WARNING! This work contains...
-Spoilers for SDR2
-Post SDR2 head-canons (don't crucify me for them)
-Dark psychological themes
-Strong language (blame Fuyuhiko)
-Mentions of disturbingly violent acts, such as self mutilation, attempted suicide, and murder (well, this is Danganronpa...)
If you're fine with all of the above, please proceed with reading.
The waiting room makes him restless.
It always has.
And how can it not? Everything about the place is about as bland as biting into a chunk of cardboard-and subsequently regurgitating it all up. He takes note of the irritating details of the room, counting them off and keeping track as one would count sheep to fall asleep.
Furiously blank walls. A worn carpet the lovely color of crap. The acrid aroma of medicinal disinfect lingering in the air. Only a single, small sofa for the patients to lounge on while awaiting judgement. No other furniture excluding a coffee table, empty save for a vase of dull white flowers. Petals on the verge of withering away. Not so much as a book or a painting of a fruit bowl to train his eyes on for staving away boredom. The clock suspended above their heads like a guillotine blade, tick-tick-ticking the time away.
He swears that every element of his surroundings was purposefully designed to make him feel as uncomfortable as humanly possible. It was far from the doctors' intentions, he knew, but a sinking feeling still plagues him. A horrible, oh-so-familiar sinking feeling. This situation, without doubt, arrives each and every week, bringing him this much closer to losing what little sanity he has left. The same, sallow, empty emotion pelts him in the chest and refuses to budge.
It's boredom.
At once, he breaks out into a cold sweat, his pallid skin going clammy. His hands, clasped anxiously in his lap, have noticeably tightened grips. He needs something-anything-that might hold his attention for more than a fraction of a second. His eyes anxiously dart about the room, scouring out any potential source of entertainment.
He soon finds himself staring down the clock hanging overhead. His racing heartbeat is not in sync with its clockwork counterpart. The methodical arms continue to fold around the hour, ushering everything onwards.
Watching him. Always, always watching him. Almost accusingly so.
He squeezes his eyes shut, finally choosing to embrace darkness over the fragility of the white room. Only then does he feel safe and at peace, even if only for that single moment in time. A low sigh escapes through his lips. He wants the evaluators to call his name already, just to get out of this...this graveyard of nothingness.
But what is a name? He scoffs silently to himself. Yes, that is truly the question of the hour. Even at this point, he isn't quite sure of his so-called name, the very title with which others shall permanently address him. (Ironic, but not entertaining enough to keep him distracted for very long.) He scrambles to answer the rhetorical question.
I am simply...me.
But telling himself this doesn't manage to fully convince him. Sooner or later, he needs to make a definitive choice. And once that happens, he can finally move on, facing a new day...like any truly sane person would.
But he isn't sane, not really.
Not completely.
He must be unconsciously grimacing at the thought, for a soft voice gasps and immediately calls him out of his dark trance. His eyes flicker back to reality, colliding with a pair of stormy blue orbs. As usual, the girl sitting to his right looks worried for his wellbeing, a strained smile tugging at her lips. Even in an eerie hospital gown, she looks as radiant as any true noble should, though her porcelain skin and long, ghostly blonde locks appear paler than usual.
She silently reaches over and squeezes his cold hands. From beside her, a bright magenta-haired mechanic gnashes his sharp teeth in an obvious display of jealousy. No one says anything.
Her touch is warm, the restless individual notes, with genuine concern rather than the blood of those she has slaughtered. Of course, he doesn't dare to remind her-or any of the others, for that matter-of the past. That isn't the point of their rehabilitation program. It's just the opposite, actually.
In a way, he admires the Novoselic royalty seated next to him, for she has certainly made the most progress out of the five of them. The evaluators say that she is responding well to animal therapy-particularly with hamsters. Her subconscious that was downloaded into the Neo World, they report, is attempting to link her old memories with the new ones formed on Jabberwock Island. She plays with the hamsters. Feeds them and cleans them, rocks them and sings lullabies to them, gentle songs of ruin and subsequent rebirth. On a few occasions, she has wept while doing so-or so he hears from her (not-so-secretive) admirer.
Or stalker.
Whichever is preferred.
"Hey," she whispers soothingly, peering at him in the eyes, "you nervous?"
"Not at all." His untruthful response comes out in a cool, indifferent tone of voice, tinged with an air of superiority. It doesn't sound as though it belongs to him; it sounds like it should be paired with a red-eyed monster of sorts. Then again, it isn't actually that far off from reality.
"Of course you aren't," she murmurs, her voice hollow. He knows that she is purposefully playing along just to indulge him. "But if you ever are, please," she hesitates before finishing her sentence, "talk to me. Talk to us. We're your friends; we're here for you." A pause. "Okay?"
"Okay," he agrees immediately, but knows deep down that it's not the truth. She knows it's not, either-but she, at least, takes comfort in his verbal promise and takes the hint to allow him room to breathe. Not everyone has the same sentiments.
