Chapter Text
It was one of the late nights of winter that lay grey shadows across the whole of Japan. Numbing storms, rumbling thunder, rainwater rhythmically beating the pane of the window.
Needless to say, that was all speculation. No one — but one of them, somebody— could know the absolute reality about anything happening in this hell, not the country, nor the weather, nor the time of day. They lived inside of a cage: whatever skulked beyond it was indiscernible. Azure skies and blazing heat, maybe. Crunching leaves and fiery trees. Pale blossoms and saccharine fruit.
A group of ten who may have never been, who might have just conceived in Kokichi’s own being. Vivid memories that slip like grains of sand in-between fingers as soon as you attempt to make sense of them. Tracing a thread of thought to the end, the strings blurring and merging and causing a great headache.
Through the sooty clouds, a narrow strip of moonlight squeezed its way through and illuminated the walls of the vacant clutter that Kokichi intermittently slept in. The door clicked open, then shut, and a black inner tube was thrown haphazardly into the pile while Kokichi sunk onto the floor.
Tonight concluded the second trial, this time with two particularly gruesome killings, Hoshi, and Tojo. Kokichi mulled over the latter. Tojo Kirumi, the Ultimate Maid. Assuming their motive videos were anywhere near reliable, she had been entrusted with Japan by the Prime Minister himself, the lives of all the people who may or may not be waiting outside shoved roughly onto her shoulders.
The weight of it must have been unbearable. That’s obvious, seeing as calm, clean, cool-headed Tojo pivoted to meticulously planning out and executing the murder of Hoshi, then subsequently everyone else.
It was completely in character for Kirumi to turn a blackened for a cause this noble. Everyone was in character, predictable, boring, paper dolls on a thick rope, fluttering to the floor and falling with grace. Predetermined, was the word. Was Kokichi’s fate predetermined?
A indistinct thought flashed in Kokichi’s mind, a hazy blur that went too quick to conclude anything from it. He’d been getting these often.
Kokichi grasped at it.
He tugged and pulled the thought until he couldn’t discern anything of it, and decided it was about Saihara. That made sense. Saihara, the selfless angel convicting murderers and letting the people live another day. Saihara, the hopeless wreck who plays prosecutor and decides everyone’s quality of live.
Exhaustion thrummed in the back of his mind dully. In the back of his mind, in memories unbothered to be tainted, he remembered his mother telling him to think of happy things to ensure well rest.
He fell asleep, thinking of Saihara.