"There's some paparazzi camping outside, Akamatsu," Shuichi calls from the kitchen window. "Plan A or plan B? Plan A."
Zipping down her coat, Kaede says as he joins her, "Plan A," and takes his hand when they step outside.
Flash, flash, flash. It's been only a day since they announced their engagement, after all. Flash, go the cameras. She smiles, like a performer. Like Himiko, kind of.
Plan A, so, as soon as they're inside Shuichi's car, she tugs on his shirt until her numb lips meet his. He murmurs without breaking away, "They're gonna fucking eat it up."
Flash.
The painkiller tastes like novocaine. Rantaro winces slightly and washes it down with a mouthful of stale tea, then taps his computer awake. The overflowing inbox stares back at him, so he flips to the tab with the article on Saihara and Akamatsu - pardon, Saimatsu. These pen-wielding hyenas do love their portmanteaus.
A proper press coverage, his boss had said, will result in the reruns bringing us new viewers, Amami, as you know. Make sure the news are pleasing to us, or else.
"Or else," Rantaro parrots back his thoughts, then forces himself back to work.
Saimatsu, then Shiromaki. Then–
Shucking off her tank top, Tenko spares a glance in the mirror. The muscular girl staring back doesn't have scars, unlike the one staring back from self-defense books' covers; has little cuts on hips, stretch marks on thighs.
A glance is enough. She walks under the shower, sprays water over her skin, cold enough to make her hiss. Then she uses a scrub, shaves and doesn't even hesitate when she's done. Her therapist will be proud, Tenko thinks and texts Amami that she's prepared for the photo shoot tomorrow. He replies with a singular emoji.
She dreams of violence later.
The bone breaks under Gonta's fist, and the would-be mugger clutches his nose. Idiot. Not dignifying him with a scoff, Gonta leaves the alley, clutching his bag. It's a shame, really, he almost started liking this place. It was warm, and the cops didn't dare check it too often.
The light of dawn blinds him as he steps into the streets. He glares down and resumes walking.
Maybe if Chabashira didn't have her show about bravely fighting to claim what you want, the kid wouldn't disrupt Gonta's morning; he swallows back the bitterness. A part of him pities her, almost.
"Gonta was spotted last night," Tsumugi says as a way of greeting. Maki hums in disinterest, leaning for a kiss, then sets her purse down and sits at her desk. Seems like Tsumugi pulled an all-nighter after all, judging by her sluggish movements, so Maki slides her her cup of coffee - even though she's a bit cross about how cold the bed felt last night.
She shakes it off and loses herself in the work. The next, fifty-seventh season will be a virtual reality too, so the Dangan Team needs the first simulation's survivors' expertise. And Maki likes feeling needed.
There's a carton of strawberries in the fridge - and Ryoma doesn't remember buying it. He doesn't even like strawberries. The ones he got shit knows when have the same color as Harukawa's eyes - so he bins the box. Fixes a bowl of oatmeal.
It comes out watery and too sweet. He eats it anyway, then turns on the TV. A plane crashed in Europe, the corruption scandal in the ministry of agriculture has blown up, a kid built her cat a leg prosthesis. When he hears that, he smirks, then swears as his post-breakfast cigarette slips out of his lips.
As the Discord call quiets down, Miu pulls the collar of her t-shirt to her nose and sniffs, then pulls it off over her head and throws to the floor. She really should do the laundry, she notes absently, and goes back to clicking through YouTube until a random music video catches her eye. There's a midget in it, and she snickers as she thinks of Hoshi. The bowl of instant ramen she made fills the cramped room with its heavy, salty smell, almost overpowering the stink of old clothes and stale air.
She should open the window, too, huh.
He has a body now. He can feel things. His nose detects scents.
"Iruma-san would have done it differently," Kiibo says to the Team Dangan technician, who scoffs.
"Iruma doesn't know shit," she says curtly, "besides, who are you to decide?"
He flinches. They gave him life, after all; he should be grateful to them. "My apologies," he manages. The woman rolls her eyes and leaves the machinery room, and Kiibo looks at his new hands, covered in pale, artificial skin.
He really should be grateful. He's not. He's just a mascot, after all, like they love to remind him.
