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She sees them at a rundown playground in the suburb she now calls home. It’s small and clearly hasn’t been upgraded in a while, the ground still blanketed in wood chips rather than the rubber favored in recent years. There are no children around. It’s December, the sky gray and a near-freezing drizzle of rain pattering over everything. Poor weather for playing outside.
Himiko isn’t there for recreation though. She’s there for the view of the nearby temple. That’s small too, though clearly better cared for than the playground. She doesn’t have the guts to actually attend the funeral, but part of her still felt the need to pay her respects, so here she is, from a distance.
Sodden wood chips squish under her boots (cherry red Doc Martens — she bets Harukawa would like them). She strides toward the very center of the playground, the spot bound to have the best view. Feeling rather stupid, she clambers up the ladder to the top of the tallest slide, nearly slipping on the wet rungs. The platform is protected by a roof, allowing her to sit there without getting drenched in the rain.
The floor is dry, but still cold, along with the air. She pulls her coat tighter around herself, gaze fixed on the outline of the temple roof.
She found the funeral info online. She’s pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to, and that’s one of the reasons she isn’t inside. The other reason is imprinted on her palms, ugly scabs from digging her fingernails in too deep too many times. It’s not good to think too hard about her memories of death.
The wake was skipped, she’s sure. Buddhist traditions dictate that the wake takes place as soon as possible after death. Open casket. Not possible now, if it ever was. The mere thought makes bile rise in the back of her throat until she chokes it back, fists clenched against her thighs. No, no, no, nononono stop thinking stop thinking.
Her right hand is bleeding, droplets of red soaking into her jeans. She can almost taste the rot in her mouth.
She doesn’t know if any of them have any family, including herself, so that probably means the answer is no. There was probably no one to do the kotsuage. Would the priests do it themselves? Surely they wouldn’t let fans—
She lurches forward toward the edge of the platform, half-standing, and clutches her stomach, blood on her shirt now too. If she’d eaten any lunch, she’d be losing it now. She vomits acid onto the wood chips below, held captive by thoughts of crazed TV-watchers sifting through their bones.
A hand rubs her back as she retches pathetically. She’s too out of it to notice.
“Are you alright?” The voice filters into her awareness as she’s pulling a tissue from her jacket pocket, slowly lifting her head up.
“You’re dead,” she responds automatically, before she can think about it. “I don’t think you can be talking to me right now.”
“I am? Fascinating. I wish someone would have told me.” Arms wrap around her, letting her lean back against their chest. She still doesn’t dare look at them. Shinguuji takes her bloodied hand, making a faint tsk tsk sound as they see the damage. Himiko closes her eyes, unable to bear even the glimpse of bandaged fingers against her skin. This is the first time she’s touched another person in over a week.
Over the patter of rain, she hears a rustling sound, like a wrapper being ripped open. Her hand is still cradled in their larger one.
“You’re not real,” she says urgently, throat raw.
There’s a gentle pressure against her scratched up palm, then it retreats. She cracks an eye open and finds a bandaid there. It’s pink, decorated with little illustrations of Kuromi, a character she remembers seeing on all manner of cutesy merch before.
“You keep Sanrio bandaids in your pocket? Now I know you aren’t real.”
“Hmm, no. I’m quite sure I’m real, Yumeno-san. If my presence is upsetting you, however, I can go.”
“No.” That’s a response she doesn’t need to think about, and it shows. She doesn’t understand the how or why of what’s happening, but she doesn’t want it to end. “Don’t go. Please.”
“Very well.” Gently, they guide her back to the other side of the platform to sit down. She goes along mindlessly, not sure why she’s surprised when they sit down beside her. She can’t avoid looking at them forever, so she dares to take a glance, preparing herself for something horrific, or worse, nothing at all.
What she finds, however, is perfectly mundane. Shinguuji, just as she remembers, if dressed a bit more normally.
“I didn’t select the bandaids on purpose, by the way. I merely ended up with them.”
“Such a vague explanation just makes you sound more suspicious,” she says, trying to stifle a laugh that becomes a cough. Her mouth tastes horrendous.
Startling, as if they’re only just remembering they have it, they pull a water bottle out of a nearby bag and hand it to her, even loosening the cap for her beforehand. Face flushed, she takes it, mumbling her thanks. Shinguuji just nods, the movement spotted in her peripheral vision.
“I’ve been alone for a long time,” she says after taking a drink, playing with the water’s label to avoid looking over at them. “I don’t know where anyone is.”
“Yes. I believe they want it that way.”
“They...?”
“Team Danganronpa, of course. Who else? I very much doubt our classmates all wish to avoid you. Surely they’re lonely just like you.” They pause, correcting themself. “Just like us.”
“You know about TDR?”
Shinguuji nods again. Himiko sips her water. No further explanation seems forthcoming, and she doesn’t know whether she wants to ask. She’s figured all along that Saihara and Harukawa went through the same ordeal as her. Passing out once they stepped off the ruined campus, waking up in a hospital and being brusquely tended to. Then being sent off with money, cell phones, and very little information to brand new, ready-stocked apartments. That’s been her life, afraid of the world and the massive conglomerate that still all but owns her. It’s been her life, but how could it be Shinguuji’s?
“Will I see you again?” she asks instead, voice more unsteady than she’d like.
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.” They reach over, not holding her hand exactly, just sort of stroking the back of it. It’s more comforting than it should be, and she sucks in a sharp breath to try to keep herself from crying. The frozen air hurts.
“Then I am certain of it. We’ll see each other again. Where are you living?”