"Oh, come on! We know he's fucking lying!" a baby-faced blonde declares, even the freckles speckled on his face flaring with rage. He musters as much strength as he can into his single eye to deliver his fellow patient the dirtiest look imaginable. If he hadn't given up his right eye in the name of despair, he might've looked a bit more menacing.
Just a bit.
"You don't need to scream like a banshee," he frostily replies, eyes snapping to the eyepatched boy in mild annoyance, "I already can hear you loud and clear, Fuyuhiko."
"I know you can, asshole!" the young delinquent spits, folding his arms across his chest indignantly. "That's why I said it!
"Gee, thanks," he snorts, fully aware that this was how Fuyuhiko displayed his affections-by flat-out denying them and acting all tough instead. The response the yakuza member gets from him is both sarcastic and droll. "Your sympathy is very much appreciated."
"I'm just tellin' it how it is!" the gangster insists, clearly irritated. He leaps onto his feet and balls up his hands into fists, preparing for a fight-physical or not. Therapy might have helped him cope with his past sins, but did nothing for fixing his bad temper. He's thrown a few objects at the evaluators during particularly horrible fits of rage, even made a few threats in conjunction.
The boy directs his smoldering gaze at the royal in the room. "You know him, Sonia-we all do. He isn't gonna tell us shit!"
He puts a lot of emphasis on the shit part of his sentence-perhaps a little too much. The empty walls of the waiting room manage to somehow amplify the volume of his phrase even further. It's surprising that no evaluators come scurrying down the corridor to check on the source of the racket.
"We should respect his privacy. He has a lot on his mind," Sonia warns quietly from her seat, "and he can share with us when he is ready. Now please sit back down."
Fuyuhiko holds his ground, continuing to glare unseemingly, jaw clenched in defiance. This generates a groan from the mechanic of the group, who mutters something under his breath about having a bad attitude. The gangster's head whips to the poor sap, venomously demanding, "And what the hell was that, Kazuichi?!"
"Nothing, nothing!" the mechanic cries nervously, throwing both of his hands up in an act of mock defeat. Up until this very moment, he has been alternating between eyeing up a certain Novoselic princess and picking away at the fabric of his black beanie. "Just leave me alone, man-and listen to Miss Sonia already; sit down before the docs come running down here."
Then Kazuichi turns away and continues anxiously scratching at his hospital gown. He's been jumpy and extremely paranoid since the initiation of the therapy sessions. Everything scares him out of his mind, even the mundane bits of everyday life. Perhaps the only thing that puts him at ease is the company of his fellow patients. That might explain his current stability, however temporary it may be.
"Please, Fuyuhiko," Sonia prompts again. She has to pause to swallow the thick lump that has accumulated in her throat before she is able to continue, "let's just give him some alone time."
"Whatever," Fuyuhiko grumbles, his cross stare disintegrating as he finally collapses back into his sofa seat, "it's not my problem." But his frown definitely reads, yes, it is my problem. He just lacks the energy to keep up with his rebellion-but no one blames him. They're all tired. So, so tired.
The awkward conversation dies down into silence.
Back into a state of boredom.
His cold gaze drifts back to the clock, expecting something out of it. Without senseless bickering to entertain him, he can only rely on inanimate objects to do the very same. To a certain degree, at least. A few seconds maximum at a time. But he's not the only one disturbed by the nature of the waiting room.
Kazuichi squirms a little on his slice of the sofa, the quiet nearly choking him. The mechanic attempts to make small talk to lighten up the dreary mood. He actually sputters out, "Anyone know why they're taking so long to prep for us? You know, again?"
"Akane." His immediate reply comes out stiffly, referring to the fifth and final patient, the only absentee. It is, at best, only a speculation, but a reasonable one nevertheless.
"It is lunch time for her," he continues grimly, nodding at the clock. Since the forced shut-down sequence, the well-endowed gymnast had not been in the best state of mind, nor health. Her dark skin has significantly sallowed from lack of exercise and exposure to natural sunlight, though she still puts up quite a fight when she feels like it. Last he checked, the evaluators had had to hold Akane down and force-feed her a meal, lest she attempt to starve herself again. The time before that, she was subdued with drugs and fed nutrients in mush form through a tube.
He would take tasteless institution muck or despicable sakura mochi over force-feeding any day.
"Oh. Right." Kazuichi pales, suddenly becoming very, very interested in his footwear rather than the conversation at hand. He realizes now what a bad choice of topic it was to bring up. "N-Never mind, then."
"Nevermind?"
His ears perk up at the curiously out-of-place voice that repeats Kazuichi's words. The airy pronunciation of the term and the way the syllables are stressed leaves him with the impression that it originated from a foreigner's mouth. It is, he thinks, very similar to the way Sonia speaks. There is a prominent English dialect present, even when speaking Japanese.
