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Kirigiri Kyoko has never met a mystery she couldn’t figure out.
Every question has an answer, every item has a purpose, every person has a reason for being. There isn’t anything that happens without that reason, and Kyoko has always learned to chase the truth to the ends of the Earth. Plenty of things are impossible, but the number of impossible outcomes isn’t as big as people think it is. Even when things look unreasonable, there’s something that can make anything possible.
She doesn’t quite know where she learned that.
Now and again, she wracks her brain for some kind of hint. Kyoko is an expert in retracing her steps; she never misplaces anything in her care. She finds her gloves in the same place in the mornings, her ribbon in the same drawer, her boots in the same corner of her room. There’s about a dozen different detergents in the laundry room stored in a basket, and she grabs the same one every time she needs it, then stores it in its exact spot. Nobody observes as well as she does, nobody even knows that subtle lavender-scented detergent is opened at all.
Kyoko can remember lots of things—but if she traverses far enough in her memory, she loses sight of what she’s looking for. When she closes her eyes, through the sheet of darkness of her own eyelids, there’s something blurry way, way back. There’s an answer through all the fog.
There’s an answer to her questions. There’s a purpose to her memory block. There’s a reason for her being here.
It’s not quite nighttime yet when she places the detergent back in the basket, hidden behind the more plain-scented bottles that the other students use. One would argue that she’s gatekeeping it, making it last as long as it can while they’re all trapped here—and while it partially drives her, deep down, the reality is that she doesn’t quite like to leave a trail that someone else can follow. She isn’t interested in allowing anyone to become an expert in tracing her.
…Well, anyone else, that is.
She lifts her basket of laundry, consisting of identical blazers, collared shirts, and ties. In all truth, Kyoko doesn’t do her laundry as often as the other students do. It’s something instilled deep into her bones, to the point where she doesn’t mind avoiding a shower for an extra day or two. She spends most nights with her notepad in her lap, eyes burning from the ceiling light left on, pen scribbling anything she feels is notable. Writing everything down isn’t necessary per se, she can remember most things just fine, but it gives her brain something to focus on. Something of sense. Something she has control over, rather than the clouded blocks in her memory. A shower doesn’t really grant her much clarity these days.
(Although, she’s taken more care to not let too many days pass by. Comments have floated around the cafeteria as is about their classmate, Fukawa Toko. She doesn’t know her well, she doesn’t know why she doesn’t shower, and she doesn’t ask. Some mysteries don’t require answers, not immediately. Kyoko didn’t think the smell was too unpleasant, anyway. Maybe she’s smelled worse?
Either way, she shouldn’t allow herself to become the same.)
She’s heading for the door when she hears something quiet from behind them. The soft creaking, as if something leaned against it but decided against pushing it open. Not a footstep is carried in the quiet hours of the later day.
Kyoko’s eyebrows knit together quietly, steeling her boots on the tile floor. It only takes her two seconds to draw a conclusion that deems it safe enough to walk outside. She pushes the door open with her shoulder and glances to her left, spotting exactly who she’d expected to see.
“Otonashi-san.”
Otonashi Fuuka stiffens, silvery-gray eyes quickly scanning over Kyoko’s presence in turn before she says, “I figured you were in here.”
Curious, Kyoko adjusts the basket of laundry in her arms, raising an eyebrow. “How so?”
“I smelled lavender,” Otonashi reasons, glancing at the basket in her arms. “Fitting scent for someone who’s like, lavender incarnate.”
A familiar smile flickers across Otonashi’s face; awkward, small, so very strange. She’s been showing Kyoko that expression more often, as if she sought her out as a safe-zone to receive this side of her. An alarming vulnerability for a girl who is undeniably dangerous; Kyoko has no idea what to make of it.
Otonashi Fuuka is a mystery that does require an answer.
Strangely enough, it doesn’t seem that Otonashi realizes that. In many ways, Kyoko recognizes her struggles—the block in her memory, the burning questions that don’t have answers, the existence without the reason.
But there’s one stark difference: Otonashi does not care.
(That’s putting it harshly; she’s sure she does care, but not as much as she should. She doesn’t care for her past as much as Kyoko does with her own, doesn’t mind her inability to retrace her own steps. It’s something that Kyoko can’t wrap her head around, letting such an important mystery billow away in the wind.)
