Work Text:
The first time Mukuro fought Pekoyama, it was Mukuro who initated the encounter.
Back then, she argued otherwise. Pekoyama was following her. Mukuro hates to be tailed, so she retaliated. She played right into the hands of the upperclassman who wanted her busy while he confronted Junko, and she hated that she was able to be distracted so easily—but that ended in a draw, with Mukuro dashing off when she realized she was out of her element.
It’s strange to see how the script gets flipped—her following the swordswoman into the ruined corporate building and climbing the demolished staircase to the third floor. She moved swiftly, quietly, and downstairs, some of her companions were pursuing the very man Pekoyama defends with her life.
She’s not quite sure what Pekoyama was doing up there, but it didn’t matter. Just before she could enter through one of the shattered glass doors, she turned around sharply and attacked.
(So, whoever started this fight—that line is kind of murky. By Mukuro’s old logic, it was her own fault. By her current senses, it falls on Pekoyama.)
Pekoyama swings her sword at Mukuro, but she’s faster. She pushes back against the weapon with her own two knives, leaning back to avoid getting injured.
“I will not allow you to hurt Young Master.” Her words are cold yet driven; even before the Tragedy, Mukuro has had zero doubts about where the Ultimate Swordswoman’s loyalty lies. “You’ve bested me once, Ikusaba. I will not allow it again!”
And with that final word, she pushes against her with more force, sending Mukuro stumbling. Pekoyama lifts her sword to strike again, but she ducks underneath her and dips behind one of the desks in the office.
It’s times like this she wishes she had access to a firearm. There’s a distant onslaught of gunfire, and she knows it to be Kuzuryu, likely fighting back against Ogami and Kirigiri’s combined efforts. She has no doubt that they’ll be fine. They’re both trusted by the Future Foundation enough to earn their own longer range weapons for conflict.
Mukuro, however, was not extended that much trust yet.
She’s working on it.
Pekoyama leaps up onto the desk with grace, thrusting her sword into the ground right behind Mukuro. In that moment of weakness, she swings her legs upward, hooking her foot under Pekoyama’s arm in that crouched position and flipping her forward. The swordswoman loses her balance, flying face-first into the concrete floor.
If nothing else, Mukuro has her close-range combat skills. Even if she had no blades to accompany her confrontation, she would have nothing to worry about.
Pekoyama pushes herself off the ground. Mukuro tucks one of her blades away back in her belt, quickly latching onto the handle of the sword that clattered beside her.
“The less resistance you show, the better, Pekoyama!”
It’s rare for her to raise her voice, but when she does, she can feel her commanding tone revertebrate throughout the ruins of cubicles.
Pekoyama rises to her feet, weaponless. Her striking red eyes stand out against the grays and blacks of ash that surround them. There’s an almost hungry look in her eyes, the same hunger that takes over anyone’s expression in the face of battle. Mukuro knows it all too well.
In another world, maybe it would have been nice to spar with this girl.
The swordswoman launches herself at Mukuro, tackling her to the ground. Her knife slips out of her hand in favor of keeping the sword from injuring either of them—the blade scratches the tiles as she holds it to the side, and it digs into the material as Pekoyama wraps her hands over Mukuro’s to rip the sword back.
Mukuro kicks her in the stomach, and she groans from the impact. It’s not enough to shake her, but it’s enough to get her to let go of the sword. Instead, she lifts her head, long silver strands of hair falling over her shoulders, and she reaches for the blade that’s been discarded to the side.
She tries to kick her again—something to deter her—but before long, her own blade is pointed at her neck.
Then, in a voice that’s not quite as commanding but firm all the same, Pekoyama says, “Drop the sword.”
It’s a surprise that Pekoyama hasn’t killed her. Mukuro’s eyes stay focused—she’s never quite been so afraid in the face of death—but her heart is pounding in her chest.
There’s a silence that settles among them, save for the gunfire in the hall. Pekoyama’s hold on the survival knife tightens, and Mukuro can feel the blade pressing against her skin. She tilts her head upward, as if that’d get her away from the imminent danger—any deeper that knife goes, it will draw blood.
And then, Mukuro reaches for the blade in her belt and swiftly slashes the side of Pekoyama’s arm.
Pekoyama screams, something deep and gutteral escaping from her throat. Blood spills, and it drips onto Mukuro's collared shirt, thick and warm and bright red. Red, like Pekoyama's eyes, like her old acrylics that once belonged to Junko.
It's a sight that she's all too familiar with.
