. If anything came for her, she would kill it before it could kill her. She always keeps a knife hidden in her skirt as much as she keeps her guard raised.
After some directionless wandering through the halls, she ends up in what looks like a rundown auditorium. Ten or so other people had already found their way there, some more flustered than others. Most of the group had gathered themselves around the room in useless and panicked conversation, with a select few watching as silent outliers. Harukawa keeps her distance from them, brushing off the numerous attempts at a conversation and keeping herself to the outskirts of the group. There are some who take the hint better than others.
The last to arrive to the auditorium is the boy that had been in the classroom with her and, soon after, a pair of students that seem determined to hang off each other. The group breaks out into even more confused theories at their appearance, their desperation almost as annoying as it is loud.
Then five color-coded bears appear.
Then a monochrome one.
So it's a Killing Game in exchange for freedom? Well then, Harukawa thinks, Fine.
Harukawa's vibrant red gaze sweeps over the two. “Harukawa Maki, Super High School Level Child Caregiver.” She lies.
After Monokuma’s announcement, she knew that she couldn't have introduced herself as an Assassin of all things. It wasn't the best fake talent she could've settled on, but it wasn't one that she would ever need to prove or use while she was there. It’s not like there were kids were running around a prison school, and her time at the orphanage means that she knows more than enough to rattle off pedantic stories to satiate anyone who's too curious. Harukawa assumed Monokuma wouldn't call her out on it anytime soon; it was obvious that he knew the truth, if the bolded SHSL ASSASSIN in her Student Handbook was anything to go off of, but he didn't seem to care if she told the others or not.
And she didn't plan to, not if she could help it. It wasn't any of their business.
“My name is Akamatsu Kaede.” The other chirps, still relatively upbeat despite the circumstances. “I’m the Super High School Level Pianist! This is Saihara-kun.”
The other fiddles with the brim of his hat. “Y-Yeah.” He agrees. “Saihara Shuuichi. I'm the, uhm.” Saihara keeps his attention on the ground then, after a moment, says. “Super High School Level Detective.”
“Really, now.” Harukawa watches him. “I'll keep that in mind.”
Saihara braves eye contact and blinks up at her with his large champagne eyes. “Oh.” He studies her face, before ducking back under the cover of his hat. “Alright.”
Akamatsu glances between them. Her brows furrow as Saihara stares at the floor, as if to piece together the silent conversation she missed, but Akamatsu affixes a smile back on her face when Harukawa meets her gaze with a raised brow. She gives Harukawa a small nod before taking ahold of Saihara's arm and starting to lead him further down the hall where Harukawa knows other students are still scattered about in search of an exit.
“Well... We'll see you around, Harukawa-san!” Akamatsu says.
“I'm sure you will.” Harukawa agrees.
An entire day before the first motive is supposed to be offered, Saihara Shuuichi is found in his dorm room with a slit throat.
Harukawa wasn't sure what she had expected from the Class Trial but, somehow, it had exceeded even her most asinine assumptions.
She had assumed that they would debate it for half an hour before giving up and voting themselves to an early grave. Yet, as the clock crawled to its fourth hour, she realized that she had underestimated their willingness to argue over nonsensical theories.
It hadn't been anything personal. Saihara must have understood he was the obvious choice for a victim — a physically weak target that had the largest chance of puzzling through a murder was the only option for anyone who wanted to be done with this ridiculous farce. It made her wonder why he'd been idiotic enough to let her in his dorm room in the middle of the night. He hadn't seemed that stupid; too trusting of Akamatsu, perhaps, but with enough common sense to know better than to allow himself to be so vulnerable in the midst of a Killing Game. She hadn't dwelled on it whilst whiping her knife clean on the fabric of his shirt. It was his mistake to make, his life to lose.
Akamatsu had done her best to lead the investigation and trial through her grief for the boy she'd known less than 24 hours, but it had proven itself to be an uphill battle. The assistance of Amami, who had seemingly assigned himself to act as her right hand in Saihara's stead, hadn't abated the encroaching concern of failure that had descended upon them. Not that Harukawa was surprised. She was an experienced murderer, and they were inexperienced investigators — as planned, they were utterly helpless.
