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Ryoko Ikusaba roams the halls of Hope’s Peak Academy’s old building, her heavy boots quiet against its hardwood floor. She can guess at each of the spots where it might creak – only the best hardwood doesn’t, and this is so old that it’s pulled away from the subfloor in a few places. It’s also possible that a previous Ultimate intentionally placed a few of the creaks; if Hope’s Peak were ever attacked by a grunt force, a bad soldier (or multiple) wouldn’t notice them ahead of time, would step on them, and would alert the Ultimates to their position. In that case, an Ultimate like herself, the Ultimate Soldier, could take advantage of the situation and turn it against them with ease.
Then again, there is no Ultimate quite like her, none of her caliber, not even among the Ultimate Soldiers who might have come before.
Most Ultimates are not unique, and every holder of that title is only considered an Ultimate while enrolled at Hope’s Peak. Once they graduate, they are former Ultimates. Like the current head of the Pekoyama clan is also the former Ultimate Gangster, and her own mother, the head of the Ikusaba clan, is the former Ultimate Soldier.
In fact, there’s a tendency in clans for their Ultimate titles to become legacies. There hasn’t been an Ultimate Soldier who wasn’t an Ikusaba in multiple generations, just like there hasn’t been an Ultimate Affluent Heir who wasn’t a Togami since the inception of Hope’s Peak, although the latter probably has more to do with the vast amounts of money the Togamis donate to the school and less with any specific qualifications. It’s tradition at this point.
Just as it’s tradition that there is not and has never been an Ultimate Detective.
Not because there are not students capable of the title, but because every Kirigiri who could have laid claim to it chose instead to stay in the shadows and not bring attention to their craft. They aren’t meant to be known or acknowledged, except among their own kind. Famous in their own right, but not for seeking it.
Of course, it would make sense for legacy clans to know other legacy clans. The Ikusabas can take care of themselves, especially now, especially with Ryoko, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t called on a Kirigiri in previous…situations. That doesn’t mean they haven’t partnered with the Pekoyama clan on the odd occasion – or that there haven’t been conversations about an alliance through marriage. It also doesn’t mean that the Togami head hasn’t had a dalliance or two with a lesser Ikusaba (or that an Ikusaba hasn’t abandoned their lineage to claim that of the Togamis).
But times are changing.
Ryoko should never have been the Ikusaba heir. That title belonged to her sister, until Ryoko showed her superior strategic mind and was sent to train with Fenrir in her stead. Her older sister, left to her own devices, found herself in the sports world, something previously considered unbefitting for an Ikusaba, and rose the ranks to become the Ultimate Baseball Star. And the single Kirigiri heir was enrolled in their class, not as the Ultimate Detective (a title finally awarded to one Rei Mikagami and not a Kirigiri at all), but as the Ultimate Pianist.
Most people would find this shake up disheartening, but Ryoko finds it fascinating.
When she has a clear enough head to consider it.
Ryoko’s head hums with possibilities. She sees things – too many things – and they flood her all at once, all the possible ways that all of her possible classmates could act in every possible scenario. In each moment, she can pick which way they will turn, and she can hear their words moments before they say them, so that real life feels something like an echo of what she already knows will happen. Her classmate, Maizono, the Ultimate Clairvoyant, can predict the future with a seventy percent success rate, and on occasion, she can say the same things that her classmates will as they say it, claiming it as a result of her psychic power, but Ryoko—
If she wanted, Ryoko could do that constantly, parroting out everything as it happened, describing it and writing it down full days or weeks or even months ahead of time only to see it all fall into place. Someone else might call that boring and unpredictable because it means real life is just a movie that she’s seen multiple times and is done with before it even goes live, but for Ryoko, it’s just exhausting. Her time in Fenrir meant honing that ability to the sharp point of a knife so that she can step in and change things – tweak things – to the point of ending wars before they can even start.
But it’s hell, being aware of everything always and having to make the choices that will end with her family at the forefront.
