Archive of Our Own

I've spent weeks preparing for this. 

For an omnipotent god like me, problems or tasks that would be impossible for the average person are inconveniences at best for me. This, however, is the one exception. Not only will I be up against myself, but, like I just said, I'm practically a god. Which, of course, means my parallel self will be, too. Not to mention, when it comes to life or death, I won't hold back. Honestly, I won't know what I'm truly capable of until I see it. 

Why am I going through this much trouble, you ask?

Because I've already exhausted every other possible alternative, I'm left with no choice but to eliminate one of my parallel selves if I want any chance at reclaiming my manga. There's nothing left for me in this world, and its deterioration will soon no longer be my concern.

I draw in a steady breath. Around me, my clones that I've spent weeks creating and perfecting stand in perfect formation, their expressions blank and completely motionless as they wait for my command. Even without the clones, I have the element of surprise and the extra training I've done on my side.

I exhale slowly and controlled. I'm ready as I'll ever be. I gently slip my limiter out of my head with telekinesis.

I reach for my clones' shared telepathic channel, and I give the command.

My existence resumes unceremoniously. In fact, if I didn't know any better, I wouldn't have noticed at all. It's hard to describe, but it's nothing like waking up from a nap or a coma or something.

I check my watch. A few hours have passed, just as I predicted, and also just as I predicted, she's here, which means she figured it out. I, of course, would expect nothing less from myself.

Saiki Kuriko is sitting on the floor of a storage closet in PK Academy near the gymnasium, back pressed against a metal shelving unit. Judging by her exhausted expression and my sudden re-existence, she just finished transforming.

(I'm interested to see what has become of this world's Saiki Kusuo. Even if everyone else is completely bonkers, I can't imagine a world where I would stop being rational. In fact, I'm sure he's making his move to see me right now, and we can sort this out. Maybe we can even chat about our respective worlds over some coffee jelly at a café.)

I let out a low chuckle. She has no idea. She's gone soft! Her thoughts are leaking all over the place!

Good grief. You finally figured it out, I project to her without revealing myself. Took you long enough. I'm glad I can finally exist again. That's what I thought you, no, what I would do.

I teleport above PK Academy and float there, calmly surveying the structure. Walls, floors, and beams peel away under my X-ray vision, and pinpointing her exact location is trivial. I raise both my hands, palms angled downwards towards Kuriko and the school as psychokinetic energy gathers between my hands. It's completely invisible, but as it grows stronger, it begins to warp the space around my hands. I keep charging it until I'm satisfied, then I release it directly at Kuriko.

The moment the energy leaves my hands, the world lurches. The energy discharges in a perfectly straight line, a deafening rupture snapping through the air as if the atmosphere itself has been split open. A vast, gaping corridor has been gouged straight through the building from end to end, as if a colossal drill bored through it. Classrooms have been bisected mid-row, desks sheared in half, and hallways terminate abruptly into open air. 

Exposed steel beams hang twisted and glow faintly orange from residual heat, some snapped clean through, others peeled back like ribs. Electrical wiring dangles uselessly, sparking in short, frantic bursts before falling silent. Dust and pulverized concrete drift through the hollowed-out space in slow motion, illuminated by sunlight pouring through the wound I've carved.

I teleport to and stand at the other end of the hole that leads into the courtyard. Chunks of concrete and shattered tile are piled haphazardly across the courtyard, thrown forward by the blast and half-melted along their edges. In the center of the courtyard, Kuriko is buried underneath the debris. If I didn't have any powers, I'd have no idea she was even there.

Concrete lifts slowly, deliberately, as if gravity itself has been reconsidered. Large slabs rise into the air, held in place by invisible force before being cast aside with muted thuds. Smaller fragments scatter outward in a controlled arc, never touching her. Dust rolls away from her in waves, pushed back by telekinesis precise enough to leave her standing space clear.

(Good grief. A blow like that might leave a red mark, or worse, a bruise! I know we're the same person, but you really shouldn't be smashing people through buildings like that.)

If that actually hurt, I'd be disappointed for both of us.

She exhales once, steadying herself, and rises to her feet.

Her clothes are torn and dust-streaked, her glasses askew, her hair disheveled, but her posture straightens as she faces me. The courtyard between us is silent, stretched thin with tension, debris hovering momentarily before clattering back to the ground.

(My first thought is that we're going to stand out by destroying part of the building. But, through the craggy openings in the walls, I could see students strolling casually through the corridors. I watch in horror as a girl steps directly over a pile of shattered brick, humming to herself, eyes glazed over like it didn't exist.)