All Harukawa had to do was wait for them to accept their defeat, botch the vote, and sentence themselves to death.
They were doing a good job of testing her patience in the meantime.
“Hmm. Monokuma?” Ouma calls, almost in a sing-song. He glances over at the bear, full of false innocence. “I can ask you questions, can't I?”
Akamatsu frowns. “Ouma-kun.” Her sigh is a tired sound, half-hearted at best. “All you've done so far is accuse random people without evidence. Please. Give it a rest.”
Ouma pouts. “I'm trying to help solve Saihara-chan’s murder, just like everyone else!”
“Well you ain't helpin’ anyone, so knock it the fuck off!”
“Calm down, Momota. No one needs to get aggressive here.” Amami says soothingly, with Momota huffing in response.
Yumeno leans against her stand, cheek rested against her propped up hand in the same half-asleep posture she's maintained throughout the entire trial. “Yeah ... I'm too tired for everyone to start yelling like that. I'll get a headache.”
“Well...” Kiibo trails off in a moment of uncertainty, before he straightens and continues. “If he has a serious question, then he should ask it. It might help us!”
“Angie doubts it!”
Toujou presses her lips into a thin line. “I don't see how it could hurt. It's not as if we have many other ideas left.” She says. “It feels as if we've just talked ourselves in circles at this point.”
“It's just an innocent little question!” Ouma whines and tears fill his eyes. “Everyone’s being such bullies, talking about me like I'm not right here when the one we should be talking about is poor dead Saihara-chan!”
Harukawa scowls. “That's probably because no one wants to deal with you.”
Ouma sniffles.
Akamatsu wipes at her red-ringed eyes with the cuff of her sleeve as subtly as she can manage, but it's clear that the majority still notices. Amami offers her a sympathetic frown and a small pat. He looks over at Ouma. “Just ask.”
The change is instant; Ouma perks up like a child who's been promised a treat for good behavior. He turns to Monokuma and grins, but within seconds his bright expression melts into something far darker. Not devious, but malicious. A bad feeling settles in Harukawa's stomach at his face, near instinctual. She keeps her face as impassive as possible.
Ouma leans forward, hands clasped behind his back. “Is it possible that someone’s been lying to us about their talent?”
Harukawa's teeth crack with the effort it takes to hold her tongue.
“Lying?” Gokuhara tilts his head like a curious dog. “Gonta doesn't understand. He doesn’t know why anyone would want to lie about their talent.”
“A better question is what would that have to do with the murder.” Hoshi mutters.
Ouma beams, the ominous aura gone as if it had never been there to begin with, and Harukawa wishes she could reach out and wring his neck. “I don't want to name any names! It's just that I'm a liar, so I notice when other people lie too.”
Hoshi rolls his eyes. “That didn't answer anything.”
“Yeah! Give us one reason to believe your shota ass!” Iruma growls. “You've bullshitted us for the past two hours straight!”
He holds up a finger. “I wasn't asking the pig.” Ouma says. “I was asking the bear.”
Iruma recoils. “I-I’m not—”
“What a good question!” Monokuma interrupts. “Though, I don't know if I want to spoil the twist and answer it now. That wasn't supposed to be for another couple murders!”
Shinguuji hums in thought. “So there is a liar then.”
Harukawa’s hands ball themselves into fists as the theory is thrown back and forth, nails digging bloodied crescents into her palms. She's never been caught before, and this won't be the case that changes that. Ouma won't be the person that changes that. There's no way he knows, after all. She hasn't told anyone, even alluded to her fake talent being anything but real. He doesn't know. He's just bluffing, bullshitting — he doesn't know.
Harukawa takes a breath to steady herself. She can fix this, redirect it.
“If anyone’s lying about their talent, then the culprit is obvious.” Harukawa interjects. She sounds far calmer than she feels, which is good. It wouldn't help to let out the furious scream that's bottled up somewhere deep inside her chest. “After all, there's only one person in this room who claims he doesn't remember his.”
Attention swivels to Amami in seconds. He blinks in surprise as if he somehow hadn't expected that.
Ouma's bright grin flickers into sudden blankness.
“Fuck.” Momota says in realization.