Today's the silent day, Kaito can tell by how Ouma doesn't meet his eye during breakfast, and maybe he should start calling him by his first name. It's been over ten years, after all.
The dishwasher is full after they're done, so Kaito turns it on, watching how Ouma wobbles to his wheelchair. His movements are stilted. Not robotic, though, Kiibs was much more fluid.
"-our guest today will be," the TV speaks up. The guest isn't a fellow survivor, so Kaito powers it off and starts studying for the astrophysics exam. He's expected to get an A, after all.
Kaito has been lost to the books, so Kokichi needs to entertain himself with something else. He grabs his phone, grimacing as his joints ache, and checks his inbox. Empty. Only Kaito and Saihara still speak to him, after all, even when it's been so long, but that's just how it is, right. He still looks forward to any new texts. He's still good at lying (to himself).
At least there's an abundance of new posts on his tumblr dash. He scrolls through it and, when one is a gif from Kaito's execution, tries not to hyperventilate.
His limbs ache.
"You know what," Shuichi says to Akamatsu, "if, like, gay marriage was legal, I'd totally go for Ouma instead of you." She doesn't reply, but he carries on, "He's cooler than you. Watch this, Imma sound profound - there's intelligence behind his silence, while there's nothing behind yoursilence." He snaps his fingers, and she still doesn't say a word. Whatever. He stands up abruptly and leaves the living room, goes to the kitchen where he gets a bottle of orange juice. The engagement ring on his finger glints in the harsh light.
Shuichi grins. He's so fucking famous, isn't he.
Some of the survivors have been pursuing careers connected to their faked talents - Saihara has been livetweeting his investigations, for example - but Korekiyo has not been one of them.
"Smile, Kore-chan," sweetly trills the photographer, and he pulls his cheek into a grin. The make-up feels oily on his skin. "Great! Now, put your hand- yes, like that!"
He's pretty. He knows that. He uses that. Anthropology be forgotten, now he's just a handsome face, stylish haircut and fashionable clothes. He parties with fashionistas who bleach their hair and put it in twin tails.
He changes the pose; smiles freely.
Her fridge's full, her boss praises her on a daily basis, and her girlfriend looks dazzling in the dresses Tsumugi buys or sews. And the two of them are in love, unlike the Saimatsus.
"Is that a new mascara?" Maki sounds pleasantly surprised. Tsumugi walks into the bathroom and embraces her from behind, pressing her bared chest to Maki's back.
"Yes. I saw Shinguji-kun promoting it, so I went and got it for you." She puts her lips on Maki's shoulder and watches her put on the mascara.
She's so, so lucky. The virtual reality truly was a great idea.
Sad, her mother's eyes are always so sad, and Kirumi doesn't understand. She continues washing the dishes while watching Mom from the corner of her eye.
"It's nice of you to do so much around the house," Mom murmurs into her coffee, "although now I have too much time to spare."
"You could partake in a course," Kirumi says, drying off her hands. "We are able to afford it. Perhaps gardening or cooki-"
"I'll think about it," Mom says. "By the way, Shirogane-san called to ask if you'll make it to Saihara-san's and Akamatsu-san's wedding."
"It'd be impolite not to."
The media calls her 'the Japanese John Green', and Angie smiles like she's ever read any of his books. Angie smiles a lot, yeah, she has a lot of smiles, and the one she gives the cashier is the least fake.
"Thank you," she sing-songs and picks up her groceries. Rice, veggies, soy milk. Vegan, to keep her blood pure.
Pure blood. She hums. Tojo would've liked such comparison. Maybe.
Her bus is late, that's okay, she can pull out a worn notebook and jot down her thoughts. Prepare another tangent for her killing game memoir that she'll never write.
It's been so long, Himiko thinks wearily, since she had any energy, so long that she's having hard time thinking. She curls her toes, then pulls the comforter over her cheek and closes her eyes, blindly palming for the headphones and turning on the music. The sad voice, low notes and English words wash over her like an ocean. A memory of Angie talking about her island flashes in Himiko's mind, and she bites her chapped lip.
She can hear her father calling for her, but she doesn't move a muscle, enjoying the medicine-induced sleepiness.
Sleeping is sorta like dying.