Otonashi’s smile falls, and she sighs, releasing the tension in her shoulders. “Sorry, that was… I was joking. You look so serious, Kirigiri-san.”
Kyoko blinks twice, and finally does the earlier comment register in her brain. “Was that a compliment?”
She shrugs. “Lavender smells nice, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” she agrees, “but you don’t use it for your own laundry.”
“Do we… have access to that?”
Frankly, it’s a question with an obvious answer. Kyoko tilts her head to the side. “Do you think I smell like this naturally?”
It’s almost astonishing that there’s a beat of silence before Otonashi answers, “No. It’s probably somewhere in the laundry basket, I just… don’t look too hard.” A dry chuckle leaves her. “Laundry’s so mindless, y’know? I try to stay out of my own head during it.”
For someone like Kyoko, who is always in her own head, she doesn’t quite understand Otonashi’s feelings. “I see,” she replies, even though she doesn’t.
Kyoko looks Otonashi up and down once more, and it clicks in her head something else that’s caught her attention. “Were you looking for me?”
“Oh, um.” She glances away, tapping her foot on the ground as she searches for an answer. “I was… I was just going to do my own laundry and realized you were walking out.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “You don’t have your own laundry basket.”
Otonashi Fuuka is not a good liar.
Even though she’s been caught, another awkward laugh leaves her. “Well, it’s not important, anyway. It’s getting late. Goodnight, Kirigiri-san.”
And then she walks away.
Kirigiri Kyoko has never met a mystery she couldn’t figure out.
Every question has an answer, every item has a purpose, every person has a reason for being. There isn’t anything that happens without that reason, and and from a very young age, Kyoko has learned to suspend her disbelief in pursuit of the undeniable truth. Plenty of things are impossible, but the number of impossible outcomes isn’t as big as people think it is. Even when things look unreasonable, there’s something that can make anything possible.
She’s learned that from her years of being a detective. She doesn’t hold her title for nothing.
Many things are like the locked room mysteries that she’s become so deeply fascinated with. People included. Most people aren’t necessarily locked rooms; the majority keeps some part of their emotions in the open, to some extent. Some people pretend, but nobody can really run from the intangible sensations that drive them in their day-to-day lives.
Every now and then, though, there’s always someone who keeps their feelings under lock and key.
Kyoko would know. She doesn’t distance herself from her emotions per se, but she’s become an expert in feigning that distance to stay away from vulnerability.
“Ikusaba-chan!”
Asahina slams her hands down in front of the soldier sitting in the back of their homeroom classroom, an eager expression on full display. Her arm is interlinked with Maizono, who squeaks when she’s dragged towards the desk—a rare show of something other than the grace of the Ultimate Pop Sensation.
Ikusaba looks up at Asahina, stiffening in her seat. “Yes?”
Her greeter doesn’t seem too bothered by the lack of enthusiasm, for she has more than enough to make up for it. “A bunch of the girls are going out to the mall after classes today,” she says, making a vague gesture to the others in the room. “Wanna come? Enoshima-chan can come too, obviously!”
There’s another who would know something about distance and vulnerability: Ikusaba Mukuro.
Kyoko watches carefully as Ikusaba instinctively glances to her right, where Enoshima is usually sat. At this very moment, her sister has disappeared to use the restroom. With no one to turn to for guidance, she awkwardly turns to look back at Asahina, silvery-gray eyes steeling themselves to deliver an answer on their own.
“I’m too busy,” she replies, and then she looks down. “I’ll see if Junko can come along, though.”
Asahina pouts. “Aw, okay. You really ought to join us sometime though, alright?”
Maizono slips her arm out of her hold. “Um, Asahina-san,” she chimes in, looking sheepish. “I can’t make it either, today. My schedule’s pretty tight this week.”
“What?” Asahina gawks at her, then groans. “Well, okay. That leaves me, Sakura-chan, Fujisaki-chan, maybe Celeste, maybe Enoshima-chan…”
As she lists off their female classmates, she counts them off on her fingers, and then her eyes begin to dart around the room.
“A-Absolutely not,” says Fukawa, before the question even begins.
“Yeah, I figured that.” Asahina rolls her eyes—and then, finally, she makes eye contact with Kyoko. “Oh, Kirigiri-chan!”