“You're lying about your talent!” Chabashira accuses without a moment's hesitation. She throws herself at her trial lectern to jab a finger in his direction. “Menace!”
Shirogane taps her chin in thought. “Is lying by omission really lying, though?”
“It's not omission if he outright said he doesn't remember it.” Harukawa says. Her hands tremble in furious bone-white fists below the top of her stand, but her voice is still cool. “After all, Amami is the only person who seems to have 'forgotten’ his talent. I would say that's enough to be suspicious.”
Yonaga nods, solemn. “Kami-sama has to agree.” She claps her hands above her head. “Rantaro not knowing his own talent is strange.”
“Amami-kun?” Akamatsu quietly prompts.
His brows furrow. “Well, I—” Amami cuts himself off and stares down at his trial stand in thought. Then he shakes his head, offering the group an apologetic look. “I don't know what to tell everyone, other than that I just don't remember it.”
“That means he did it, right?” Yumeno asks between a yawn. “That we're done?”
“I don't think that's enough for us to vote with just yet.” Kiibo argues.
“It seems that it's all we have, however. The rest of the crime was rather anonymous.” Shinguuji says. He looks around the circle with a cool expression, unflinchingly meeting everyone's eyes. “Anyone could have gone to Saihara’s dorm at night with a knife, and I'm afraid none of us have true alibis for the time of the murder.”
“I just...” Akamatsu's eyes are terribly large, terribly vulnerable; it makes Harukawa avert her own. “I don't ... That isn't— That can't be enough for us to vote with. Amami-kun might not be able to remember his talent, but that doesn't mean he murdered—” Her expression collapses inward, words made unsteady with sadness. For but a moment, it seems as though she might truly begin to tear up. Then she shakes her head, clearing her throat and steeling her gaze. "No. No, it's not enough."
“Well, maybe we think of it like this .. Who else would lie about their talent?” Shirogane tries. “No one else's stands out like his does.”
Hoshi shrugs. “Ouma's is pretty damn weird if you ask me.”
Harukawa’s eyes snap to Ouma. He seems to have entirely disregarded the conversation that he started, with his Student Handbook booted up and balanced on the edge of his lectern as he scrolls through the provided evidence. Not even the point blank mention of his name is enough to make him pay attention again. Another glance around the room makes it clear that she isn’t the only person who has noticed. Akamatsu sighs and shakes her head, while Momota glares at him.
He’s planning to do something, Harukawa can feel it.
She can't begin to believe that he truly knows that she is the culprit, but there's an festering bout of frustration that settles in the pit of her stomach at the thought. For all intents and purposes, it had been an untraceable murder. Harukawa has been an assassin long enough to know how to not only cover her tracks, but how not to leave tracks in the first place. A goddamn professional. If he knows, then she can't begin to imagine how.
She needs to redirect their attention.
“He has a point.” She nods in Hoshi's direction. “'Supreme Leader' sounds like something that a delusional kid would come up with, not an official talent Hope's Peak would ever give to someone.”
And it is strange just how ridiculous Ouma’s talent is. Maybe Harukawa isn't the only one who doesn't want people to know who she really is.
“That might be true, but Ouma-kun was the one who asked about it. It wouldn't make sense for him to out himself like that.” Akamatsu reasons.
“Maybe the menace just doesn't care if we know or not.” Chabashira suggests; Yumeno hums something that might be agreement or might be a yawn, but the other girl lights up all the same.
“I don't think pointing fingers at people will get us anywhere. We need to think about this.” Amami says. “Hoshi was right earlier. If Monokuma decided to answer Ouma’s question, then it has to relate to Saihara's murder.”
Iruma slams her fist. “Bullshit! You just wanna get the heat off your back!”
“No, I think both Amami-kun and Hoshi-kun have a point. The culprit's real talent is related to the case, somehow.” Akamatsu's determined gleam returns to her gaze as she looks across the group, and it leaves Harukawa no less perturbed to meet than the sight of slight wetness welling up along her lashline. “We just need to figure out what it is and how.”
Harukawa raises an eyebrow, keeping a schooled expression in spite of the tinge in her stomach. Half her attention is divided towards Ouma, but the bastard hasn't moved to do anything more than tap at his handbook. She doesn’t trust it. “So, what? You're suggesting we just guess?”
