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Kamukura Izuru is seated in front of Junko, wearing possibly the best outfit that’s ever been put on her. A black maxi skirt with a slit up the thigh. A cropped tee shirt with magenta splattered over it in an artful flair.
Quite possibly the cutest murderer ever.
Izuru looks down at herself, and even her deep red eyes seem to say, Damn.
Junko grins. “I’m good, aren’t I?”
Zuru just gives her a shrug. When her ankles shift, her chunky six-inch heels peek out from under the skirt, glittering ominously. Oh, to be stepped on by those!
Junko sits beside Izuru, not giving her the chance to scoot away. They’re on one of those little mall stools with the plush tops that you’re supposed to use while trying shoes. Of course, the mall’s long defunct, and the cushion sags beneath them, as if with the weight of the ruined world, but Junko kind of loves it. The feeling of decay all around them. The gloomy ambiance of the darkened corridors, the dead arcade cabinets, and the utter stillness of a place once so full of life. It’s sort of intoxicating, this space. Strangely, its quiet reminds Junko of nature.
But anyway.
She picks up her brush and drags it through the edges of Zuru’s hair. Zuru lets her, to Junko’s thrill. Usually Zuru pulls away, not even with a word, just a shrug. And that’s the joy of it, the fact that Izuru will never want Junko even a tenth as much as Junko wants her.
But she leans, a little, into the nudge of Junko’s brush. It’s horrible and incredible all at once. Junko’s never loved before. She thinks she enjoys the desiring part far more than the being desired. That’s when a beautiful thing is ruined.
Izuru tilts her head back so Junko can reach the pooling strands of her ink-dark hair. And Junko brushes and brushes. She would find it boring on anyone else, but Izuru’s hair sort of shimmers in the dark, and as Junko coaxes it back to life, it starts to gleam. And there’s something so engrossing about someone who barely pays any attention to you, only a curt glance when Junko tugs a little too hard.
Once she’s finished, she sets aside the brush, and she pulls handfuls of barrettes from her pockets. They have all manner of designs: stars, hearts, Hello Kitty, rhinestones. And she inserts them in Zuru’s hair with a surgical precision, wanting just enough clutter but not too much. Her finesse brings out the sharp edge of Izuru’s jawline into relief. God.
Izuru stands and turns, just enough to ruffle the skirt. Punk and glam and pure murder. She looks at Junko with those empty, unfeeling eyes of hers, and Junko just melts.
Junko takes her by the arm and steers her toward a full-length mirror. “So?” she asks, leaning against Izuru. “Whatcha think? Better than that ugly crumpled-tissue looking business they had you in before, yeah?”
Zuru observes herself for some time, so still that she starts to feel like the reflection rather than the person.
With one fluid turn, she faces Junko and says, “You made me look like you.”
Junko’s mouth drops open.
Zuru adds, “That’s all you do. You’re so bored with the world that you clone the only thing you find interest in: yourself. And then you bore of yourself to the point where you revel in tearing pieces of your own heart out. It’s the only thing that gives you any amount of feeling.”
Junko’s legs quiver. She might just explode.
Zuru turns to look at the mirror. “I concede, however, that despair looks quite becoming on a woman, even if you continue to act the pony with the one trick.” Zuru’s blood-red eyes flick to hers. “You are a trope, Enoshima Junko. Shallow to your core.”
Junko can’t stop herself. She grabs Izuru by the shoulders and kisses her, hard.
Izuru just stands there. Doesn’t pull her in, doesn’t push her away.
God, it’s that listlessness. It makes her ache. Finally, someone more bored than her.
Junko pulls away, and Izuru adds, like an afterthought, like she wasn’t interrupted in the first place, “I tire of this location.”
Junko gestures her forward. “Come on, then! There’s always something else to blow up.”