His eyes crawl to the doorway, where, as he had expected, a doctor had smoothly strolled in, lab coat, glasses, clipboard, and all. Her wispy locks are whipped up into a tight bun, not a single hair out of place. The gaze she possesses is both distant and harsh, like that of an army general. He knows her only as Sonia's therapist, a rigid woman ingrained in old traditions, and a firm hater of despair. She's famous around the facility for instituting strict rules and curfews for the patients.
"Sonia Nevermind?" the lady asks, proceeding to carry out roll call, as is customary for the weekly examinations.
He knows, at once, that she is part of the bad cop faction of the evaluators, the group that secretly look at them and think, God, this wasn't in my job description. I didn't sign up to psychoanalyze teenagers that brought about the goddamn apocalypse. The ones that say they don't deserve a second chance. The ones that call them monsters. The ones who constantly remind you that they have guns on them, and that they're not afraid to use them. The ones who would just love to tell them that they're better off dead than alive.
He thinks his...friends, shall we say, get the same vibe from her. Fuyuhiko is just itching to be back on his feet to flip her the bird-he can tell from the slight twitch of his facial features, the pursing of his mouth into an impeccably straight line. Kazuichi doesn't look pleased about her, either. Even Sonia, the typically composed one, looks over at her therapist rather frostily. And if Akane were here...well, he was sure someone would be in the emergency room by now. It is, he supposes, a mutual feeling.
"We are all present, Dr. Overyonder," Sonia reassures the woman in her native tongue, "excluding Akane, who is, of course, partaking in her...daily afternoon snack." There is a pregnant pause as the evaluator in question-Dr. Overyonder, he presumes-takes note of the report on her clipboard.
"Ah, yes. So I see. Then Akane Owari's appointment will be rescheduled." She still carries on roll call as usual, but excludes the gymnast's name. "Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu? Kazuichi Souda?"
In turn, each of them nod, confirming their presence. The gangster does so somewhat grudgingly, but the mechanic shakes his head so hard that it nearly goes flying off of his neck.
She has yet to call his name.
But what is a name? The question plagues him again, demanding a more concrete answer this time. It's nothing but a simple label, he insists. Slightly more confident this time around.
He has but no true identity-he admits to that much. Never has he had one, not since the day he sold himself for experimentation-all for the sake of cultivating hope. For obtaining the recognition he felt he deserved. For the academy he had admired so.
He prays that he is not the same foolish child today, nor the demon he had transformed into then. But is being empty instead a good alternative? To sit and contemplate, only to never arrive at a firm answer?
It seemed that his struggle would never come to an end.
He wets his lips anxiously, watching Dr. Overyonder form her next words with bated breath. His body leans forward, eager to get away from the past and look toward a new future, no matter the uncertainty. What has already happened shall not define him. Not anymore.
Say it, he silently wills her, just say it already. Tell me who I am.
She begins to speak.
"...Hajime Hinata?" Dr. Overyonder arches an eyebrow, eyes rising from her clipboard to the patient in question. She takes in the curtain of raven hair that attempts to conceal his disinterested face, the crimson eyes that strike fear into all that gaze upon him, the blankness in his expression. He looks nothing like the bright, ahoge-sporting young man pictured on her patient profile papers. They are like two separate entities altogether.
His heart, in spite of itself, leaps when he hears that name.
It sounds right. It fits him. It belongs with him.
"That's me," he breaths.
At last.
Hello, Danganronpa fans~ =7= I'm finally back from hiatus (about time, right?)! (Oh, and for those who have never heard of me, hello! Welcome! Nice to meet you! Did you enjoy the short story?) Uh, I thought it'd be weird to just resume posting SYOC chapters suddenly (especially since updates are sporadic enough as it is), so I wrote this piece to help myself slowly be eased back into OTTT and OMMM. I plan to resume posting chapters on a month-to-month basis soon, so don't fret!
I kinda haphazardly threw this piece together over the course of the last week or so, not really knowing what to do with it when I was done. For now, Ending of Eternity is a stand-alone work to tide me over as I get my SYOC stuff together, but I still had fun writing this. I'd actually like to continue with Hajime's identity struggle, but my other obligations call (sniff sniff). Who knows, maybe I'll secretly expand on this piece one day.
Now that I think about it, this is the first time I've published something concerning canon characters...er, let me know how you think I did, will you? (Of course, after the ending of SDR2, their post-despair personalities are pretty much open to interpretation...) Being that unnamed protagonist (at least until the very end of the fanfiction), Hajime/Izuru, is pretty vague and ambiguous throughout the entirety of SRD2, it was hard to reflect such a complex character's mindset. I hope I portrayed him accurately...
Well! Isn't this awkward! I suppose that this is the part where I sign off and bid you guys adieu, huh?
Um...bye? See you next time...? I think?