“Shit, uhhh.... Maybe the talent has to do with killin’ people? Like a hitman?” Momota suggests. “That would make sense, right?”
Harukawa grinds her teeth, but stays silent.
Shirogane tilts her head, a finger to her chin. “Would anyone want to give a 'Super High School Level’ title to a murderer, though? That sounds like it would be a little... Well, controversial."
“I can't imagine so.” Kiibo agrees.
“Whether that is accurate or not, I don't imagine that we can do much more than speculate for now.” Toujou reminds them. “Even if we were to somehow guess who's talent is false, there would be no way for us to confirm it.”
Ouma giggles.
It's loud and high-pitched, goddamned obnoxious, and the sound cuts through the conversation with the effectiveness of a knife.
Akamatsu pinches the bridge of her nose. “Ouma-kun.”
He looks up, the childish innocence back. “What is it?” Ouma's fingers continue to poke mindlessly at his Student Handbook, undeterred by the lack of eye contact with the screen.
“The fuck are you doing now?” Momota scowls at him, and Harukawa shares the sentiment.
“Oh, this?” Ouma blinks down to the tablet, then grins. “Don't worry about it, Momota-chan! This is a little out of your league, and I’d hate for you to embarrass yourself in front of everyone.”
“What's that supposed'ta mean?!”
Amami shoots him a look, but this time Momota doesn’t stand down. He runs a hand through his hair with a quiet sigh. “Stop it, Ouma. Don't provoke him.”
“Provoke? I'm not provoking anyone!” Ouma defends. He turns back to the Student Handbook, uninterested once again. “I'm just trying to warn him. Momota-chan has an image to keep and it's a lot smarter than he actually is.” Ouma says, flapping the device at him like a flippant hand of dismissal; Harukawa's brows furrow at the animated gestures with the stupid handbook, eyes flicking from his grin to his occupied hand. “After all! He’s pretty dumb when you get down to it. Very predictable.”
It isn’t until Momota snarls in frustration and pushes himself away from his stand that Harukawa realizes just what Ouma’s plan was.
The words SHSL ASSASSIN flash behind her eyes and, this time, Harukawa does scream.
Harukawa throws herself from her own trial stand to catch him, while Gokuhara does the same. She grabs for Momota’s stupid jacket to hold him back, but the purple fabric slips through her fingers before she can get a good grip.
“I’ll show you predictable, bastard!”
“Hold on—”
“Wait Momota-kun, don’t—”
Momota manages to deck Ouma hard enough to send him straight to the floor before Gokuhara even reaches them, and he stamps on the other boy’s chest to hold him down so he can grab at the Student Handbook. Ouma, for his part, doesn’t fight back. He wails instead, a high and wounded sound like an animal might make, and curls in on himself and the handbook as though Momota taking it isn't exactly what he wants. Harukawa can see the shadows of a broad grin on his face even between the bars of the lecterns and she stares at it, hand still outstretched for a jacket sleeve, frozen, frozen in place with something that feels like disbelief.
It's a hollow feeling, all the way down to her bones.
“Momota-kun, please! A real gentleman would never attack his friends!” Gokuhara intercepts Momota without any of Harukawa's own distraction, lifting him off the smaller boy and holding him at arm’s length. He steps back from Ouma in an obvious attempt to separate them before anything more can happen, but Momota doesn’t go without a struggle. “Please stop!”
Momota scrambles against Gokuhara’s grip. “Well then it’s a good fuckin’ thing that he isn’t my friend! Put me down, dammit!”
“Uaahhhh!” Ouma howls. “Momota-chan hit me!”
Akamatsu and Toujou seemed spurred into action at that, and both make their way towards where Ouma is still spread out on the floor. Amami jogs over to where Gokuhara keeps Momota held like a hissing and spitting tomcat to help calm him down in the meantime. The rest of the group watches them with a sort of uncertain anticipation at the sudden turn of events.
“Oooh boy.” Monokuma rubs his paws together, face tinted red. “It’s been awhile since we had a real rough and tumble throwdown in the courtroom! I almost forgot how exciting they can be!”