Though, admittedly, she’s still watching Ikusaba, the way she’s already begun gathering her and Enoshima’s belongings behind Asahina and Maizono. She moves swiftly and quietly, two qualities expected of a mercenary such as herself. Her eyes don’t dart around the room, as if she refuses to risk eye contact with anyone else here. (For good reason, Kyoko supposes; if she looked up, she’d find her staring. Kyoko isn’t necessarily trying to hide that fact.)
It’s a shame. There’s a part of her that would have wanted Ikusaba to agree. It’s rare that anyone ever catches her outside of the building; Kyoko isn’t even sure if she’s seen her without the Hope’s Peak Academy uniform.
…Although, there is still one way for her to try baiting the outcome she wants.
“If Enoshima-san tags along, I will as well.”
Despite not naming Ikusaba directly, hearing her sister’s name causes her to look up, freezing as she tucks a notebook back into her bag. Normally, the Ultimate Soldier keeps her emotions under lock and key, but even she’s capable of slipping every now and then. Her eyebrows furrow with confusion, creating a crease just above the bridge of her nose.
Ikusaba’s eyes meet Kyoko’s. There’s an unsaid question in the air.
A smug expression tugs at Kyoko’s features, and she allows that to slip past her own locked mechanism.
“What are you reading?”
Otonashi pops out from behind one of the bookshelves, seemingly cropping out of nowhere. In reality, Kyoko has known someone had been lurking around since the door to the library creaked shut—though she hadn’t quite nailed down who exactly it was until about a minute after.
It was simple process of elimination, really. Most of their classmates don’t care to disguise the sound of their footsteps, and she’d heard nothing of the sort. Even those with the lightest of footsteps would be heard at some point, unless their goal had been to creep up on Kyoko—unless they were intentionally trying to seek her out.
Which, all things considered, only leaves one Otonashi Fuuka.
Unfortunately for her, Kyoko doesn’t startle easily. One gloved finger pauses in the middle of the page she was skimming over, her violet eyes panning to her right to make eye contact with Otonashi. Now that she thinks of it, she’s not sure if she were purposely trying to catch her off guard. Otonashi has a knack for scaring the others by showing up without any warning in advance, even though she reportedly tries not to seem too intimidating.
Not Kyoko. A dangerous girl she is, but something tells her that she’s alive today because danger doesn’t push her away.
“Nothing yet,” she answers, shutting the book over her finger, looking over the cover again. “There aren’t many titles in here that intrigue me.”
Otonashi hums, approaching Kyoko at her side. Her footsteps are still quiet as she gets closer, and Kyoko deduces that her failed attempt to surprise her hadn’t actually been an attempt at all. “Well, these books haven’t been touched in ages. Guess there’s a reason if they’re so boring.” She tilts her head, squinting at the title. “I don’t know how Togami spends so much time in here on the average day.”
“Togami is strange for a plethora of reasons,” says Kyoko, a chuckle slipping past her lips. “I suppose it’s also that there isn’t much else to do otherwise. He doesn’t speak to anyone unless he needs to, so he has to pass the time somehow.”
“What a sad life.” Otonashi shakes her head, pulling her arms closer to her chest.
Certainly sad, although Kyoko finds it ironic. “You only ever approach me to talk,” she points out, putting the book back in its spot before starting further down the bookshelves.
Like a beckoned dog, the other girl follows suit at a quicker pace to keep up—still silently. “Is there something you mean by that?”
Kyoko glances at her, then stares back ahead. “Nothing in particular. It’s quite hypocritical to criticize Togami for his solitude, yet you still avoid speaking at breakfast until the group disperses.”
(Otonashi always sticks close to Kyoko, even if they never exchange a word because neither of them speak too much. She doesn’t always sit right next to her, but she’s somewhere in her immediate vicinity constantly. Kyoko has noticed.)
“Well,” Otonashi replies defensively, “that’s different. I don’t hate everyone. It’s just… I don’t have a lot to say.”
Kyoko pauses by another set of bookshelves, and she brushes a thumb over some of the spines to wipe away the thick layer of dirt that’s formed on them. “I think you have plenty to say with me.”
“With you,” she emphasizes. “You’re different.”
Something feels fuzzy in the back of Kyoko’s head at those words.
“What are you doing?”
