Chapter Text
Mikan understood young she was supposed to fear rain.
What she didn’t understand was why.
She was afraid of many things, like the dogs as big as wolves that always barked at her approach and the older kids that enjoyed cutting her hair like she was a sheep and feeding it to the horses. She was even afraid of her own parents sometimes; when they looked at her differently than other parents looked at their children.
But rain had been a source of joy since Mikan could walk. It coloured the fields with swathes of flowers and vegetables. It restored the nearby rivers, shortening the treks for dwindling fresh water. It offered comfort from the blazing summer heat and soothed her frequent bruises and scrapes. It provided paths of puddles to splash in as a break from her chores. It played gentle music against the roof when Mikan’s thoughts were too loud to sleep. Rain felt much more like a friend than an enemy.
Because that wasn’t the rain she was supposed to fear.
There was another, the Blackened Torrent she’d later learn, that drowned the world in despair every twelfth new moon since the beginning of time. The impenetrable darkness stank of sulfur and gore until sunrise, unprotected crops and necessities corroded by the lethal downpour. The following month was always spent decontaminating the town and carefully managing their food and water until it was safe to gather resources again.
Mikan barely saw her tenth winter when she realized that decontamination included clearing bodies.
She hadn’t paid attention to the days, much like her parents stopped paying attention to her, and she wasn’t home when the initial droplets dampened the earth. Stumbling under the nearest awning she begged a neighbour to let her wait out the storm, and instead of sanctuary she was pushed into the intrinsic source of everyone’s paranoia. Into the tremble of her parents’ voices, the harsh twist of their features, the strangers they embodied once a year.
And then she understood.
As her face collided with the wet ground, rain sizzling against her skin, blood and rot and bespoken fear shooting up her nose and slashing her skull, she understood. The shriek that tore from her throat was unrecognizable, warbled with agony and muted by the unrelenting tempest. It took every ounce of willpower to push to her feet, to not die right there, but with the increasing winds nowhere was safe. Even if someone took pity on her for the first time in her life they might not have medical supplies.
The only place she was sure that did was her hideout; a little cave outside the village where she hid from everything that caused similar fear to what everyone else only felt once a year, its depths stacked with whatever supplies she could hoard. She was hurt and ignored enough times to practice for emergencies like this, but she could only pray that what she gathered was enough to remedy a branding by mystical forces.
On the arduous journey there she slipped in the mud and tore her dress, exposing her right leg to the rain. Her hair protected most of her upper body from the worst but her left arm was pelted thanks to the uneven cut. When she finally stumbled in the shelter she was so exhausted she nearly collapsed at the entrance, fighting the temptation of endless sleep by focusing on the pain. She stripped out of her soaked dress, knowing it couldn’t be saved, nails chipping as she crawled to the hopeful reprieve of her supplies. With her bucket of fresh water she washed every inch of herself, hurriedly crushed ingredients into a cream she slathered over every patch of angry flesh, then shakily wrapped her arm, leg and face in bandages.
She spent all night choking for breath, worried she was going to lose her limbs, her sight, maybe even her life, and when she was still alive after the rain subsided the next day she wondered if dying would’ve been better.
Because only Remnants survived the rain.
That was the myth, anyway. Two humans millennia past were seduced by the rain, their bodies transforming into nightmarish creatures that couldn’t survive without its caress, then hibernated in the contaminated ocean until the next Torrent when they could storm the land and further spread the curse. Over time their numbers multiplied until it became too dangerous for anyone to live near the shoreline, all ancient fishing villages disfigured into dilapidated carcasses.
Mikan’s village was far enough inland that there was no concern of an invasion, so she’d never seen a Remnant in person. All she had were the crude sketches in books and tall tales from the elders, but each depiction was too different to pinpoint any truth. Apparently in the richest cities the rare few they managed to kill were fashioned into protective cloaks, claws and bones into jewelry, signs of wealth and strength, but who knew if any of that was true, either. The only consistency was how dangerous they were, how they were nothing but feral instincts, how they wouldn’t stop until mankind was wiped out and the sea swallowed the world.