I smile, my gaze burning a hole into Kuriko. I wouldn't worry about them. In this world, everyone is completely under my control. Nobody will react, no matter how much we fight or how much damage we do. Even if we tear down the entire school, destroy the entire city...or even the world, nobody will care. No, they won't even notice...

Kuriko stares at me blankly.

(I reach for his thoughts, yet it feels like trying to tune into a radio station that isn't broadcasting on any frequency I know, just a fuzzy noise behind a wall of static. Does this mean I can’t read my own mind? I guess I've never really thought about it before.)

Oh, I get it now. I lift my hand to my forehead and laugh. You know, before I summoned her, I genuinely believed she'd be relieved. I thought—quite seriously—that discovering the entire world was already under control would put her at ease. I even assumed she'd probably done the same thing in her own universe. After all, we both spent our entire lives despising nuisances. But, no! Whatever she did in her universe has made her weak!

I wipe at the corner of my eye, still smiling.

This is going to be easier than I thought.

I thrust my palm towards Kuriko and try to drive her downward. She counters, our telekinesis collides, and the air detonates. My ears start ringing a little bit. The sound is violent enough to rattle glass and rupture stone. 

(Good grief. When did this become a novelization of a battle manga? I'll try to restrain Kusuo with telekinesis.)

I can hear every thought she's having. The silence on my end must be terrifying.

I teleport behind her and strike.

A precise chop to the back of her neck, delivered with my full strength. Dare I say... I'm kind of excited to see what will happen. I've never had the opportunity to use my full strength before. The shockwave tears forward, splitting the ground open in a jagged line that races away from us, ripping through the academy, pulverizing houses beyond it, carving straight through the landscape without losing momentum. In the distance, a mountain fractures cleanly in two, the upper half sliding apart as if neatly cut.

Kuriko doesn't dodge in time.

Her body hits the ground like a meteor. The stone beneath her doesn't just crack—it fails, collapsing inward as a shockwave ripples out from the point of impact. The courtyard floor caves into a wide, jagged crater, concrete exploding upward before being crushed back down under the weight of my telekinesis. Kuriko lies at the center of the crater, every muscle locked in place by my grip. Her glasses have slipped crookedly on her face. A thin line of blood runs from the corner of her mouth, disappearing into the dust.

Slowly, painfully, Kuriko turns her head just enough to look up at me.

Her eyes are wide, not with fear, not even with pain, but with pure, stunned disbelief.

(...Why? Why are you doing this?) Kuriko's thoughts echo loudly in my head. (What happened to you? Where is your humanity?)

I jerk awake with a violent gasp, lungs dragging in air like I've been underwater for far too long.

I sit up abruptly.

My sheets are soaked. They cling uncomfortably to my skin, twisted around my legs and arms as if I'd been thrashing. Sweat slicks my back, my chest, my neck. My heart is pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, each beat sharp and irregular, completely out of sync with my breathing.

My hands are clenched so tightly that my fingers ache, nails biting into my palms. When I finally force them open, they're shaking.

I look around my room. It's the same as always. 

Moonlight filters in through the curtains, thin and pale, casting long, warped shadows across the walls. The red digits of my alarm clock glow faintly in the dark.

5:20 A.M.

My glasses sit exactly where I left them, folded neatly beside the alarm clock. Across the room, my desk is silhouetted against the wall, neatly organized, and the chair pushed in. Next to the desk, my bookshelf stands quietly against the wall, rows of books and manga lined up perfectly straight.

I let my gaze travel back to the walls. The ceiling. The closed door.

Right. My room. I'm in my room.

The house is silent. Well, mostly. It's silent if you don't count the thoughts from dozens of people's dreams nearby. 

I swallow and rest my fingers on my temples.

Good grief.

It may not be a school day, but there's no way I can go back to sleep right now.

I restore my sheets and pajamas to their state from one day ago. The fabric cools instantly beneath my hands, dry and neatly arranged as if nothing had happened.

I slip out of bed and head for the bathroom, closing the door behind me before turning on the shower.

I stand in front of the sink and brace my hands against the porcelain, staring at my reflection while the shower hums faintly behind me, water rattling through the pipes as it warms.

I blink to reset my X-ray vision and stare at myself in the mirror. Pink hair, damp at the roots from sweat, clings in uneven strands to my forehead. Heavy shadows rest under my purple eyes, evidence of weeks of restless sleep I've been pretending not to notice.