“W-Wha—?” Shirogane gasps. “Exciting? That's not exciting at all! Ouma could be hurt!”
“I do believe he’ll be alright. It’s just a bruise, though expect it will start to swell soon. Momota-kun hit him rather hard.” Toujou announces. She sends Momota a disapproving look. "I don't imagine we'll be getting ice for it, so in the meantime just try not to speak and aggravate your jaw."
She helps Ouma to his feet, looking decidedly unsympathetic to his woes. He’s crying and holding his cheek like it’s a mortal wound.
Harukawa wishes it were one.
She lets her hand drop.
Akamatsu picks up the Student Handbook from where Ouma dropped it. “What were you even doing, Ouma-kun? You made such a big deal about it, and you don’t have anything pulled up—” Akamatsu cuts herself off as she stares at the device. “Huh?”
“What? What is it?” Iruma leans forward. “Don’t just say mysterious bullshit!”
Akamatsu looks up at her. Her eyes are severe. “I know how we can find out who’s talent is fake.”
Monokuma yowls with obnoxious laughter. “And who killed poor Saihara!” He adds.
The room goes still, even Momota’s rampant temper tantrum forgotten at their words. The rest of Harukawa’s classmates look at one another with the most hopeful expressions they’ve worn the entire trial, and Harukawa can't stand it.
Harukawa wonders if this is how her marks felt in the minutes before she ended their disgusting lives.
She'd never imagined that oncoming death would feel so meaningless, even as an assassin who had long since accepted her short shelf-life. There's a vicious voice in the back of her mind that rages as Akamatsu explains to the others, ranting and raving and demanding that she refuse to give up, because this wasn't how it was meant to happen. This wasn't how she was meant to die, the voice hisses, and she can still bluff through it. She can still try, because she's an assassin and assassins don't get caught.
Her classmates brandish their own Student Handbooks to present their talents written in bolded letters, one after another, and Harukawa knows it doesn't matter if she tries.
Ouma grins at her as he flashes his own SHSL SUPREME LEADER to the room at large—tears dried and cheek swollen—and she debates if she will have the time to strangle the haughty bullshit out of him before she's executed. But then their eyes have turned to her, questioning and accusing in equal turn, and the hollowness settles back into place and she's left feeling pathetically despondent and intolerably enraged all at once.
“Just get it over with.” She hisses.
It seems like that’s enough for them.
The vote comes soon after that, surrounded by quiet murmurs and subtle glances that they seem to think she doesn’t notice. Harukawa has enough self-respect left to select herself.
It’s unanimous.
Harukawa looks to the portrait of Saihara while the others react out of tandem to the proclamation of their success—it’s all meaningless conversation, just as meaningless as when she first met them in the auditorium—and frowns. He looks the same as he did in life, weak and scared and spineless. Half of Saihara’s expression is hidden under his cap, like he’s still afraid to face the world even after he’s left it, but he still has the smallest of smiles.
She wonders what her portrait will look like after she’s dead. It’ll probably be less frightened and more fierce; maybe Monokuma will even have her smiling in it too. It wouldn’t be accurate, but memoriam pictures were usually happy smiles. Harukawa’s been to enough funerals to know that much.
A hand touches her arm. Through the fog that’s swallowed her, a wavering voice breaks through. “Why?”
It takes a moment for it to set in that someone’s speaking directly to her, but she debates ignoring it. The sooner she's executed, the sooner this ends and she can be anywhere else — Hell, her next life, maybe even the nothingness of the void. She’s never been religious, but she's never been picky either. Then Harukawa makes the mistake of glancing up at Akamatsu, at the tears that have once again started to run down the other girl’s face in uneven rivets. She has a lot of nerve to be crying as though she's the dead girl walking, but Harukawa can't find it in herself to be properly angry about it. She doesn't feel properly anything.
“Why what?”
“Why him.”
Harukawa's attention flickers around the trial room. All eyes are on them, the others silent in anticipation of her answer.
She supposes she never did explain herself, but a part of her doesn’t want them to know. It’s not like she knows these people and, to them, she’s sure she’ll just be the second dead of many more deaths to come. Harukawa doesn’t owe them anything.