Ikusaba hurries through the hallway to catch up with Kyoko, though her footsteps are silent as she moves. For any other student, they’d surely be startled by the Ultimate Soldier seemingly cropping out of nowhere, but Kyoko knows better than to allow herself to be so suddenly caught off guard so easily.
(That, and she saw Ikusaba head for the door just as she dipped out after the bell rang.)
Kyoko pulls her textbook closer to her chest. “You’ll have to be more specific,” she says, quietly clearing her throat to disguise the smirk threatening to pop onto her face again. “I’m always busy doing something.”
Ikusaba walks by her side, glancing around the hallway at the other students who mind their business. She always moves with this air of paranoia clouding her, as if someone is constantly watching her. Perhaps that was once the case, but most students in this school are caught up in their own worlds more than anything else.
“Junko isn’t going on that trip to the mall.”
Kyoko raises an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure?”
“We’re busy today.”
Ikusaba Mukuro is not a good liar.
She’s hardly consistent—so it’s easy for Kyoko to call her out immediately. “You told Asahina-san that you’re too busy, and you said you would ask Enoshima-san if she could make it despite yourself.”
“And I did,” Ikusaba insists.
“Which is why Enoshima-san stayed back to talk details with the other girls?”
Ikusaba’s expression tightens, and she looks away. Her silvery-gray eyes glint in the artificial ceiling lights, like a sharpened blade brandished and weaponized against her. Despite that, Kyoko doesn’t feel threatened by threats—and she doesn’t feel threatened by a girl who seems so obviously dangerous on the surface.
Kyoko has a knack for figuring people out. She has a deep buried thrill for figuring out the locked rooms buried in people, and Ikusaba has something that she wants to understand. A walking mystery, this girl is.
“Why aren’t you with them then?” Ikusaba asks, facing forward as they walk through the halls. “To… talk details.”
This time, a smile crosses Kyoko’s face, one she can’t resist. Sometimes, she can’t help herself; she’s gotten herself into trouble by smirking at inappropriate times, but she only feels this irresistable urge when she knows she’s right. “See, I figure you’ll be able to tell me what I’ve missed.”
“What?”
“Enoshima-san should be texting you any minute, telling you that you’re going to tag along with her.” Kyoko stops by her locker, eager to let this conversation end off on this specific note. “Which means I’ll follow suit.”
Ikusaba stops walking ahead, following Kyoko across the hallway to her locker. She swiftly avoids a group of girls from the upper class walking ahead and talking loudly. “I don’t know if you intentionally misheard me back in the classroom,” she begins, “but I am not—”
Then, she pauses. If Kyoko has to guess, her phone has likely just buzzed.
Kyoko tucks away her books into the locker, then shuts it.
Defeated, Ikusaba sighs. It’s rare to find the soldier visibly frustrated, but Kyoko likes to think that she’s one of the only students at this school that can truly find a certain button to push. She’s not one to purposely upset others, but it’s a necessity when it comes to Ikusaba. For… reasons.
“We’re meeting to the left of the main entrance,” relays Ikusaba.
“What time?” Kyoko asks, glancing back at her.
“As soon as cleaning time is over.” Ikusaba stares at her phone screen for a moment. “Junko says she tried to convince them to leave earlier, but Ogami-san didn’t take too kindly to that suggestion.”
“Understood.” Kyoko pats down the fabric of her uniform, then starts off down the hall again. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
She doesn’t miss the way Ikusaba’s nose scrunches up with her confusion, silver eyes following after her as she strides past. Instead of calling attention to it, she pretends to not notice, an easy form of baiting Ikusaba into speaking up on her own accord.
And she does. Hook, line, and sinker.
“Why are you so interested in Junko?”
To which, Kyoko turns her head ever so slightly, just to catch one more glimpse of her face.
“I’m not interested in her,” she says, simply.
Ikusaba stiffens. “Then what’s your aim?”
“My aim is on you,” she says, with all her smug emphasis. “You’re a different case.”
“What’s different about me?”
Kyoko pops the question while they’re in Otonashi’s room. With no other place to sit, she’s been offered a spot on the other girl’s bed, watching the strange girl pace back and forth.
These days, Otonashi Fuuka seems anxious. She brushes her thumb over the back of her hand, more zoned out than focused. Only with Kyoko is she like this; everywhere else, she’s the same as always: observant and silent.