That said, she doesn't waste a moment while Pekoyama's distracted by the pain, the knife in her hand having been dropped onto her chest as she retracts her arm to examine the wound. The blood quickly begins to stain her white blazer, and Mukuro wonders why she would choose to wear something that would never be truly clean in this environment.
(It's a testament to the fact that maybe, Mukuro never understood despair as much as she thought she did. Just like she didn't quite understand Junko the way she assumed.)
Mukuro manages to shove Pekoyama off her, rolling over with the sword in her grasp. She stumbles up to her feet, dual wielding the two weapons. Her expertise doesn't necessarily lie in swords, but she's not nervous. Pekoyama is down. While she's distracted, she can likely pin her down and—
“Drop the fuckin’ sword!”
She can't make out the source of the voice immediately. In the smoke of the building, it's hard for Mukuro to make out any shapes outside of the immediate vicinity. It's dangerous for them to be fighting here, but it's necessary; Naegi is counting on them to bring in those fighting for Despair, wrangling in everyone in Class 77-B one by one.
She squints, pointing the sword at Pekoyama to keep her from making sudden movements. The point of the sword rests right above her nose—an impossible to miss warning.
In the distance then, she sees him. Kuzuryu.
“Turn yourselves in,” she demands, loud enough to be heard.
“That's rich, coming from you!” Kuzuryu's gun is steady, barrel facing her. There's a sharp grin on his face. “Sister of Enoshima Junko—you're a damn traitor!”
During her time in Fenrir, Mukuro learned what to do in the face of being threatened. She has no way to take advantage here. Kuzuryu is standing on a cubicle desk several rows away, and there's no way to get quickly get close to him without getting shot. Her aim has never failed, as the Ultimate Soldier. She imagines the same for Kuzuryu, as the Ultimate Yakuza. In response to this event, soldiers of Fenrir are taught to be faster than the speed of light—make a sudden movement and don't move the wrong way. The gun will fire, the foe will miss, and there is the opening to take advantage. Duck for cover, get out of sight. Throw a grenade while they're searching.
Mukuro is used to foes who aren't so good in the art of war. The best of the best in the field still pale in comparison to Mukuro's war capabilities—but she's at such a poor disadvantage now, all in favor of proving she has her use. She'll earn her weapons back as the higher ups begin to trust her.
Things are different now. She cannot be so reckless.
So, for the first time in her life, she surrenders. Pekoyama's sword slowly falls out of her grasp. She moves steadily, lest she give Kuzuryu another reason to shoot her point blank.
The sword clatters to the floor, and Mukuro kicks it towards Pekoyama's side.
She takes the weapon back into her hands.
Mukuro glances around. Kirigiri and Ogami were supposed to take down Kuzuryu; where the hell were they?
(The brief thought of them being injured crosses her mind, and her heart skips a beat. No, they told her they would be fine. Ogami promised to protect Kirigiri if her attempts at negotiation failed.)
Her eyes watch as Pekoyama stands, heaving to catch her breath soon. It's now that Mukuro wonders what she needs to do next, the tense atmosphere prompting her to think about her lack of a plan. In her other hand, she still holds her knife, dripping with Pekoyama's blood—but Kuzuryu's gun is still pointed at her.
Pekoyama's eyes are hard and hollow; it's a look that she has only ever seen in the reflection of a mirror, and something in her chest akin to a dull ache alerts her of the sympathy for her own foe.
In another circumstance, Mukuro would have won this encounter. Pekoyama wouldn't be leaving with only a bleed arm wound. No, she'd be dead.
At least, that's what Mukuro thinks. Their last fight had ended in a draw too, hadn't it?
“Peko,” yells Kuzuryu, “We gotta go! Those fuckers are on our tails!”
Pekoyama's face snaps from Mukuro to Kuzuryu, her eyes going soft. She nods, then looks back at the soldier.
“Consider this another draw,” she says; a warning for Mukuro to heed. “You will not be so fortunate next time.”
Then, Pekoyama points her sword in Mukuro's direction, circling around her and then leaping up onto one of the desks. In a strange, gracious way, despite her wound, she leaps from cubicle to cubicle towards Kuzuryu, returning to his side like a loyal dog.
(That strange feeling in Mukuro's chest ebbs again. For a split moment, she sees only herself and Enoshima, Mukuro returning the moment she's called for.)
“Ikusaba!”
The sound of footsteps in the hallway follow Ogami's voice, and Mukuro's head whips around. When she turns again, Pekoyama and Kuzuryu have disapprared through one of the other exits in the large space.
She'll face Pekoyama again one day. She's sure of it.