The sound of Akamatsu's quiet gasps as she struggles to muffle her tears and hold a straight face draws Harukawa's attention back to her, and she meets the other girl's watery gaze. For a moment, she sees Saihara's large champagne eyes, pinched in the corners even as they flashed in panicked surprise at the knife cutting through his throat. There's something ugly about a person's eyes in death—unblinking and unseeing and so damn glassy—but she thinks his were perfect for dying wide open.
It's hard for her to imagine Akamatsu's eyes dead, so bright even through the ridiculous heartbreak caused by a stranger she barely knew.
“He was the obvious choice.” Harukawa says.
Akamatsu's hands twitch like she doesn’t know what to do with them. “B-But, what does that—”
Monokuma’s gavel bangs, and the noise is enough to suffocate anything more Akamatsu had to say. “I just can’t wait any longer! We’re done with all this mushy post-trial garbage!” He hops up to stand on his throne.
Momota glares. “Hold the fuck on! Akamatsu didn’t even get to finish her—!”
“Tsk tsk. Kids these days.” Monokuma shakes his head. “Time waits for no bear, and it especially waits for no girl! We’ve got an execution to get to!”
Harukawa swipes Akamatsu’s hand from her shoulder and steps away from the other girl before she has time to reach for her a second time. She turns to the throne, watching a bright red button rise from the ground in front of the bear while he twirled his gavel. Ouma catches in her peripheral, and he's still grinning like a goddamn fool. She grits her teeth.
“I’ve prepared a veeeeery special punishment for Harukawa Maki, the Super High School Level Assassin!”
Harukawa feels the chain grab her before she hears it, and the last sight she sees of the people who sent her to her death is horrified understanding written across their faces.
It’s a puppet being dragged across a raging battlefield by red strings, pulled to and fro into barbed wire and blades — skin sheared into finely cut ribbons and the sinew beneath poisoned black and she's dragged, to and fro, to and fro, as gunfire rains down and punches holes through the wretched bleeding thing that remains and it hurts, it hurts, goddammnit, it hurts.
Then it’s all over and Harukawa Maki is dead.
Harukawa Maki—the deceased murderer of Saihara Shuuichi—wakes up, curled in an uncomfortable wooden chair behind an old-fashioned school desk. She's stiff and sore, and across the—
She’s sprinted over before it’s fully registered.
Ouma isn’t able to wake up fast enough before she’s wrestled him out of his desk and onto the floor, hands tight around his neck. Panicked, he scrabbles to pull her off, kicking and clawing as well as he can with her knees digging hard into his chest. There’s no recognition in his face as he chokes and sputters in desperation—just the same instinctual terror that Harukawa sees on all the marks she has to finish up close—and that just makes her squeeze tighter. He struggles against her like a feral animal being put down. There's no thought as she bears down all the harder in unmerciful response.
A chair pathetically clatters to the ground beside her as Ouma knocks it over with his final desperate attempt to buck her off, but he's too small and too weak to gain any leverage. He goes still moments later.
She doesn't let go immediately, and only begins to lean off his chest once she's certain he isn't playing possum. Harukawa grinds her teeth together as she heaves from the adrenaline pounding, thrumming, singing through her veins. She unwraps her fingers and shakes out her stiff hands, studying Ouma's pallor face as she wills her blood to calm its boil. His eyes didn't close, wide and listless as he stares at nothingness. Harukawa thinks that if Saihara’s eyes had looked better in death, Ouma’s look worse. The purple is almost a faded black without light behind them, a color that's almost as ugly as he had been.
She sits back against his stilled torso and contemplates closing them herself, if only to get the black irises off of her.
Then the door is thrown open.
“We heard strange noises as we passed, is everyone al—”
A shriek of horror interrupts Toujou’s calm but urgent voice, and Harukawa turns to see Toujou and Shirogane crowded in the room's doorway. Toujou examines the scene with the most surprised expression that Harukawa has ever seen on her, while Shirogane is visibly shaking behind her shoulder.
“I-Is he...” Shirogane whispers.
Harukawa doesn’t respond, instead narrowing her eyes at them and rising to her feet so she can step off the corpse.
