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There was a note in her room.
If someone were to ask why Kiibo had deemed it an appropriate decision, to sneak into a girl’s room–or more specifically, a dead girl’s room, which only served to make the matter more concerning–he'd have been unable to tell them. Perhaps it was because he didn’t quite know himself. Not really, at least. This behavior was normally the sort he’d condemn, no better than the actions of a pervert, yet still he was here, in the dead of night, mere hours after the trial.Only hours. Not even a day since he’d seen her last, not even a day since she’d been killed. Last night she would have been here. Should have been here, at least, though Kiibo had a haunting feeling that she’d still be by that supercomputer’s side, if she were still alive. She hadn’t left it’s side, in the past few days, and only now was he aware of the reason.
Iruma Miu died today. Or perhaps yesterday was the more accurate description, as it was past midnight now, but nonetheless a full twenty four hours hadn’t passed and at the very least, that meant her death was new and recent. What was most important was the acknowledgement that she was dead, that Iruma was gone forever, and Kiibo...
He didn’t understand how he felt.
Emotions were a very human thing. Which wasn’t to say that Kiibo didn’t have emotions, it was just that they were deep and powerful and hard to understand on a good day, and even more so on days where it felt like something deep inside of him was being torn apart, mauled by an angry beast of emotion and hurt. He tried hard, really hard, to understand them, and yet they never seemed to relent and allow him the time to process. He wanted to cry. To scream. And yet he did nothing, because it was illogical, because he couldn't put a name to the intensity within him, and there was no point to it. Iruma wasn’t here to hear his grief.. And distantly, he wondered if it was even worth being alive at all. If Iruma was dead, he’d lost something precious, something important, something he would never witness again. He’d never see her again.
It hurt doubly when he thought that perhaps when she’d prepared her plan, when she’d intended to kill him too in her escape, that perhaps she didn’t care about him in the same manner he cared for her. That was one thing he could understand, at least, easier than the emotions inside of him. There was a logic in her plan, logic that determined his own death and the death of all the others just for her to escape. This had certain implications. Implications such as, if he were the one who died, she would not hurt this way. That her (rather real, solid, in contrast to his figurative) heart would remain placid and at peace within her chest.
He wasn’t sure what she was thinking. He never was, he supposed. But he knew that he missed her, and that maybe that was sufficient enough reason to go to her room in the dead of night, despite the unfortunate memories of the trial remaining painfully fresh in his mind.
It wasn’t too different from his own room, though Kiibo supposed she didn’t sleep here often. Her lab was her home more than anywhere else, but it appeared that she did bring objects back to toy with at times, on the rare occasions that she did use this room. There were various machines riddling the floor and bed–wires and knobs and various odds and ends that Kiibo couldn’t begin to understand, despite his own nature as a robot. Nothing more than ghosts of projects, projects that would never reach reality. Her bed was a mess, blankets thrown off to the side, a pillow tossed carelessly aside. Aside from this, from the remnants of her that this room carried, Kiibo noticed nothing more out of the ordinary–it was the same prescribed room Monokuma had given all the students, after all, even if hints of Iruma's character remained.
And yet there were hints of her talent and her boisterous attitude and her laziness, traits so reminiscent of her that he was tempted to smile, a soft, broken smile that he didn’t let cross his face regardless. . His eyes, mechanical, roamed from the carefree spread of her bed to a spring resting beside it, and then finally to a nail by his foot. It wasn’t anything special–and yet he still knelt to the floor, unthinking as he reached for it. This nail–as well as the dozens of over scrap pieces littering the room–was all that was left of Iruma’s dreams. Of her creations. Of her imaginative mind. Iruma would never live again, and her possessions would carry with them the memory of her.
Kiibo dropped it quickly, instinctively, standing and looking anywhere but at the ground.He wasn’t sure how to describe the feeling coursing through him, a wave of intense emotion that accompanied by hurt, a hurt so incredibly painful. If his body were human, he was sure it would reflect his mental state at the moment. Perhaps there was no worth in trying to be human, if it just meant he’d feel like this, if it meant he could almost feel himself shaking for no reason (grief made sense, but when applied to his position...perhaps his emotions were wearing on his code).
