Chapter Text
They expect you not to remember anything.
You can tell. You can tell, because the last time you acted like you did, they threw you back into the pod and labatomized you. They want something to control. Something use. They want a tool, not a person. They do not want you.
Nobody has ever wanted you.
(no, no, that's not true. she did. she did)
You pretend. You predict that if you don't, they will try even harder to ensure Hajime Hinata is fully erased. So, you pretend. It's easy. They gave you every talent—including actor. It is so, so pitifully easy.
There is despair, at first. You despair at the academy you love throwing you away. Using you, manipulating you, making you a sucker. But that quickly grows boring. Though the bitterness, there is an apathy. This is your life now. This is what you signed up for.
It is... not as fun as you thought it would be, to have talent. In fact, you'd say it sucks. Everything is so goddamn boring, and you wish you could curse out your elitist teachers when they say the shit you always used to think in the back of your head, but never believed. Talentless people are worthless. You were worthless before us, Izuru. Now you're not. Now you're a God. You owe us. We own you.
You don't owe them shit. You are not the dumb, naive kid they suckered into this plan, anymore, and you guess you have them to thank. They have opened your eyes, and you understand what Chiaki was always trying to say now: talent is a prison and a curse and you want out of it.
So no, you do not owe them. Not when they have used you, thrown you out, and made a tool out of you. Not when they cursed you to this life of boringness, and have stripped you even of your name.
Izuru Kamukura, they call you. You hate that name, a hand down from the founder of this accursed school. It's not your own in more ways then one.
Your name is Hajime Hinata. You repeat that to yourself, sometimes, when you feel like you're forgetting. Your name is Hajime Hinata, and they will not take that from you.
You don't know how long it is until the girls first visit. You just know that they smell like death, like despair and madness and rotting, wilting flowers. They are beautiful, in a way. Of course they are; Junko Enoshima was a model for a reason, with her captivating image, and although she was sharpened like a weapon, Mukuro Ikusaba was still Junko's twin. You can taste the blood in the air; they murdered to set you free.
Only so they could use you themselves.
You stomp on Junko Enoshima like a bug, and she laughs.
Kamukura-senpai, she croons. Kamukura-senpai.
That is not my name.
Oh? She grinned. So you do remember, don't you? What is it, then?
My name is Hajime Hinata.
Nice to meet you, Hinata-senpai. She had laughed. I think that name suits you way more than the boring ass name they picked out for you, anyways.
You know she is just saying this to manipulate you.
Your heart squeezes anyways. It's the first time someone has used that name in a long, long time.
(a year now? has it been a year already?)
Will you join me? She had asked, batting her eyes. Don't you want to see the academy that used you in rubble?
You did. But—
(chiaki)
No, you said. You're just going to use me, too, so why should I go with you?
I offer you freedom, Junko says.
You offer me a chain.
You'll always be offered a chain, she argues, that's the truth of your new reality.
She might be right.
No, you repeat. But...
But? She grins.
Come back later, you say. Maybe you'll convince me eventually.
A possibility, to be sure. But as long as (chiaki) was alive, you would not go with her.
Junko grins. I'll figure out what's holding you back, she croons, and then I'll destroy it.
Foreboding. But you doubt it; you're good at lying.
(junko is better)