She tells them her address, writes it down for them. Before she knows it, she’s climbing down from the safe hiding place of the playground structure, and Shinguuji is walking her home. They stop a few buildings away, like they’re afraid Team Danganronpa might know if they get too close, and hell, maybe they’re right. They squeeze her hand in goodbye, and they’re gone before she can remember that she still didn’t get any answers.
Laying on the couch, she runs her thumb over the plasticky pink bandaid material again and again, just to prove to herself it's there. She checks every cabinet in her apartment twice, and she has no bandaids, Sanrio or otherwise. Good. That’s good.
In the emptiness, she drifts in and out of nightmares, both awake and asleep. She misses them even more than when she thought they were dead.
Are they dead?
They see her at the 7-Eleven on the corner, looking through packages of cup noodles. It’s been nearly a week since the playground, and they feel bad about not having reached out to her yet. The loneliness has become familiar to them, the revulsion they face from nearly everyone who recognizes them. Yumeno hadn’t treated them that way, but she’d hardly been in her right mind then. There was no telling what a second encounter might bring.
So they loiter there in the aisle, pretending to look at the products around them, and before they can decide whether to go, Yumeno lifts her head, and her eyes lock onto theirs.
“Shinguuji,” she says, brows furrowing. When she sets the cup noodles back on the shelf, they can see her hand shaking. The scratches they bandaged so gently are scabbed over and barely visible now. They still have some of those silly pink bandaids in their jacket pocket though, just in case. They wonder if it would amuse her to know that.
“Yumeno-san. Doing better than the last time we saw one another, I hope?”
“Sure.” Her voice is vague, noncommittal, like she hardly heard their question, much less believes in her answer. She scuffs the toe of her boot against the floor, lets her lips curl into a frown. They wish they could be freed from the instinctive attention to detail that characterized nearly all their human interactions in the killing game. Humanity is still beautiful, but being aware of that brings them no joy.
Yumeno says nothing more after that. The little store is quiet aside from the background music and the murmurings of other customers around the building. Kiyo’s never been the type to be unnerved by silence, but even they feel their certainty draining away as the moments drag on. Maybe they should go.
“Is everyone else alive too?” she asks, just as they’re about to turn away.
“I think so. I haven’t seen anyone personally aside from you, but if my own death was somehow faked...I see no reason why I would be the only one.” It’s frustrating, not having the answers she wants. They’ve been grappling with it on their own for weeks, getting used to the idea that they’re not done living yet after all.
Sometimes they think it might have been easier if they really did die in that soup pot. But then Yumeno nods slowly, like she’s deciding whether she wants to believe it, and they think it’s probably good someone’s here for her.
“Would you like to walk with me?” they offer, nodding in the direction of the door. It feels dangerous to discuss these things in public.
“Yeah, that’s fine. I was mostly just wandering around here for something to do.” When she agrees, the relief hits them hard enough to make their legs go weak. They lean against a shelving unit for a moment, hoping she can make out their wobbly smile through their mask.
“Wonderful.”
It’s a slow, trundling walk around the block. Both of them flinch a little too hard whenever a stranger walks past. The air is cold and raw. They see Yumeno shivering every so often, and their fingers twitch with the urge to offer her their jacket. Would that be appropriate? Their social skills are lacking, something they’re acutely aware of.
“Did you plan this?” she asks. “Showing up at the store and finding me?”
Kiyo laughs, shaking their head. They don’t wish to offend her with their amusement, but it’s so sweet. Being thought capable is nice. Their skills as the Ultimate Anthropologist, and as a serial killer, have faded, though they admittedly haven’t had reason to test the latter talent recently. Maybe it can be chalked up more to loss of motivation than loss of skill.
“No, merely a happy coincidence. I’m flattered you think I’d be capable of executing such a scheme unnoticed, however.”
“Oh,” she responds. “Right.”
“Is there a problem with that? I apologize if you’re disappointed.”
“No, no. It’s just...it’s been a while. If this wasn’t on purpose, then I was just wondering if you were really planning on seeing me again.”
“Of course I was.” They can’t tell if it’s a lie. “I just needed a little time.”
“Really? Because, y’know, you didn’t give me any of your info in return. I couldn’t have been the one to reach out.” Frowning, she shoves her hands into her pockets, drawing away just a little. They move closer by the same amount, realizing for the first time that their insecure dithering hurt more than just themself.
“Yes, really. Eventually. When? I don’t know. I...was afraid,” they admit, exhaling heavily. “Afraid of you saying you wanted nothing to do with me. After how I hurt you...it would be perfectly reasonable.”
“Even if I did feel that way, being with someone familiar’s better than no one, right?” She takes a half step closer as they reach the corner, meandering into a small residential area. “I can’t stand this much longer. I want answers. And I don’t think I can do it by myself.”
Beautiful. Even with that lingering sense of doubt, there’s no missing the fact that she’s grown stronger since their artificial demise. A pleased hum escapes their lips, heedless of how unnerving it might sound. The strength isn’t all that catches their attention though.
“Even if you did feel that way?” Kiyo echoes. “Meaning you do not?”
“Is that a problem?” That defensive arch of an eyebrow makes them smirk, and they shake their head. In a moment of boldness, they take her hand, and she squeezes back.
“Not at all. It’s a welcome change of pace. I’ve always been quite interested in you too, Yumeno-san, and I did find it very charming how broken up you were over my death.”
She scoffs, indignant, but squeezes their hand tighter as she does.
“You’re really here...”
“Really really. I can keep proving it if I need to.”
“Then start by telling me what you know, Shinguuji-chan,” Yumeno requests, voice lilting almost playfully over the honorific. She still sounds deeply exhausted, but there’s a determination, a groundedness that wasn’t there last time.
They start talking and turn toward the playground.