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He delved his fingers into the flesh of it's neck and squeezed, reached into the divots in it's oesophagus and dug further within, tighter, tighter, relentless. Pinned his leg into it's stomach, only holding firmer when it writhed, body twitching and frantically making attempts for survival. It knew that was something it could no longer hope for. Survival couldn't be attained when it relied on death. You can not live on the demise of others. A life borrowed is not one you can wear and fit to your skin. It will pinch and sag, forever uncomfortable. Too loose, gaps of air, boils on the skin filled with nothing. Too tight, axyhpshication, body in a chamber and nothing can writhe it's way inside. Open in all the wrong places, set for demise. You cannot live a stolen life. He didn't know why it expected otherwise.
Against it's bruised skin arose a blood red moon. Crimson crescents against the pale flesh. He wanted to tear further, impale beneath the flesh and flay the purple, inflamed leather till all that was visible was the bone beneath.
His knee held, stretching the pale base of it's stomach. A force so strong he could be embracing the floor below if not for the resistance of it's organs.
Wheezes and delirious moans of pain grated against his ears. He wanted to shut it off. It wasn't in pain, it didn't understand pain. It was not human. No human would subject that onto anyone.
His grip grew impossibly more firm. It's screams of pain, imitations of those it'd extracted learnt them from, grew quiet, degrading into airy, non-human shrieks. He ignored the hiccuping of it's breath, the tears decorating it's ugly face in thin trails, the half-formed words it cried out, nearing incomprehensible. He dismissed them, because it was not human. That was the truth. Its behaviour was anomaly. He could ignore that.
It's progressively weaker claims of pain meant nothing to him. He derived no joy, but held no guilt. He wanted to bring death, like it'd forced upon him. It didn't have the mercy to take his life, rather, killing everything but. A disgusting, vile excuse of a human who cared not about consequences. A fucked up, sadistic hikikomori who created more harm than it could ever had thought in it's chase of a "fictional" haevn. It reveled in the deaths of what it knew wasn't fiction. It ignored the traumas of those who left the killing game for its own self indulgence. It was a sick, twisted creature who deserved death.
It was him. It is Shuichi Saihara. He is Kagehara.
What does it mean to be sentient?
Kagehara is not a human. No human could willingly advocate for that. But, Shuichi knew better than anyone that he himself was human. Undeniably, authentically, human. The pain, the suffering, the torture he faced proved to him as much.
If Shuichi is Kagehara, he cannot hold certainty to two at once. His humanity is undeniable, it is the truth. But the acts of Kagehara having been preformed by a human is impossible, it must've been. He can't bring himself to believe a human could give away their life like that.
Ha. Because it wasn't. It was Shuichi's life it was offering, with full intent for him to become a human meatbag, mauled to death in some gory execution. He ignored the thought of death within the game being preferable.
Kagehara was a coward. For it's own obsession, to feed his own desires, to connect itself to the world of Danganronpa, it signed itself away. A blind believer at the altar, praying away to false idols, monochromatic.
It'd praised cutesy, marketable, adorable bear monokuma. The same cub that signed children to their exaggerate deaths with the whack of a hammer. It'd devoted it's life to that franchise, giving no regard to it's deteriorating social life, the shutdown of bonds with family. The threat of death didn't sway it's obsession. It didn't care to eat, or sleep, or remain hygienic. A filthy, malnourished, insomniac. No attempts were made to better it's life. It disregarded it's body for days at a time, empty time passing away. It might aswell never have had a life. When it bothered to make something of it's existence, it only served to make it worse. It's pillows were stained with crimson blossoms, aging into stale, dirty browns. It's life was a complete waste, it didn't care for education, family, friends, anything giving semblance to a living human. It had little motivation to stay alive; the morbid excitement that came with gore, insatiable need for a thinner frame, the thrill of a deeper cut. It was nothing but a rotting corpse, dragging itself further down, eventually to collapse in an early grave.
Danganronpa was it's salvation, it's hope in a world otherwise overwhelmed with despair. It's hope was false, draining it's will for being until it lived for nothing but the opportunity to devote it's mind, body and soul to the killing game.
Saihara wondered what'd have happened if it's audition had been rejected.
"I'd probably had continued as so. Applications open yearly.. I wouldn't let myself die so easy. You think lowly of me, right? So I think it's not outlandish for me to say I'd stay alive for Danganronpa. Anything, for Danganronpa."
A voice, similar to his own
, was heard from behind him. Did it even realise how insane it came across?
His body twisted to face the origin of the voice. He had already knew who it was. The sight only hurt more. It couldn't be him. No. Pain swelled in his heart. Kagehara was undeniably human. He had family, he had emotions, he had a sense of self. He could experience pain. Saihara learnt that himself. He was intent on killing another human. He wanted to kill himself.
For some reason, he didn't feel as guilty about that as he thought he would.
"Why did you do it.", he stated, blunt. It wasn't a question, because he didn't want an answer. He didn't know why he'd said it in the first place, maybe just to fill the empty air.