Both antennae are still there.

Apart from looking like crap, everything's fine.

I keep blinking over and over to properly look at myself.

It was just a dream.

I repeat it silently over and over in my head.

It was just a dream.

It was just a dream.

It was just a dream.

Look, everything's fine.

You're in your house.

You're in the bathroom.

Nothing's happened.

Still, my reflection doesn't look convinced.

Steam blooms across the mirror as the shower reaches temperature, creeping in from the edges until my reflection blurs and softens.

I get in the shower, and I turn the handle a little further anyway.

Then a little more.

Finally, I use pyrokinesis to get it up to where I like it, because the shower simply doesn't get that hot on its own.

Most people would scald themselves at this setting. For me, it's barely warm enough to register. If I don't push it past normal limits, it's hard to feel anything at all.

I step under the spray and let it hit me full on. Only when the water is almost boiling does the tension in my shoulders finally begin to loosen. The water slams against my shoulders and back, hissing faintly as steam rises where it meets my skin. I barely register the pressure—it would take something closer to a waterfall for that—but the heat seeps in all the same, sinking past muscle and bone in a way that finally feels grounding. The body wash moves on its own around me as I stand motionless, staring into nothing. The bathroom fills with fog, the world narrowing to the sound of the water and warmth.

I turn around and rest my forehead against the tiled wall and stare at the ground. Water soaks into my hair, and pink strands dangle around my face.

It's been three months.

Three months since the battle with Kuriko, and I've had dozens of variations of that dream since then. Sometimes I wake up before we reach outer space. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes it starts in PK Academy. Sometimes the city is already in ruins. Sometimes we don't stop until the planet itself gives way beneath us. The details change, but the structure remains the same. I always have my powers, and I'm always the one doing the killing.

Normally, dreams don't work like that for me. The powers part, I mean. Usually, when I dream, my abilities are completely inaccessible. That was always the rule. Even something as passive as X-ray vision didn't work. After all, that was the main part of my original plan to take over Saiki Kuriko's universe.

And yet, in these dreams, my powers respond perfectly.

Which means this can't be an ordinary dream.

The conclusion is obvious. I've thought it for a while now.

This is precognition. It has to be. I can't think of any other explanation.

I've explained future sight before, but basically, I constantly get all sorts of random information about the future. Most of it is completely useless, such as what's for lunch tomorrow at some random company's office that I don't work at, but when something big is going to happen, it typically comes to me in a dream, followed by a headache. My precognition also only provides me with broken fragments about the future, but not what leads up to it, and/or how to fix it. 

Dear readers, I know what you're thinking: Why would it show me something that happened in the past if it's my precognition?

Simple, I must have figured out a way to turn back time on the multiverse so I could fight Kuriko again. Honestly, I have no idea how I managed that, but this is me we're talking about. I'm already insanely powerful, and my powers still get exponentially stronger every day.

I press my palm flat against the tile, grounding myself in the heat, in the sensation. The image of her eyes, wide, disbelieving, flickers through my mind again, unbidden.

If this is precognition, it would explain why I keep getting the same dream. I am changing the future slightly every time I go about my day, but ultimately, the result is staying the same. That has to be it. Which means I still haven't changed the future yet. I'm so useless.

My mind flashes to getting ramen after school with Nendou, Kaidou, and Kuboyasu. The four of us are crowded together in a booth that’s too small, their hands and elbows bumping mine without a second thought, as if I'm… normal.

As if I belong there.

I did that. I made that happen.

I went back in time and sought them out.

Not in any dramatic way. Just small adjustments, being in the right place, letting myself be pulled along, saying yes one extra time, staying a few minutes longer. Enough for Nendou to decide we're friends. Enough for Kaidou to rope me into whatever delusion he's currently calling a mission. Enough for the days to start feeling… happier.

I've never been happier than I am now.

And that's exactly why it hurts.

Because every time I let myself enjoy it, there's a tiny voice inside my head telling me:

Don't get used to it. You know how this ends.

…Am I insane for thinking it was easier back then?

Sure, I was lonely and miserable, but the closer I get to them, the worse it feels. Not because they're annoying—though they are—but because I know I will inevitably betray them and become a monster again. That thought is more painful than anything I've ever experienced.

If the visions are right, which... they always are, then this is just borrowed time. A fragile pocket of happiness before I ruin it with my own hands.