But Mikan didn’t gain any beastly urges. When she checked her reflection in a puddle she didn’t look any different either, disregarding the permanent burns around her eye, arm and leg.
And yet people were terrified of her.
The people that used to pick on her were now terrified of her.
Worst part was she wasn’t sure which fate she preferred. Being avoided meant no more shouting, no more haircuts, no more pain only she seemed to receive, but being mistreated meant someone was paying attention to her. She’d gladly accept the bruising gifts of every shove, every slap, every punch, if someone would just pay attention to her. Now it was like she didn’t exist. She kept wearing bandages after she didn’t need to, hoping it would make her more approachable, less hideous, less scary—but no one, her parents included, wanted anything to do with her. Like if she touched them, just like if a Remnant touched them, they’d lose their humanity. They’d melt into the rising tide. They’d become the monster they painted her to be.
Mikan didn’t want her presence to cause any more distress so her hideout became her home. She kept hoping that if she left them alone they’d change their minds one day, that maybe her parents loved or hated her enough to check if she was still alive, but she never saw a soul. The isolation was so torturous that next year when the cursed rain fell again she walked out into it, ready to die, ready to be consumed by despair.
Only to feel the comfort of regular rain.
But it wasn’t regular rain. She knew it wasn’t. She didn’t confuse her days this time. The stench of decay and finality infused the land, drenched her clothes, curled hair to slick skin. Grass peeled, flowers wilted, and the wounded cries of unprotected wildlife polluted the air. But what once burned her flesh was now delightfully cool, even invigorating, like her first drink after a year of dehydration.
Mikan didn’t understand her sudden immunity but as she opened her mouth and droplets poured down her throat and she felt fine, calm, enlightened, she did understand why she no longer wished to die. She loved studying medicine, herbs, poisons, anything that could hurt and heal so she’d know how to help herself—and this rain was no different, offering an opportunity maybe no one had before. If something hurt everyone else except her, that meant she was the only one who could properly heal it.
The chance to test her theory presented in the form of screams from her village. She chased them to a boy younger than herself whose foot was burned by the rain, the ripple of sickly grey skin soaring towards his knee. His panicked parents protested her presence but since they were too afraid to touch her, too afraid to push her away, Mikan pressed her spit-slick hands to the boy’s rapidly spreading injury.
And it ceased. She saved him, as if she absorbed the disastrous effects of the rain into her own bloodstream with no consequences to herself. If anyone saw the boy’s swollen leg they’d just assume it was the aftermath of an uncontrolled fire.
Just as suddenly as she was feared, she was loved. Resurrected. She was useful and reliable, her work demanded, essential, for the cleanup effort. Her village had never recovered from a Torrent so quickly. She never had a day’s rest and she didn’t need one, didn’t want one, not when everyone needed and wanted her.
They still didn’t want to be near her, cautiously regarded her bandages instead of her eyes, but at least she proved worthy of their acknowledgement.
By the time she was a young adult she was one of the most revered medical professionals in the land, specifically regarding the Blackened Torrent, and abandoned her face bandages altogether, letting her body be proof if words weren’t enough. Her knowledge, expertise, and ability to endure the rain saved jobs, lives, ecosystems. With each success she grew more confident. With each success she understood that she was born for this. With each success she knew no one else could accomplish what she did.
Somewhere along the way her pride twisted into greed, and greed was all she knew of love.
She loved being needed. She loved being relied on. She loved being the only one who could help. She loved knowing people would perish without her intervention. And if people weren’t in her care they would get hurt again, so they should stay in her care forever. No one else would get pushed into the rain if they just stayed with her. Some fools didn’t like listening to her, weren’t willing to stay, and that was fine. She didn’t mind using her immunity to the rain to remind them they weren’t. Her severity was for their own safety. Better to never walk again than become a Remnant, right?
She knew best, after all.