"I thought you'd know, I can't exactly hide it from you. I want to be apart of something, I want to be like Kirigiri, and be important to someone. Aah, I'm so jealous of you, was it fun? They all relied on you. You're heroic, Saihara. You amount to something- have you seen what they're saying about you? You've got thousands of people... who admire you. T-they make shrines, they praise your efforts, they obsess over you, they center their life around you. Danganronpa made us something. Isn't that great? I gave myself to them, and they used my body for something great. I don't care if my existence falls flat, because why should I? I- I can be something. We've have been something. We've been t-the great ultimate detective, solving c-cases, lives, everyone wants us, we- we made everything better, why don't you like it? You should be thanking me, Saihara. I made us something worth. We're-"
" SHUT UP! J-just be quiet!? I'm not going to thank you, you fucking sadist!? S-stop!! Just, stop! It's not us, it never was, I'm not you, you're nothing like me! I-If you had any idea of what it was like to be human, you'd hate yourself! That- God, do you have any sympathy!? That's my life!? I, I didn't want this! I'm not great, I killed them all. I didn't save them, I put them to death. W-why are you proud of that? Is your brain rotten, is that it? Did malting in bed all those years finally catch up to you? Is your brain decomposing?" Kagehara was cut short, his voice overwhelmed by the loud refutal of Saihara.
"That's rude.. You're really confident for someone so wrong. You just don't get it. Things become much easier when you accept that pain can be really fun!~ You know, you wouldn't be struggling if you were more like me. They're not even real, so why bother getting emotional over it? You're not even real. I gave you a body to live in, and this is how you treat it? You make me look so weak.. it's kind of embarrassing. If you're going to use my corpse as your own skinsuit, you should at least show it some respect. Aha, I guess I can't complain. I wanted this, and, I'm pretty satisfied. I kind of wanted you to be a culprit, and maybe less of a wimp, but I'm not about to discredit Shirogane's creative take. It ki- awh, you're not even listening?"
His gaze drifted down to the curled up form of Saihara. His sobs were quiet, resigned. Even in his distress, he took means not to inconvenience others. He could be crying louder; Kagehara wouldn't blame him for it. He'd been written as such an emotional character.. even if he'd developed emotionally l, that still remained fact. Though, he didn't think Shuichi was actively trying to be quiet. He was pretty pissed with Kagehara, for whatever reason, so he probably wouldn't care if his breakdown inconvinced the other.
"Please, just.. stop talking. I'm not you. I don't... If you enjoy it, I can't even care anymore. Just, please, please, stop talking about it. I-it's like torture, Kagehara. I don't know just how different you are from me, but-"
He took a short pause, hiccuping on air. His disregulation was kind of pitiful. For someone who was written to be mature and sensible, he looked so childish. On the floor, fighting for breath, his world collapsing around him. It'd be upsetting if he wasn't so unreasonable.
"Please. For my sake, J-just leave me alone. Let me wake up and forget this. We don't need to involve ourselves with each other; I know you hate me, so it shouldn't bother you to just leave me alone."
"But that's no fun, is it?"
Right. Regardless of how much he pleaded or denied, the truth stated the same. Saihara was the product of Kagehara's morbid want for death. His personality was created with Kagehara's motivation being his eventual death. If Shirogane hadn't adjusted his character and given him a life different from what Kagehara had intended, he would have long since faced a gruesome execution for the entire world to see.
"Masato Kagehara, what do you want from me..? You made me so I could die. So just.. kill me. I don't care anymore. Please, I don't want to be here with you. You- I- I don't get why you're like this, and I don't think I ever will. You wanted me dead, so I'm giving that to you now. I-isn't that what you want? Those fantasies of gore and suffering, its why I was made, right? So, just, do it. "
Murder had always been a fascination of Kagehara's. He'd never go as far to take the life of someone else, because that'd be selfish. His need for violence was satisfied by a constant stream of gore on his screen, so doing anything more would just be overkill. That being said, Saihara was just himself. It was his own body, the only difference was false memories and a fresh personality induced by team Danganronpa. They weren't different people, even if Saihara refuted that fact. It wasn't anything different from suicide, and nobody was ever seriously labelled selfish for that. Nobody blames someone taking their own life the same way they would if it was someone else's. It's guilt-free murder, right?
"I never thought of you as suicidal, Saihara.. but you seem really insistent about it. I guess I should thank you for the opportunity, aha.. I wouldn't have the heart to kill another person, after all, so this is an opportunity I never thought I'd get. You're more selfless than I could ever be, it's admirable. You're not that bad a person, Shuichi."
His confession fell on closed ears. Saihara had no reason to keep listening, he'd given himself up just as Kagehara had. Oddly enough, a wave of serenity passed over him as Kagehara grew closer. He poised himself above Saihara's form; he could feel the bony knees thinly veiled by the boy's uniform against the sides of his chest, yet no body heat.
"You're great, Shuichi. I don't know what it is I feel about you, but it's not hate. You're not what I wanted you to become, but you're admirable none the less."
Kagehara gave a warm smile, his slim fingers embracing the other's chest as he dragged his palm down, resting it against his heart.
"I want to be you. But I know that's impossible. So let me be as close to you as I can, hm?.. Goodnight, Shuichi."
Saihara's flesh came apart easily under his hold. There was no resistance as he moved under the flesh- first with his fingers, and eventually the rest of his hand, until everything below his wrist was enveloped in the warmth of insides. Shortly, he came in context with the other's throbbing heart. He applied no pressure, but it steadily slowed to a stop all the same.
It wasn't the exciting, gory, violent scene he'd expected. No blood followed him as he extracted his hand from Shuichi's corpse, the only indication of his death being the immobile organ laying heavy in his palm, and the clean slit his hand had left against his chest.
This wasn't what he'd wanted. Death wasn't meant to be so peaceful. It was only fun when prefaced by desperacy and pain.
Stood over Shuichi's limp body, he wondered if he'd ever wanted the other dead in the first place.