Sometimes, Ryoko just wants to close her eyes and rest.
(They say there’s no rest for the wicked, but Ryoko wouldn’t consider herself wicked. Just another soldier meant to follow the orders of a family head who sees her as another pawn to be trained until she takes his—
Okay, not the family head. Her mother doesn’t see her like that. Her father, however.
If there was truly no rest for the wicked, then there would be no rest for him.
But Ryoko doesn’t think like that. He’s her father, after all.)
In desperate search for some peace and quiet, Ryoko found herself here, in Hope’s Peak’s old building. The vast majority of the school’s Ultimates have classes in the newer buildings, the ones that have been specifically created to enhance their Talent and to encourage those with similar Talents to collaborate on bigger and better projects than they would be able to accomplish on their own. If they aren’t in the other buildings, then many of them will be in clubs or heading off-campus for after school activities – or heading to their dorms to start on their homework. The few who would be in the old building will likely have already left, leaving it empty except for Ryoko Ikusaba herself.
Well.
Except for Ryoko Ikusaba and one other person.
As she walks down the hallway, her footsteps silent as she avoids each of the places where the hardwood should creak, Ryoko snatches the soft sound of some soothing song, whispering unexpectedly through the school. Her blood red eyes flicker wider with surprise, then tighten as she locks in on the sound. It twirls around her as though a tiny dancer, fluttering across the wolfen brand on the back of her neck, lifting the strands of blood red hair drawn from her messy ponytail with its own particular breeze, the cool of it tickling her skin. Then she lifts her gloved hand, grips the tune in her hand tight enough to strangle it, and follows the cord of its lead back to its creator. Only a few steps farther, and she catches the imperfect tones of an out-of-tune piano played so that each note still harmonizes with the others around it – an improbable, but apparently not impossible, feat. And yet, when Ryoko finds her victim prey target, the music seems no louder than it had been before, only the barest touch of fingers against keys.
The Ultimate Pianist indeed.
Ryoko doesn’t dare open the door, doesn’t dare step inside, doesn’t dare interrupt Kirigiri’s music, doesn’t dare startle her in such a way that the music ends. So instead, she chooses to lean against the wall just outside, close her eyes, and listen. The melody murmurs around her, soothing and enticing, massaging her tightened limbs with ethereal fingers. Her mind, reaching for something it can’t control, tries to predict the next notes, and while she can, there’s something familiar and comforting in the action; she does so by nature, not from forced habit, because she wants to follow it, not because she needs to know what happens next, and she hums along in harmony with it, in counterpoint.
Unlike most Talents, music is not one Ryoko can reproduce through analysis. She can read the sheets, memorize the songs, and accurately play the notes, but the emotion of a piece isn’t something she can mimic. Art is like that, too: a soulless person would only be able to create soulless art. Someone who plays as mechanically as Ryoko would could only ever make hollow music.
So it’s all too easy for Ryoko, with her eyes closed, to get lost in whatever Kirigiri is playing.
It doesn’t happen all at once – and if asked later, Ryoko couldn’t say exactly when or why it happened – but as the music plays and Ryoko relaxes, she slides down the wall, crouches with her arms hanging over her knees, and then, finally, settles on the ground.
With an alarming, piercing CREAK.
The music stops with an abrupt banging of the keys, and Ryoko startles out of herself. In a matter of seconds, she’s standing against the wall at something approaching full attention, then has just enough extra seconds to school herself into a more relaxed position before the door cracks open. She takes in as much of Kirigiri as she can before the other girl notices her – the black beret with the lavender flower, the flowing lavender hair, the black cardigan with intricate lavender stitching, the lavender dress that barely peeks out above the cardigan but stretches to her knees with lace along its edge, and white stockings that end in smart black kitten heels. It’s the stockings that give the lavender its color; without them, those accents are so faded as to be colorless themselves. As always, Kirigiri’s skin is so pale, as though she’s never once spent a day outside, a sharp contrast to Ryoko’s own, which is covered in dark freckles. She gives a little nod when Kyoko finally turns to her, those piercing lavender eyes meeting her own blood red ones.