Three days ago, two of their classmates died. One murdered the other, a class trial was commenced, and the killer—the Blackened—had been executed thereafter. Something about the whole series of events seemed to shake Otonashi. Not in the same way that their other classmates had been shaken; she certainly wasn’t reduced to trembling and screams like Fujisaki and Asahina, but something deeper.
(Kyoko remembers. Otonashi pulled her aside after the trial, and said something in a whisper—a panicked whisper, the only time she’s ever seen her not composed—“I know this place.”
And when Kyoko pressed for more information, Otonashi said she couldn’t remember. A wave of fuzziness in the back of her head. She asked why she was entrusting this information to her, and apparently, she couldn’t figure that out either.)
(Of course, Kyoko knows. She’s still an expert in people. Otonashi trusts her.)
(—the only question, of course, being why.)
Earlier this afternoon, the second motive was introduced. Secrets. Kyoko had sat quietly with her piece of paper for a long, long time.
Kirigiri Kyoko is the catalyst for her closest friend’s death.
But she doesn’t know what to make of it. There’s a part of her that thinks she should be devastated, but that close friend wasn’t named. She has a sneaking suspicion about who it is, a name that floats in the void that is the back of her mind, but when she reaches in to grasp the memory, she feels that fuzz begin to suffocate her again.
So, she tries not to think about it.
(And she has to try very, very hard to not think about it.)
(It’s a mystery, and Kyoko has always been compelled to mysteries, though she doesn’t know why. She thinks of Otonashi’s attitude towards the information she isn’t aware of, her insistence on moving forward and figuring out who she is now—and she thinks about how Kyoko couldn’t possibly do the same on her own accord. Her curiosity knows zero bounds.)
“What?” Otonashi’s voice finally snaps, carrying a mixture of confusion and annoyance in her voice. Her silvery-gray eyes shoot a pointed glare at Kyoko for only a half-second—then, whatever frustration that’s settled in her bones seemingly melts away. “Sorry. I mean, um… what did you say?”
Kyoko stares at her. Unfazed by the harsh tone, she’s only left to wonder what’s sparked this change in Otonashi’s behavior. Her violet eyes flick down to the way her thumb rubs against the back of her hand, and quietly, she wonders if that has something to do with the secret she’s received.
There are many mysteries to be solved. Otonashi’s hand isn’t one of them.
(If it is, then Kyoko’s hands are to be questioned as well.)
(And yes, she’s curious—but there are more pressing manners. That’s why she ignores the uneven foundation splotch, how it’s not even the right shade, how sometimes, she can spot something black beginning to show underneath the makeup. It’s the same reason Otonashi ignores her gloves, how she never takes them off, unless it’s only them in the kitchen and she needs to wash her hands.
Kyoko hasn’t looked at what lies under Otonashi’s makeup.
Otonashi hasn’t looked at what lies under Kyoko’s gloves.
That’s the end of that.)
“What’s different about me?” she repeats.
Ikusaba stares at Kyoko.
It’s not that Kyoko is ignoring her. She’s just waiting—waiting for the group of four in front of them to create more distance. Asahina tugs Fujisaki by the arm when she spots a cute outfit on a mannequin up ahead, and then Enoshima and Ogami walk faster. Enoshima makes an offhand comment about how it’s a really boring look.
“Kirigiri-san,” Ikusaba says, refusing to go unheard.
Satisfied with the space, Kyoko finally looks at her. “You’re talking more than usual today.”
She’s an expert in dodging questions—not to lie to people, but she has a certain way she likes to approach these kinds of conversations. There's a lot to be garnered from simple observation, but her method of revealing what she knows—she's particular about presentations. Luckily, Ikusaba plays right into her hand for the most part; unlike her sister, Ikusaba is predictable, especially as Kyoko works towards understanding her bit by bit.
So, she's expecting it when Ikusaba chooses to remain silent.
“That wasn't me telling you to stop talking,” Kyoko continues.
“You didn't answer my question,” Ikusaba insists.
“You're asking me what makes you stand out. What makes you different.” She wraps a lock of hair around one of her gloved fingers, simply staring ahead at their companions. “Would you believe me if I said I just had a gut feeling about you?”
To that, Ikusaba does something surprising—she snorts, humorlessly. “Have you been spending time with Maizono-san?”