I telekinetically reach for the shampoo bottle. The bottle tips on its own, a measured amount squeezing out into my palm. I set the bottle back without looking. Then I bring both hands up to my head. I work the shampoo into my hair slowly, fingers pressing into my scalp as the lather builds. I could do this the same way I do everything else, let my powers handle it, but I don't. Washing my hair is one of the few routines I never use my powers for.

The water runs until it starts to cool, which is the only reason I bother turning it off. I could heat it up myself, but I figure I should just take this as a sign to get out of the shower.

I wrap a towel around myself and go to my room, where I instantly dry myself. I telekinetically pull out clean clothes from my drawers and my glasses from my desk and put them on.

My parents are still asleep. I slip out quietly with my coat, and I step outside.

The air is cold enough to bite. It’s not quite morning yet; the sky is still a dull, bruised blue as the sun approaches the horizon. Streetlights glow weakly, halos of pale orange pooling on empty pavement. The neighborhood is silent in the way it only ever is on a weekend early morning.

I need to clear my head and walk around. If I had stayed in my room, my thoughts would circle back on themselves until I'm nauseous.

So I walk.

My footsteps are soft against the sidewalk. Each breath comes out faintly visible in the cold. I turn a corner near a small park, and that's when I sense him before I see him.

Kuboyasu.

He's near the park entrance, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, breath coming out in thick clouds. His hair is a little messy, like he ran a hand through it one too many times.

He notices me at the same time. I still don't know how he does that.

"...Saiki?" he says, voice lower than usual, roughened by the cold and the hour. "What are you doing out here?"

Good grief. Of all people.

I could ask you the same thing, I reply, my tone flat, because that's safer than admitting the truth.

Kuboyasu shifts his weight, shoulders tight. "Couldn't sleep," he says casually. "You?"

Same.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes sliding away toward the dark park. "Didn’t think anyone else was awake," he mutters. "Especially not you."

I didn't think I would be awake, either. That came out too honest.

Kuboyasu glances at me again, and for a second, his expression isn't the usual guarded toughness. "You look..." he starts, then stops himself. "...Never mind." (You look like you haven't slept for a week. Well, I haven't slept well this week, either.)

Do I really look that bad?

Kuboyasu blows out a slow breath, hands still jammed in his pockets. He stares past me toward the park, like the darkness between the trees is more comfortable than eye contact.

"...You ever get those nights," he says, voice quiet, "where your brain won't shut up?" (What am I even saying? Why am I acting like a goody-goody like Saiki even understands? Well, he is out here wandering around at six in the morning, and he looks awful.)

I nod silently.

"You already know how I'm a former delinquent, well..." Kuboyasu shifts his weight, the soles of his shoes scraping softly against the pavement. "I thought when I quit, when I got away from all that… it would stop."

He lets out a short, humorless laugh and shakes his head. "But it doesn't. It's like…" He gropes for the right phrasing, eyes fixed on the black mouth of the park. “It's like my body didn’t get the memo. Like it still thinks I'm in danger, even when I'm standing here doing absolutely nothing.”

He stares into the park like the darkness might answer him back.

For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. The streetlights buzz faintly overhead. Somewhere far away, a dog barks once, then goes silent again.

Kuboyasu swallows and shifts his weight, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the pavement.

"Sometimes," he says, voice rough, "I don't even dream normal stuff. Like… you know, whatever regular people dream about. Food, or winning the lottery, or… whatever."

He lets out a short breath that isn't quite a laugh.

"I just… see it again."

I catch a glimpse of Kuboyasu's hand wrapped around the collar of some kid's uniform, knuckles white, veins raised. The fabric bunched tight in his grip. The boy’s eyes were wide, mouth open, and no sound was coming out.

"It's like… the second I close my eyes, it puts me back there. Same alley. Same smell. Same sound." His shoulders rise slightly, then drop. "And I wake up feeling like I'm about to swing again."

He huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry. I know you're the responsible type. This probably sounds like nonsense to you." He says it like a defense, like he's bracing for me to dismiss him. (Honestly, why am I telling this to Saiki of all people?)

I stare ahead at the empty street, the orange pools of streetlight, the bruised-blue sky inching slowly toward morning.

Actually, I kind of get it. The thought left my head before I could sand it down into something safer.

I regret it immediately. Not because it's untrue, but because saying it out loud makes it real in a way I can't undo.

Kuboyasu blinks, caught off guard. "Huh?" (Wait... Saiki? Seriously!? What could a goody-goody like him possibly mean by that?)