But eventually she got sloppy, hurt more than she healed, and while her skills were still admired she roused greater fear than trust, leading to her arrest. Most others in this circumstance would’ve simply been thrown in a cell for the rest of their days, but her proficiency regarding the Torrent was so invaluable she was awarded another option: become the newest doctor for the island prison of Jabberwock.
Not like it was much of an option or an award. This prison was notorious for being a death sentence for the most disturbed criminals; rapists and cannibals and serial killers forced to train day and night to withstand the onslaught of Remnants when the island was overrun once a year, all in the hope of learning enough about the Remnants for the rest of civil society to have a fighting chance. It was a horror story parents told their children to keep them on the right path. It was something Mikan pretended wasn’t real until her feet imprinted its shores.
Officially, Mikan’s job was to nurse the injured inmates to full health so they’d be ready when the rain fell in two months, but even with her skillset she knew that was an impossible demand. Injuries she could heal, sure, along with providing personal knowledge about the effects of the rain, but without proper nutrition and accommodations there wasn’t much that would change. Motivation would be hard to inspire when these criminals knew they were going to die either way. The guards must have known this. Must’ve known there was little she could do. Why would they give her an unachievable assignment?
Because that wasn’t the real reason she was here.
The real reason lurked in a murky, makeshift pond behind reinforced glass, only one door embellished with numerous hefty locks leading in or out of the containment. Apparently a Remnant was in there, one a group of sacrificial inmates managed to capture last year, purposely kept alive so they could study it’s behaviour, but since the water was too dangerous and they had no way to communicate they hadn’t been able to gather any information. Were probably too afraid. Since Mikan was immune to the rain—and everyone tended to view her as a half-Remnant despite her reiterating that she was still human—her true duty was to discover the creature’s weaknesses so humans could better defend themselves. Maybe push them back into the sea once and for all.
The guards didn’t hesitate leaving her alone in that room. Well, not truly alone, even if she couldn’t see the other occupant beyond the calm, dark surface of the pond. There wasn’t much Mikan could do if the creature didn’t emerge, though, and she wasn’t sure how to prompt it beyond unlocking the door. She knew doing so would be unwise, was potentially the last thing she’d ever do, but she was well aware she was never escaping this island.
Unless the Remnant set her free.
In a blinding rush of water, like lightning striking waves, something jumped at the glass.
Mikan startled, limbs flailing as she fell to the ground. At first all she registered was the dull pain in her back and the hammering of her heart. When her vision refocused she realized a Remnant was definitely in there, that was definitely its razor sharp teeth and claws pressed on the glass, but as Mikan caught her breath she realized something equally as bewildering as it was intriguing.
The Remnant was laughing at her. Not snarling, not biting, laughing. A monster whose species had hunted humans for millennia, who were known only for their rage and animalistic tendencies, was laughing at her like it’d just pulled a prank. Like it didn’t just attempt to attack her. Like it only wanted to scare her, nothing more.
The idea went against everything Mikan knew, and maybe that’s exactly what happened.
It—maybe she—looked nothing like Mikan expected, either. Completely different from the grotesque depictions in all the books she read. Instead of rivalling the height of a tree with multiple wiry limbs sticking out like gnarled branches, she was humanoid and scarcely taller than Mikan herself. Thick blonde hair dripped past a flutter of gills at her ribcage and flowed around shapely hips, sticking to the half-white half-black shimmer of her skin. Scales? Mikan wasn’t sure from so far away. Most unexpected, and most enthralling, was a scar-like patch of red surrounding her left eye that eerily mirrored Mikan’s.
The only thing capable of splitting Mikan’s attention at that point was the shackles digging into the Remnant’s wrists. Bulky chains plunged beneath the abyss, slack enough for that impish leap but presumably not for an escape attempt if the door was unlocked. It was hard to imagine such restraints being enough to subdue a creature of such legendary tenacity and strength, but the fact of her capture meant there must be even more to the situation than Mikan knew.
