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Himiko Yumeno was a magician, a performer, a mage, whatever. When it came down to it her talent meant that she knew magic, she knew how to misdirect someone’s attention and always guess the correct card, she knew how to expertly move and create her tools and props, and most importantly, she knew how to act.
Himiko Yumeno was a magic user through and through. The killing game was a game of misdirection and sleight of hand, and she could probably figure out more about it if the ache in her bones wasn’t so prominent with each death that passed. She’d just been so tired.
Back when her master had disappeared, she looked and looked for him, did show after show in hopes of gaining his attention, and texted his number every week. The magic castle group had been no help, and with the year passing by she lost more and more hope, and slowly started to just…exhaust herself. When she received her ultimate she wasn’t even that phased, the numb ache constantly, dully present barely being covered by a mask for her performances.
So being in the whole... killing game situation, Himiko really had about had it. What was the point? Even her “classmates”were tiring. Every morning she woke up and pulled the covers back over her head. Tenko was fun, but her excitement and over-protectiveness made her tired just looking at her. Angie giving her some false hope had distracted her from the ache a bit, (and Angie was an artist in her own right so it was a given it was a good act), but she was just still so tired.
But then she saw Angie's body on the floor, with her blood spilled out around her and a peaceful smile on her face like the one she had always worn when she was alive, when she was breathing, one she would never beam at her again, and. Himiko wanted to say goodbye at least.
Setting up the seance with Tenko and the others, she sent a silent prayer to Atua, desperate at this point. What kind of use was she? Doing a few little tricks wouldn’t help anybody here, the magic show and poor Ryoma’s death was just proof of that. Nobody took her seriously (and they shouldn’t, she viscously thinks before shoving it down). Nobody could smile here. But Angie had smiled. Tenko smiled prettily at her, too. Himiko solemnly listened to her advice, longingly admired how her face lit up and went dark and shed tears, and then she was silent under the cage.
Himiko sung the song, (ignoring the thoughts encroaching her brain about how the song and dark sure did distract from that suspicious thud), and when the cage was silent she suddenly wasn’t tired anymore and the oppressive metal was putty in her hands, but Tenko with her bold declarations and loud laugh was already gone.
In just one morning, Himiko lost two people she would’ve liked to learn to love. The investigation dragged on, and Himiko was ready to give up. What was even the point? Slipping away from the others, she sat down in an empty hallway and just breathed.
It was in this empty hallway and mid mental-breakdown that she saw a... strange sight. Kokichi Ouma, (an actor, a person skilled in lies like her but better, because he was constantly moving and scheming and just doing something, unlike her), was stumbling down the hall. Blood was seeping from his head and he had a dazed look in his eyes as he walked right past her. (And Angie was gone and Tenko was gone and she’d never see them again, what would they do in this situation? Would Angie let him stumble on and probably die?).
She stood up abruptly, and walked towards him. Silently she pulled him aside, into the bathroom around the corner. The paper towels were scratchy and brown but soon the trash was half full of blood and soaking wet towels. Thinking of something to mimic a bandage, she pulled out some of her “unlimited“ scarves she always had on her, and wrapped them around his head. (One’s her master had given her for her 13th birthday, with special initials H.Y. stitched in gold on the corner).
She took a first aid class when she was 11. It was one her master made her take because otherwise she wouldn’t be allowed to handle the more dangerous tools. (And she had desperately wanted to try out the chainsaw). Luckily she’d never needed it before, but she scrambled to remember the bits about head wounds she’d learned, padding at Kokichi’s bloodied forehead, nervous as all she really remembered was how bad they could end up being if not treated right.
Unfortunately she was short on supplies (as evidenced by the scarves now hidden under his hair, stopping the blood from seeping down his face), and so she sighed and used even more paper towels to wipe up the mess they’d made over the sink.
It was as the monokuma announcement played, alerting them to the start of the class trial, that he lifted his gaze. His violet eyes seemed to bore into hers, a million lies and maybe a few half truths, and maybe a bit of gratefulness hidden by an untrustful demeanor as he raised his eyebrow.
“No need to thank me,” she said, monotone, “it wouldn’t do to have you bleed all over the floor.” Her voice felt scratchy, and her hands slightly shook as she stood from where she’d been seated on the sink.
He studied her a little, then. His eyes were back on hers and he seemed to almost say something, and then suddenly like a light switch, a cheesy smile lit up over his face as he put the mask (one she was sure was there) back in place.
“Wooow, didn’t think you would actually help little ol’ me, Himiko. That was suuuper dangerous!!! Too bad you’re a suspect, I would’ve loved to thank you.” He teased her, wobbly legs bouncing around as he giggled and sneered.
She bristled at the jab, and was about to retort, but then the ache and tiredness was back full force and she slumped. “Whatever.” She mumbled. “My magic made it easy enough.”
They walked to the trial grounds, then. Kokichi skipped along, although he almost fell over multiple times. She walked with her hands in her sleeves, and contemplated what just happened, the confusing boy humming cheerfully as the pretty scarves wrapped around his head stained with his blood.
She thought of Angie's beautiful art still strewn about her death scene, she thought of Tenko enthusiastically teaching her Neo-aikido moves, of Angie and her hugs, of Tenko joining the student council because she wanted to keep her safe, and a million more tiny details she hadn’t appreciated four hours ago.
She thought of how Kokichi was silent as he numbly looked on while she patted his forehead, of how the others had looked sick at the sight of the bodies In front of them as they investigated a scene that held the secrets to whatever happened to their two classmates, acutely aware one of them among them was lying, and being equally aware that their lives might end in a few hours if they didn’t do every move right.