I'm serious, I continue. Don't tell anyone, but I've done some things I'm not proud of... and I often wonder if I really changed. I can't believe I'm saying this right now.

Kuboyasu lets out a short breath through his nose—half laugh, half disbelief—and rubs the back of his neck harder. "Yeah," he says slowly. "Okay. That's… not what I expected to hear from you (Is he serious? Is Saiki like Kaidou? Why do I attract so many chuunis...)

Neither did I, and don't compare me to Kaidou.

For a moment, he doesn't press. He just stands there beside me, the cold settling between our words. In the distance, the first hint of dawn leaks into the sky, turning it from blue to orange.

"It's not even the fighting that gets me," he says, voice low. "Not the part where I hit someone, or where someone hits me. It's—" He pauses, eyes narrowing at the darkness under the trees. "It's the moment before."

He taps his fingers against his thigh once, twice.

"The part where I decide," he admits. "Where I can feel my hand moving, and I know I'm about to do it, and I don't stop myself."

I nod. I know exactly what you mean.

Kuboyasu stares at the pavement. "Sometimes I wake up, and my hands are already…." He flexes his fingers inside his pockets, as if he's checking they're still his. "I don't even know what I'm grabbing at. Like my body’s trying to pick a fight with air."

He swallows. His breath comes out thick, then thinner, like the cold is stealing it.

"And the stupidest part," he adds, voice tight with embarrassment, "is I know I'm not there anymore. I know it. I'm not in that alley. I'm not that guy anymore. I'm not surrounded by those guys. I'm not—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. "But my head doesn't care. My heart doesn't care. It still goes off like an alarm."

He glances at me like he expects me to laugh. (Actually, maybe I should be the one laughing at you.)

The cold air bites at the inside of my nose. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a distant car passes, tires hissing on asphalt, and then the sound is gone again.

Do you ever miss it? I ask suddenly. What am I saying? The version of you that didn't feel guilty?

Kuboyasu's breath catches. (Whoa, Saiki, you're the real deal! I guess it makes sense... Nendou hangs around you, and he's the most hardcore there is...)

He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works, and his eyes go distant, like he’s staring at something that isn’t the park.

Then he lets out a slow exhale.

"…Yeah," he admits. "I hate that I do. But yeah."

"It was simpler," he adds, almost angry at himself for saying it. "Back then, I didn't… think so much. I didn't sit there after and replay it like some kind of punishment." He huffs a laugh that has no humor in it. "If somebody disrespected me, I handled it. End of story."

He shifts, shoulders bunching up against the cold.

"Now I'm trying to be better," he mutters. "And that means I notice everything. Like… every time I want to lash out, I notice it. Every time I get angry, I notice it. It's like my brain is keeping score."

I nod silently in agreement.

"And the nights are the worst," he says quietly. "Because you can't distract yourself. You can't pretend you're fine. You just—" He makes a vague gesture toward his head. "You close your eyes, and it's all there."

I keep my gaze on the streetlights, on the empty pavement. On anything that isn’t his expression. Because his honesty is doing something inconvenient to my chest.

Kuboyasu swallows. "It's not even always the exact same memory," he continues. "Sometimes it's… mixed. Like my head takes pieces and rearranges them." He frowns, struggling to explain it. "Like I'll see the alley, but then the faces aren’t the same. Or the uniforms are different. Or I'll be hitting someone, and I can't tell who it is until I wake up and realize—" He stops, jaw tightening hard. "It doesn’t matter. The feeling’s the same. I'm not just scared. I'm mad. Like… I wake up already ready to fight. Heart pounding. Hands shaking. Like I'm back in it. It takes me a while to remember I'm in my room."

He glances at me again, more cautiously now, like he's afraid he's said too much.

"…Sorry," he mutters. "This is probably weird. Dumping this on you at six in the morning."

It's fine, I say automatically. Then, before I can stop myself, I add, quieter, You ever wake up...drenched?

For half a second, his expression goes blank with surprise, like he wasn't expecting the question, and definitely wasn't expecting it from me.

Then his mouth twists.

"…Yeah," he admits, voice rough. "Like I fell in a pool." (So it's not just me.) "So," he says, quieter now, "what about you? What kind of nightmares does Saiki Kusuo even have?"

I could lie. I'm good at lying. I've been lying my whole life. I could give him something vague and harmless, like an exam dream, falling off a cliff, or being late to school. Something that fits the "responsible type" he's decided I am.