Mikan stood and approached the glass on shaky legs, yearning for a closer look, freezing mid-step when the Remnant abruptly stopped laughing to stare at her intensely. Mikan couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at her like that. Maybe never. Like she actually wanted to see her, see more of her, peel her open and see everything.
Translucent third eyelids changed ice blue irises to blood red before another blink changed them back, and then a long webbed finger beckoned Mikan closer. Frost melted from Mikan’s limbs and she readily obeyed, like being tugged along an invisible rope. Like there was never a chance of her doing anything else.
Through the glass a lengthy crimson nail traced the burn edging Mikan’s eye. “That’s mine.”
There was a warbled undercurrent to her voice, like she were speaking underwater, yet each syllable sailed smoothly up each vertebrae of Mikan’s spine and nestled like sparks in the base of her skull. Mikan had no idea Remnants could talk at all, let alone with human language—and this already soared far beyond language. She had autonomy. Intelligence. Playfulness. Remnants weren’t human anymore but this proved they weren’t animals, either. They were people.
All these revelations were so distracting it took another moment for Mikan to comprehend what was said to her. “W-what is?”
“You survived my rain,” the Remnant continued, mystified and curious, like Mikan hadn’t spoken at all. “My despair.”
Her burns throbbed for the first time since she was branded, the mist of those declarations swirling like shadows under her skin; a siren’s song she’d strained to hear her whole life. Muscles twitched in response to omniscient vocals like a puppet heeding the strings of its master, but the commanding lyrics were incomprehensible. So were the stutters tumbling from her lips instead of the numerous questions lodged in her throat.
The Remnant tilted her head in response to her struggle, a curtain of gold spilling down her shoulder. “What’s your name?”
For a second Mikan forgot she had one. When she remembered she debated if she should even answer. She probably shouldn’t. Names made things personal. Made people feel safe. It’s why she always introduced herself immediately to her patients. Mikan’s job was to study this creature, not get close to her. She wasn’t good at letting things go once she was attached. It would be smarter if they didn’t converse more than necessary.
And yet—
“M-Mikan.”
“Mikan,” the Remnant repeated slowly, as if to inscribe the shape of her existence at the back of her throat, and Mikan’s name had never sounded so treasured. A long tongue traced the outline of her grin. “How’s it feel to be the most interesting human in the world, Mikan?”
It took a long time for Mikan to accept compliments, to believe they were truthful instead of mocking, but that was one she had yet to hear. One that would’ve been a lie from anyone else’s mouth.
“No one’s ever called me that before,” Mikan murmured.
“I bet you’ve never met anyone interesting before, either. Am I right?” The Remnant giggled like they were sharing secrets, the gurgling timbre akin to the instant crunch of rusted iron, but Mikan wouldn’t mind if her laughter was the only thing she heard for the rest of her life. “Good thing I’m here to fix that problem.” She planted her fists on her hips, chin held high. “Junko Enoshima, at your service. Or in your care, I guess. Whichever’s sexier.”
Mikan’s jaw slackened, unsure how to respond to such unapologetic confidence, so all she could do was stare at the stunning specimen who continued casually breaking her world. She couldn’t help but think the world was better broken.
“What? Thought we didn’t have names?” Junko crossed her arms, showcasing an exaggerated pout that looked only slightly uncanny with prominent fangs. “That’s pretty rude, you know.”
Right, and waging war every year wasn’t.
“All h-humans know about you is how much you kill them,” Mikan said, lacking the aggression that statement should have, as if it had nothing to do with her.
“Well, you do make it—” Junko paused, eyes widening with fascination. “You don’t count yourself as human?”
Mikan’s heart skipped a beat, her stomach rolling in a rush of anxiety. “Of c-course I do.”
“Then why did you say them instead of us?” Junko pressed. “How much you kill us.”
Any response crumbled to ash in Mikan’s mouth, nervously wringing her hands to bide time for another. She was human. She knew that. But when everyone looked at her like she wasn’t, regardless if from disdain or wonder, she didn’t always feel human. Not a Remnant, not a human, but something else entirely. Something that managed to survive both worlds because of her own grit. Something that had no other choice. Something that made sure everyone who gave her no choice had none of their own, either.