Kyoko shrugs. So she does pay attention to her classmates. “Not particularly.”
“Then, no, I wouldn't believe you.” Ikusaba shakes her head. “That's unlike you, anyway.”
She can concede that point.
“I'll ask you one more time.” It sounds like a threat at first, but Ikusaba doesn't necessarily look like she's about to pounce. “Why are you so interested in me?”
“There's just something about you, Ikusaba-san.” Kyoko glances at her, trying to watch her expression subtly. “You're the only person in class who strays to the side. You rarely join us for any events—not unless Enoshima-san drags you with. And yet, I know you care for your classmates. What's the reason for that?”
Ikusaba's lips curl downward further. She doesn't look too comfortable. “So is that it?” she asks, dodging her question with an equal amount of expertise. “You take me for some kind of mystery to crack?”
“I am not interested in cracking anything,” Kyoko calmly—slyly—replies.
She does, at the very least, revel in the brief sight that is Ikusaba looking embarrassed. “That's not what I meant.”
“I know.” She smiles again, though she knows she should quit playing with her food. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“I don't need to be understood by you,” is all Ikusaba says. “I don't need to be understood by anyone. These high school years are going to pass by faster than you know.”
And she leaves Kyoko alone to think about that, breaking into a small jog to catch up with the other girls ahead. She's just in time to catch the mist of Enoshima trying out a random perfume at a display, and making some comment about how it “smells worse than Muki”—but she's mainly mulling over what she said.
“Is this about what I said in the library?” Otonashi asks, as if trying to jog her own memory.
Kyoko nods. “I'm only curious why you've come to trust me of all people.”
Because it doesn't go unnoticed. Kyoko is the only person Otonashi has allowed into her room. She's the only one that Otonashi has tried to sort out a few of her blurry memories with. (To no avail, of course.)
Kyoko is the first person that Otonashi trusts with certain revelations—like the trial room déjà vu; the first person that she's trusted with her confusion about how she could be so unbothered by a dead body; the first person she confessed that the execution didn't quite rattle her as much as it should have, as if she's seen worse.
And Kyoko has the suspicion that others are catching onto Otonashi's faith in Kyoko. She's not exactly subtle.
But when questioned, Otonashi doesn't exactly know what to say. “I'm not so sure,” she replies. “It's mainly a gut feeling.”
Something about those words feel familiar, too.
She sighs, finally quitting her pacing and walking over to the bed. Exhausted, she lands on the mattress with a soft thump. “There's just something about you, I guess. We're both in similar situations. I can't imagine a girl as clueless as me could do much harm.”
Clueless isn't the word that Kyoko would use to describe either of them. That thought is quelled as she gets a better look at Otonashi's face—the splatter of freckles stretching across her cheeks and her nose, the glimmer of her silver eyes in the light of her room. Her short hair, hardly uniform in appearance, which sticks out in comparison to the way she carries herself. She wonders if she's cut it herself, or if she remembers it at all.
“Unless,” Otonashi continues, but pauses. There's a pensive look on her face, and she doesn't meet Kyoko's curious eyes. “Kirigiri-san, are you tempted by your secret?”
She thinks back to the slip of paper. “Tempted towards murder, no,” she answers truthfully. “I only wish to know the meaning of it. To understand it.”
Otonashi hums, slowly nodding her head as she processes the reply.
“How about you?”
(Kyoko thinks about the foundation on Otonashi's hand.)
“No,” Otonashi responds. “It's unreasonable. My secret is hardly about who I am, anyway.” There's another pause to her words, and Kyoko waits patiently as she takes a moment to gather herself. “Whoever that is, I mean. It's hard to make out anything about myself.”
Kyoko understands the feeling. Her eyes flick down to Otonashi's hand—where the foundation one shade too dark sticks out like a sore thumb, only because she's looking harder at it. There's a quiet skip in the beating of her heart, and she pays no mind to it on the surface, but she can only wonder what this means.
There's something too familiar about this. She can't put her finger on it.
In the end, Kyoko never found her answer.
But she follows her mystery around, trailing behind her at a distance. Ikusaba doesn't lead people very often. She's more of a follower herself, always tailing behind Enoshima like a canine. It reminds her of the tattoo imprinted on Ikusaba's hand, and she wonders if she's ever recognized the symbolism in that.