Himiko had a lot of regrets in life, and one morning had given her a million more. She cursed her non ability to process and show emotions and the fact she’d never get to say goodbye or hug or see their smiles again. By the time her spiral of self hate had finished she was standing at her podium. Clenching her fists, and anger white-hot spiking in her veins, Himiko resolved that they would receive justice, and so she pushed down her tired ache and her confusion and her worry for the bloody boy to her left who was whistling like he wasn’t a hair away from a concussion, and with an expertise one should expect from the ultimate magician (and a magician is really just an actor, who knows how to misdirect and how to play, how to pick and choose a mask), she hardened her gaze and let the debate for death begin.
Watching Korekiyo boil alive, and his spirit being dissolved by his “beloved sister” (ehgh), she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Oh, she hated him with all her soul, her fury still bubbling beneath her skin, but... it would be an incredibly sad fate, she thinks, to be like him. Near the end when his face was paler than milk and his arms shook as he hugged his skinny frame, he seemed rather pitiful, and she took a moment to regret the fact that Korekiyo was a person with thoughts and motivations and that he killed her two closest friends.
With the trial and execution finally over, her thoughts are overshadowed by the sudden intensity of her ache. The others mumble and talk, stiltedly, and all she can think about now is how it’s over, and how Tenko and Angie will never smile at her again, their fates unfairly cut short. The others were now bickering a tad louder but she couldn’t understand a word they said.
Kokichi was saying something to her. Could she hear? The roar in her ears was loud, but she managed.
“-why are you still trying so hard to hold yourself back, Himiko? It’s no good to lie to yourself.” Kokichi smirked at her, eyes twinkling with an emotion she couldn’t quite pin. She stood still for a moment. The instinctive recoil at the accusation (she was a liar, an actor, an artist, and her magic was a trick, she knew that, but it still hurt-) (plus he had been so mean during the trial but he’d always been right), and she remembered what Tenko had told her minutes before her departure.
She told her to cry, she thinks faintly, and she makes eye contact with the boy to her left and sees the slightly bloody scarves still cinched around his head and suddenly it's all too much.
Tears and cries and screams flow out of her like she no longer has control, a giant grey thundercloud in the springtime, and she falls to her knees. Letting it out does feel kind of cathartic, she vaguely thinks, before the thought just makes her cry more and more until she’s all out of tears and her throat is too scratched to make a sound. She sees the others sniffling, and she maybe even sees Kokichi shed a silent, dark tear before his face is smiling once again.
Her legs don’t work anymore. Gonta carries her to her room and lays her on her bed, and she thanks him before she ends up passing out in her clothes, her body a dead weight and her bed the most comfortable it’s ever been.
In the morning, it’s like a weight has been shifted from her shoulders, and she sniffles a bit as she gets ready, but she picks out some fun socks with little broomsticks on them, brushes out her hair, and her reflection in the mirror doesn’t seem so daunting as usual. As she opens her door she gets a wild idea to sprint to the cafeteria, so she just does, and it’s the freest she’s been since she was 5 and pulling her first rabbit out of a hat.
The day goes by, through which she mourns and laughs and works on her favorite card trick, and she is in her room reading her favorite magic castle magazine (that the library had, for some reason? Lucky) when she hears a knock. When she opens it she’s slightly surprised to see the ultimate enigma himself. He flutters around, lies slipping through his cheeky grin, nicely washed and dried scarves weaving through his fingers, and Himiko interrupts him.
“Why did you help me yesterday? You could’ve just said nothing. That’s what everyone else would’ve done. But you helped, in your own... weird, antagonistic way.”
He stilled at this query, his eyes darker than a bittersweet prune as he pursed his lips. He glanced around, almost as if checking for something, before he put on a wide smile and spoke. “Well, why did you help me? You really shouldn’t have helped an evil supreme leader like me, ya know. Even my good ol’ Saihara-chan and his scary assassin friend Maki left me to bleed all over my clothes and die. I was just paying off a debt, ya’ know. I don’t actually care.”
Bitterness seeped into his words as he spoke, and it’s almost as if he was holding waves of emotion back but reigning it in with a rehearsed ease she recognized. So she took the statement for what it was, nodded, and when he held out the scarves (now wrinkled from his twisting hands) she held them gently, thumbing over the H.Y. on the corner.
Their eyes connected for a split second, and she spoke quietly. “You know, I bet you’d make a good mage. I don’t know what’s entirely going on with you, and I’m sure a talented liar like yourself wouldn’t appreciate me trying to dig, but...” Himiko smiled then, and she looked into his eyes (doubtful, scared. Calculating her every move and piecing together his act like a true magician. She’d respect the magician, then. He wouldn’t reveal his secrets, and would perform his lies and misdirection she was sure was there, and she would watch and enjoy his show).
(She’d never bothered to think so deeply about him before, but she pulled bits and pieces from her memories, and he really wasn’t that hard to read, now. Good, yes, but most certainly a leader before an actor.)
She looked at the scarves in her hands and tuned out his teasing and cutting barbs, accepting them for what they were. She smirked a bit and bantered with him as she kicked him out of her room, laying the scarves out on her desk, and then sitting down with a fresh notebook (reminiscent of her old handmade spell book at home, where she’d dissected magicians acts until she knew each and every detail and trick they used), and began to think through the killing games magical act.
(When she was done and had had more than a few horrifying realizations about their lives at the moment, she almost regretted how useful her talent really could be now that she applied it, but in the end she was glad. The ache and tiredness in her bones was lighter than ever before.)