Mikan thought she’d learned to school her expressions over time when her mind wandered to darker places, was necessary to evade the darkness of others, but judging from the shark-like grin bisecting Junko’s face she either failed this time or Junko was more perceptive than anyone she’d ever met. “You think you’re better than them,” Junko mused, the fact brimming with delight.
Maybe even with respect, but Mikan was too mortified at the callout to ruminate on it. “I didn’t say that!” she protested, but even though she didn’t stutter the words collapsed in on themselves like crushed bones.
“You should say that,” Junko countered smoothly. “Because you are. I mean, look at you.” Ice blue eyes did just that, trailing up Mikan’s legs and belly and face and lingering on her visible burn, softening just so. “How could you possibly think you aren’t?”
Heat crawled up Mikan’s neck at the foreign praise, each word expertly crafted to stroke her ego regardless of their validity. “You don’t k-know me,” Mikan mumbled. No one did. Some days she barely knew herself.
“I know you’re still alive.” Junko idly examined her claws, scraping off some gunk attached to the underside of her thumb, and Mikan had a feeling that gunk wasn’t dirt. “If all humans were that competent maybe you’d defend yourselves better.”
The slight veer away from herself helped Mikan gather her bearings. “Why do we even h-have to?” she asked, a question she’d asked multiple people before, but this was the first time it didn’t make her feel childish. “Why do you a-attack us?”
And instead of the fury people often wielded when they lacked knowledge and stability, Junko actually took her inquiry seriously. “Why do you attack each other?”
It wasn’t defensive, it wasn’t accusatory, it wasn’t even all that investigative. It was merely an echo of what swarmed Mikan’s mind like hornets whenever kids cut her hair, whenever her parents didn’t let her eat, when her fellow panicked villager pushed her into the rain, and all she could deduce was she must’ve done something to deserve it. That the weak naturally invoked the wrath of the strong. That the weak had to stay that way so the strong could thrive. If there was an upset to the balance, society would crumble.
“Power. Control. Fear.” Junko shrugged. “Each week it’s a new dumbass excuse that boils down to the same thing.” She dipped a pearl white hand down to cup some water, inky rivulets twisting down her wrist like poison ivy before dripping back into the source. “It’s never just about survival. If that were the case there’d be no war.” She flicked the droplets clinging to her fingertips at the glass, the dusky splatter briefly obscuring Mikan’s vision. “It’s about being the only ones left.”
A chilling truth that connected too well with how many cities had been reduced to rubble even in Mikan’s lifetime, all the languages and cultures she only discovered from dusty tomes, how the food and fresh water shortages weren’t just consequences of the Blackened Torrent. It confirmed assumptions about the Remnants too, but also raised a curious reminder that they originated from humans.
“Do… do you a-also attack each other?”
Mikan wasn’t expecting an answer.
She especially wasn’t expecting a slow, dangerous smile. “How do you think my reign began?”
And that spawned a barrage of questions. What was their hierarchy system like? Did they only have one ruler or several? Was the new leader decided by a test of strength or were daily assassination attempts just their way of life? Was violence how they solved all their problems? What problems did they even have to begin with? What made Junko’s reign different from whoever reigned before? If she’d been captured for so long had a new leader been selected or was an entire army going to trample this island in two months?
But Mikan didn’t ask any of those. There wasn’t a point. The only thing she ended up asking was, “You n-needed to rule that badly?”
“Needed?” Junko chuckled, a low rumble like the first warning of a tsunami. “No. My ex’s mom was a decent queen. I was just bored. A lot tends to happen when I’m bored.”
She admitted a public execution level crime so casually, like overthrowing royalty was nothing. Like murder was nothing. Like it made her feel nothing.
But given how Junko’s eyes flashed red again as she pressed flat against the glass, pressed as close to Mikan as physically possible, she felt something now.
“Will you keep me entertained, Mikan?”