The hallways of Hope’s Peak Academy’s old school building are eerily quiet, save for the gentle clacking of Kyoko's boots. Ikusaba's footsteps are dead silent. As expected, for the Ultimate Soldier.
Ikusaba leads her towards one of the classrooms, glancing up and down the hallway before pushing open the door. When she turns to meet Kyoko's eyes, silvery-gray glinting in the cool-toned lights from the ceiling, she feels it: the quiet skip in the beating of her heart, only noticeable because she's always paying attention to everything.
(Well, to most things, that is.)
“I understand how you feel,” Kyoko wills herself to say. Because she does. With so many gaps in her memory, she can only rely on her own instinct—she doesn't even know what drives her instinct to be as keen as it is today. “If you don't identify with your secret, then it's nothing for you to worry about.”
And she ignores the weird feeling in her stomach as she takes the jump—as she reaches one gloved hand to the side, placing it on top of Otonashi's foundation-covered hand, as if further concealing what it is she may be hiding.
Otonashi stares down at their hands. “If Monokuma reveals it, would you still be able to believe me?”
“Is there any reason I wouldn't?” Kyoko raises an eyebrow.
“That's kind of for you to decide, isn't it?” says Otonashi, her lips curling into a sad smile. “I don't think the others would understand that I can't remember. I'm not a liar, Kirigiri-san.”
Kyoko doesn't need to be told that someone is or isn't a liar.
Ikusaba Mukuro is a horrible liar—but she most certainly continues to lie anyway.
A lie isn't enough to deter Kyoko, though. No, it only compels her ever more; that's why she willingly agreed to follow Ikusaba down the hallway, while her classmates weren't paying attention as they tried to find something to stay busy with.
Kyoko has always strived towards truth. Beneath all of Ikusaba's bad lies, there is a truth somewhere.
Kyoko has to find it.
She's never met a mystery she couldn't figure out.
Kyoko doesn't need to be told that someone is or isn't a liar.
Otonashi Fuuka is too horrible of a liar to not be telling the truth.
“I know,” she says. “And I understand your plight. I’m not sure what my secret implies about my past either. I can’t remember it.”
There’s more to the truth that Otonashi and Kyoko share. This shared sentiment of being unable to remember—it means something. It’s no coincidence; things like that don’t exist. Kyoko doesn’t remember where she learned that, but she’ll use her instincts to seek out the truth.
“Then we’re on the same page.” Otonashi seems slightly more at ease. “I’m on your side if you’re on mine.”
“I’m on the side of finding an answer,” Kyoko asserts.
Otonashi places her other hand on top of Kyoko’s, brushing a thumb over her glove. Then, she looks up at her. “Count me in.”
They’ll find it together, then.
That truth—the truth that connects all the other truths they have so far.
The mystery that remains a burning question.
She’s never met a mystery she couldn’t figure out, after all.
The truth doesn't always reveal itself.
Kyoko has spent three years trying to understand Ikusaba, trying to figure out the mystery locked deep in her chest. Two of those years were spent between classes and in brief conversations, in rare moments outside of school, in secret meetings in empty classrooms where nobody could interrupt them. The last year was spent in the old Main Course building, where privacy came more often, but Kyoko had buried her personal drive for safe-keeping.
She thought she understood. Ikusaba had been robbed of her chance to return to her mercenary group after Hope's Peak, because she wasn't going to graduate. None of them were.
She thought she understood, and so she stayed away.
And yet only then did Ikusaba reel her in—asking to speak privately on her own accord just this once.
And when Kyoko had her back turned, her trust resting in Ikusaba's hands, so that maybe that trust would be returned to her—
—Ikusaba knocked her out, stabbing her neck with a syringe.
(And she didn't want to, not on a personal level. Something twinged in Mukuro's heart when she saw Kirigiri's back turned. That detective never let her guard down around anyone. She only teasingly let loose around her, setting bait so that Mukuro would loosen up herself.
She always wanted the truth. Mukuro couldn't give her that.
Just this once, Kirigiri Kyoko will not solve the mystery she has met.)
(Fuuka has faith in Kirigiri.
She doesn't know who she is. She doesn't know who either of them are.
But Kirigiri brims with her own form of light—not optimism, like Asahina or Naegi, but an undeniable, unshakable need to know the truth.
If anyone will solve their mystery, it will be her.)