They'd met in the dojo, a room for training and respect. Peko clearly had the advantage on the art of sword fighting - she'd earned her talent well - but Mukuro could make up for it in speed and agility. Truthfully, they were evenly matched. Neither one had come out as the victor in their sparring matches.
Mukuro didn't mind the constant stalemate, though she was unsure if her silver haired upperclassman felt the same. She was emotionless, at least on the surface, and had a mask sharper than iron. Mukuro supposed that she was the same herself, silence and a stoic nature ran in her blood. Perhaps that was why she and Peko kept meeting back in the dojo, every day at six in the evening. Perhaps their shared lack of speaking was what drove them together.
Fighting Peko was like fresh air. It was a language that they both understood, and it was so energizing to communicate with swift strikes rather than awkward words. Her silence was so much cleaner than the dirty words that spilled out the mouths of others. It made more sense than anything Mukuro had ever known in her life.
She'd still listen to Junko talk about the end of the world, listen to her sister murmur sugar sweet things, but Mukuro couldn't take it in anymore. All she wanted to hear was the clash of her sword against Peko's when they met in battle.
Mukuro couldn't remember their first audible conversation, but she did remember one night in Peko's bedroom, when they were pressed up against the wall, and huddled close together. Neither of them liked to be touched, but somehow, this was different. It was as if they were the same person, they were both born into violence and blood.
On this night, Peko had whispered, "I'm not a human being," and Mukuro knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what she meant. In the brilliant darkness where they sat, where the only sound was the steady heart palpitations juxtaposed with uneasy breathing, Mukuro knew that Peko Pekoyama was the same as her, deep down inside. Living as an extension of someone else was Mukuro's entire life, and she'd never been so glad to meet someone who shared her same world.
In a way, Peko was kindness. Mukuro knew the denotation of the word, but she had never experienced it first hand. She had never truly understood what it was like to be appreciated, what it was like to be loved. Mukuro had never loved anyone, but when she kissed Peko in the back of the dojo, she supposed that the messy emotion inside of her was that.
Mukuro had told her that one day, one day she'd like to die for Junko. It would be the final way to prove that she was worthy, worthy of the role she had fulfilled her entire life. And Peko's expression had gotten so soft, as she nodded and confessed that she too would love to die for her master. It was the moment that Mukuro had cupped Peko's face and kissed her again, tasting all the blood in-between her teeth, so glad to know that someone else was like her.
Peko fell into despair in the trial room, and Mukuro watched from a tiny security room above it all, never once shedding a tear. Rather, Peko's demise was the most beautiful thing she'd ever witnessed in her life. Gone was the silent girl who claimed to only be a tool, in her place was a weapon of mass destruction. It was what she had been built for, and Mukuro smiled ever so slightly at the brainwashed girl.
When seventeen spears shot through Mukuro's body and tore her apart, a sick smile formed on her face. She had achieved her lifelong dream of dying for her sister, and she'd done it in front of all the classmates that she loved so dearly.
Her last thought before she crashed to the ground, was a hope that Peko would be able to die for her master as she had wished. The silver haired girl flashed through Mukuro's mind for one final moment. Then she was gone, leaving the bitter silence that remains after a gunshot, and nothing more.