@copyfailed
♩
Komaeda’s vision finally came into focus again. The first thing he saw was the bitter red of her hand’s fingernails. It struck him that no matter how long they spent out in the wasteland that nail polish never so much as chipped. It was always so pristine, as if he was painting them in his sleep. The thought made him feel ill. He picked himself off the floor, ignoring the stabbing pain in his skull. He had no idea where he was, or how he’d gotten there. It was probably her. The place looked like an abandoned building. He idly rubbed her dead hand with two fingers. Still cold.
For a while, he quietly checked his surroundings. They were alone. He breathed a sigh of relief. He sat on a nearby pile of rubble, taking her hand in his.
“Where are we?” He whispered, seemingly to his own hand. “Better yet, why are we here?”
He remembered a few things. Blood, gunshots, Despair. Same as always. He pushed those thoughts aside and tried his best to focus. He remembered watching someone through a window. Stalking. Hounding them. Was this one of her games? If so, the question was whether she’d already settled it, or if it was still in progress. Was he meant to play out this part? What was he supposed to-
Click.
Her hand twitched, her nails tapping hard against the wood floor.
“Huh? Waiting?” Nagito murmured under his breath, “For who?”
He didn’t have to wait long for the answer. He heard a shuffling outside. His hand instinctively grabbed for the revolver tucked away in his jacket. Five bullets, six chambers. That way he could bet his luck against theirs. An endless game of Russian Roulette that he never lost. He took a few quiet steps toward the window, trying to see who was trying to break in.
It was none other than Junko Enoshima. The Ultimate Despair wore an expression he’d never seen on her face before. Pure, unadulterated terror. He almost laughed; what the hell was she running from? It was obvious that Junko was escaping from something, every time she made a noise, she’d frantically look over her shoulder. He could practically hear her panicked breathing despite the fact he was a floor above. He watched her movements and his mind filled in the blanks. What could possibly have her so scared? He was just about to call out and ask when he remembered.
♩
Junko is dead. Her arm is sewed onto his body. He’d touched her cold, dead flesh. What the fuck? What the fuck? What the-
Her hand twitched again.
“H-how? How are you doing this?” He grasped her hand and held it in front of his face, as if he were interrogating it. “This is you, right? You’re doing this.”
Her fingers dropped, enclosing his thumb in a cold grip.
“...No?”
He pulled her hand closer, pressing his lips to it and then letting it drop back to his side. He put the gun back in it’s place, and retrieved the glove he used to cover her when he was around others.He slipped it over the hand, and took a few cautious steps toward the stairs. Not-Junko must have made her way inside by now. From the darkness, he watched her. Deja vu. He’d done this before. While he was asleep. She’d done this. Watched this Not-Junko. Probably placed him here so he’d find her. What was he supposed to do to her?
He couldn’t hurt her. Not when she looked like Junko. Did she actually look like Junko, or was that all in his head? Was any of this happening? Was he still asleep? Why couldn’t he hurt Junko? Didn’t he hate her?
Whatever. He didn’t have time to worry about the details.
“Hey there! Are you lost?” He called from atop the stairs. It was so dark up there that he doubted she could make out much more than his silhouette.
This had to be important for her to take such direct action. Just looking at this not-Junko made his head hurt. What the hell was going on?