That seems to be more than enough confirmation for the cosplayer, and she shakily stumbles out of the doorway and further down the hall. Toujou doesn’t move from her own spot. She eyes Harukawa with enough careful consideration to show that she isn't sure whether Harukawa’s bloodlust had been fully expended or if she'll be its next target.
The room quakes before Harukawa herself can truly decide; steps that shake the building's very foundations thunder in the distance, and they're annoyingly familiar. Toujou hurries out of the doorway mere seconds before the red-plated Exisal bursts into the classroom with Monokuma perched on one of its shoulders, and Harukawa catches another glint of unfiltered surprise in the other girl's usually unshaken composure as Toujou flattens herself against a wall, out of the machine's immediate reach. There's no time to ponder it as Harukawa whips out her hunting knife and falls into a defensive crouch, attention firmly affixed to the hulking machine before her.
“She jumped the gun! She went and jumped it!” Monokuma complains, stamping his paws against the robot's armored shoulder. It thumps, a muffled sound of cotton against metal. “How unfair is that!”
“So unfair, Daddy!” The bear inside the mech replies.
“You're acting like you're upset I killed him.” She grinds out. “Isn't that the entire point of this stupid murder game?”
There's a pause, like he hadn't expected that reply. Then Monokuma shrugs. “Maybe it is! But that doesn't start until I say it does and it's not like you gave me any time! I mean, look at these paws! Look at them!! It's really hard to operate the school's intercoms when the buttons aren't made for bears..” He makes a show of sighing and pouting. “It's always what is Monokuma doing, and never how Monokuma is doing...”
The Exisal whirls. “Kids these days are so impatient and self-centered!”
“Can you two shut up?”
He sweats, inching back on the Exisal's shoulder. “Hey, now! You can't be upset with me. You're the one who went and murdered some kid without even having the excuse of being told to kill each other by a homicidal bear!”
“Told to...” A beat. “...kill each other.” Toujou suddenly repeats, gauging Harukawa and Monokuma as though she hopes to decipher which is the bigger threat. Her tone is carefully schooled in something leveled and calm, even as she keeps a generous distance. “Surely this is some sort of joke in poor taste, and neither of you are truly suggesting such an asinine thing.”
Harukawa's concentration shreds like a puppet's string or like that very same puppet's flesh, head snapping to Toujou with a look of frenzied disbelief. “What?”
It isn't until she sees the mirrored look of confusion upon Toujou's own face that she realizes the disconnect between her standing off against an Exisal, readying herself to fight for her life after having just lost it because of Ouma. He had ruined her perfect murder on what seemed like a whim and caused her death, and so she strangled the fucking life out of him for it.
It's like trying to breathe underwater to save yourself from drowning, and then suffocating instead — and Harukawa realizes she shouldn't be alive right now.
Her mouth opens, but she finds herself at a loss for words. “W... Wait. What?”
The click of the machine's arm moving is the only thing that snaps her back to the present situation, and she's staring down the barrel of a machine gun.
“It's illegal for bears to make jokes! Everyone knows that!” Monokuma laughs. “There's no one more upset about this than I am, trust me! I would've loved to keep such an exciting plot twist around! Just imagine it! The Super High School Level Caretaker was really the Super High School Level Assassin the entire time! What a reveal that would’ve been!” He crosses his arms over his rotund tummy, shaking his head in woeful regret. “It's too bad you broke the rules.”
“Do you want me to shoot her now, Daddy?” The bear inside the Exisal asks, and there's an eager bounce to his voice. “Just say the word and I’ll shoot!”
“Isn’t this an extreme reaction?” Toujou tries. "There are more reasonable ways to punish manslaughter."
It might be for Harukawa's sake or for her own, but Harukawa can't care enough to be grateful either way as the mech's machine gun begins to spin. She steps back on instinct, and her heel catches on the corpse at her feet.
“Oh, but the murderer’s execution is everyone's favorite part! For example...”
Monokuma points at her with a grand sweep of his paw, and this time the rain of bullets rips through her mercifully quick.
Harukawa Maki—the deceased murderer of Saihara Shuuichi—no, the deceased murder of Ouma Kokichi—no—the deceased murderer of—
Harukawa Maki stares at the same classroom walls for a third time and screams.