In the silence between them, Kirigiri speaks. “Did you like it?”
And in that silence, Ryoko catches the faintest, lingering echoes of the song reverberating in the air around them. She hums a bit with what she hears, then nods her ascent. “It’s relaxing.”
“Relaxing?” One of Kirigiri’s brow raises, a question unspoken but resting between them all the same.
“Yeah.” Ryoko hooks her thumbs into the belt loops of her sandy tan pants. “Spend enough time on a warzone, and sometimes all you can hear are gunshots.” She taps the side of her head. “This quiets them, a bit.”
It’s not entirely the truth, but it’s close enough to it that Ryoko knows Kirigiri won’t question it. She might not believe it, but she won’t question it. So she waits as Kirigiri’s eyes shift with consideration and offers her the gentlest of awkward smiles when Kirigiri looks back up at her. “Mind if I ask why you’re out here? There’s a better piano in the conservatory.”
“I know.”
“I know you know,” Ryoko says, rolling her eyes. “You’re there every day, just playing away. But nothing like that.” She nods towards the room next to them, where an old upright piano stands near the back of the room. “That other stuff’s not as good as this was.”
“Hm.”
But Kirigiri blushes, her porcelain cheeks darkening to a soft shade of rose. She turns away from Ryoko, back towards the piano. “This one was my mother’s. Papa moved it here after she died.”
“The headmaster, right?”
Kirigiri nods. “He was a teacher then. I was stuck here a lot, so he brought this piano over for me to practice.” Her eyes roam the room, taking in every divot and scratch. “This was his classroom. The last one.”
“And he didn’t move your piano again?”
Ryoko doesn’t need to ask. The answer is blatantly there in front of her. Another teacher would have taken this room – or the headmaster would have left it empty for Kirigiri to play – and then, when the new buildings were built and the new conservatory was furnished with everything an Ultimate musician would need, they didn’t carry over this piece of trash. (Not her words, but certainly the ones the Board of Trustees would use.) So they left it here to languish, out of tune from how many rooms it was moved between, never considering just what they were leaving behind.
“It’s been here so long,” Kirigiri says, “that Papa didn’t want to bring it home again.”
Ryoko leans forward just enough to rest her chin on Kirigiri’s shoulder. “And you weren’t going to be living there anymore anyway, so leaving it here was better for you.”
“Mm.” Kirigiri nods. “It isn’t the best piano, but—”
“—it’s the best piano you have,” Ryoko completes for her. She meets Kirigiri’s curious gaze with a grin. “What, I can’t be psychic, too?”
“That’s Saya-chan’s gimmick.”
Ryoko shrugs one shoulder halfheartedly. She peers into the classroom again, then asks, her voice very intentionally soft, “Are you going to keep playing today?”
No. You ruined it.
That isn’t what Kirigiri is going to say, but it’s one of the multitude of possibilities. Just like it’s possible that Kirigiri could leave without having this conversation, without giving Ryoko all of this additional information to better predict – to better know – her movements, her responses, her actions and reactions. The better she knows a person, the better she knows what they’ll do. That’s why her father wanted her to enroll at Hope’s Peak, after all – so she can control the world by controlling her classmates.
A good soldier does not rebel against a superior officer.
(The Ultimate Soldier might.)
Kirigiri doesn’t say that Ryoko’s appearance has ruined anything. It’s the softness in her voice, the sort of reverential awe, the admission of the calm her music exuded – all of that combined holds Kirigiri here, fast, and leads her to say, “Yes.” She starts back into the classroom, then pauses, and holds the door open. “You can join me inside, if you want.”
The correct answer here would be to say, I’d love to, but Ryoko holds those words to her chest. Instead, she follows Kirigiri in that silence, the music haunting around them.