Despite his thoughts, and the confusing and searing emotions that tore through his gut and mind, it was then that Kiibo made eye contact with it. A paper, laid out on the desk. It was a clean, pristine paper that looked so out of place among Iruma’s cluttered belongings, and despite the fact that it was something private (most likely), Kiibo couldn’t help taking a few steps closer, curious or desperate, or some mix of the two.
He hated the fact that Iruma couldn’t care anymore. That in death, she was unable to mind what he did, that her privacy mattered so little.
Yet still, when he approached, he could make out the messy scrawl of Iruma’s writing. Her handwriting decorated the page, some of the characters almost impossible to read. She always wrote too quickly, trying to keep up with the speed of her thoughts. She had, at least.
He almost didn’t read it. But his curiosity, or maybe, just the desire to see something of her again won out. He lifted the paper, running his gaze over the familiar lettering.
And instantly, the first line was so her that Kiibo had to pause, almost hearing her out loud, her voice ringing around him, in his head.
Hey! Which one of ya fucks thought it was a good idea to look through my panties? I mean, I get it, you still need something to jack off to without my amazing body there, but geez, can’t a girl get some privacy? Anyway. If you’re seeing this note, it means I got executed. I know some of ya are nosy shits, but could you please give this to Kiibo? Without reading it first, dumbasses!
I’m assuming it’s Kiibo reading, now. You’re probably going to need someone else to work on your maintenance now, huh? You could always get Monokuma to do it, that little bitch. He’s a robot, he better know how it fucking works. Take care of yourself, though. Just because I’m not here to keep you in line doesn’t mean you can just break however you want! You won’t have me and my glorious fucking mind fixing you up this time, or giving you updates. Nor will you get to enjoy this impressive bust!
But. Sorry. For what I did. I really, really didn’t want to hurt you. You can believe that, can’t you? I mean, it’s fine if you can’t. It’s not like it matters anyway, since I’ll either have succeeded or be dead. The apology still counts, though. I didn’t want things to be this way. But I can’t stand it here. I feel like I’m going to break, like I’m going to die just by breathing. I’m so fucking trapped and I know if I don’t do something, someone’s going to kill me first. I can just feel it.
I’m going to miss you. I know it’s a shitty excuse, what I said, but I’m a shitty fucking person, okay? But I’m going to miss you so fucking much. I know coming from me, it probably doesn’t mean a lot.
It’s the truth though.
Because no matter what happens, no matter how confusing everything is and how much I hate myself, I know one thing. I know how I feel about you. I know how good you are, how fucking brilliant you are, how much you deserve to live. I know how much I
I can’t believe I’m going to say it over paper.
I’m a coward. I know that. I’m sorry for not finishing that sentence. You’ll have to use your head then, Kiibo! Worst case, get the masochist twink to figure it out. Maybe. Or don’t, actually, that’s embarrassing.
I wish I didn’t write this in pen.
My point is, don’t worry about it. Just know, I never meant to hurt you. And that I’m so sorry for what I’ve done.
Signed,
Girl Genius, Miu Iruma
What was this searing, desperate pain that scorched through his insides, his mind? What was this overwhelming tirade of emotion? Why did it feel like his (again, nonexistent, stupid, imaginary) heart had been shattered like glass, slammed against the ground and stomped on until it was beyond repair?
He wanted to do something. To scream, to slam his fist into the wall and punch and punch and let himself break.
“Iruma-san,” he whispered, and again and again he said it, to himself, as if just by repeating this name she’d appear, as if this note would summon her along his incantations. “Iruma-san, Iruma-san, Iruma-san…”
He needed her.
“Miu…”
He didn’t know how he could continue without her.
“Why did you leave me?”
He didn’t know how, but he had to. For her.
“I love you too, Miu!”
The words were screamed into the emptiness of the dorm, an exclamation he’d find embarrassing at any other time, but right now, in that moment, he found himself unable to care.
“I’ll live for you! I won’t give up, for your sake!”