It wouldn't come off.
She stared down at her thumb and the several pale dots of loose skin dotting its surface. With her other hand, she picked at the skin, pinching at it with her short nails. No matter how she tried though, she couldn't find enough bearings to peel them off. It was unbelievably aggravating, and even anxiety inducing; she needed to tear the skin, the awful, loose, white spots, the obvious imperfection, the vulnerable. Perhaps she should just use a knife. Throw precision to the wind and just cut the whole layer off.
"It's okay, Ikusaba. Take your time." Miaya said quietly, smiling from behind her monitor, which displayed nothing but a simple screen of calm, light colors that shifted sluggishly in a passive manner.
Mukuro couldn't help but admire the subtle psychological manipulation - as the monitor was attached to Miaya's wheelchair, it was impossible to look at her without also looking at the show of colors. Calming colors, such as light shades of blue, green and modest yellow. It was all designed to make her - the patient - feel comfortable in opening up. In talking. Though it didn't work as well when she was fully aware of what she was happening.
It wasn't as if Mukuro blamed her for it, though. A slideshow of colors was better than a black, empty monitor. And besides, she was the Ultimate Therapist. Psychological manipulation was in her job description. It didn't matter if this manipulation was being used for 'good', it was still a dangerous tactic that she needed to keep her guard up against. Mukuro, along with all of the other mercenaries at Fenrir, had undergone interrogation resistance training, a mandated week-long course that brought her mentality to the limit.
Even now, she could vividly recall each and every detail that the training program had put her through. They had never hurt her, not physically. But the things they would do, the way the professors of the course would so meticulously assault the pressure points in her mind, it had been awful. One exercise in particular that she remembered was the sensory deprivation simulation. First, she was injected with some sort of drug that numbed her entire body. She was still entirely awake, perhaps even more so than normal; she suspected that the drug had within it a shot of adrenaline to keep her consciousness alert. Once her body had been fully numbed, a large ball of cotton was placed inside of her mouth to keep it dry, dry enough that she couldn't even find sensation in welling up saliva in her mouth. Small swabs of cotton were also inserted into her nostrils. She was then placed in a pitch black, sound proofed room.
Her superiors had told her that the exercise would last twelve hours, but to her, it felt like months. Deprived of sight, of hearing, of taste, of touch, and of smell. All she could do was lay there, tied to the padded floor with nothing to keep her company other than her thoughts and the metronomic thumping of her heart. It nearly drove her mad, the deafening pumping of blood. Each thump was an explosion of sound that only seemed to grow exponentially louder as time wore on, as if it were echoing inside of the room and layering on itself. There was an incessant need to scream, but she had been sure that if she were to make any sound at all, no matter how muffled, she would truly go deaf.
After the twelve hours had passed, someone came in and told her that she was finally free to go. As long as she told them her birthday, of course. Harmless information that could have easily been found, but that wasn't the point. The point was that she needed to retain that information, at all costs.
And so, she only shook her head in firm refusal.
And so, the interrogator left the room once again.
And so, she was kept in there for another twelve hours. Was it though? Even now, she wasn't sure. It could have easily been years, as ridiculous as the thought was. The adrenaline that coursed through her system prevented her from falling asleep, which would in turn provide an escape through dreams, though she suspected that even if she were to dream, she'd have found nothing but an empty abyss, a reflection of her actual state of suspension within nothingness.
There had been more exercises after that. As Mukuro continued to stare at Miaya's colorful monitor, she could recall the subliminal videos she had been forced to watch during training. Her eyes were taped open and she was restrained to an uncomfortable wooden chair, which was just small enough that its frame pressed roughly against her limbs, biting into her flesh. She had been kept in a poorly ventilated room that she later learned was maintained at a constant temperature of about ninety-six degrees fahrenheit, or about thirty-five and a half celsius. Placed in front of her was a monitor kept on a several hour long video of shifting colors that moved about in a hypnotic fashion. It played a constant, humming tone, which droned on and on as background noise.
She couldn't exactly recall what subliminal messages the video was trying to implant onto her; she was the Ultimate Soldier after all, and found herself capable of passively resisting any brainwashing attempts. She had heard from the rest of her platoon however that those who were affected by the video seemed to have fallen victim to classical hypnosis, their minds turned malleable to produce confessions of any sort.
The colors on her monitor jittered for a frame, prompting Mukuro to snap out of her stupor. She glanced up to a clock that was hanging off the wall. It had been thirty minutes since the therapy session started, forty-five since Makoto dropped her off at Miaya's office. She hasn't said a single word yet, though that didn't stop Miaya from trying to gently coax responses from her. Passive, seemingly off-topic questions, like "How are you feeling?" and "Have you been getting along well with Naegi?"
But Mukuro knew. Oh, she knew. The 'Ultimate Therapist' was just a nicer title than the 'Ultimate Interrogator'. Did she trust Miaya enough to open up? Of course not. From the entirety of their time at Hope's Peak, they must have exchanged less than a dozen words. Other than Makoto's commendation, Miaya didn't offer any reason for trust.
And so, in silence she'll stay.
"Have you kept in touch with any of your classmates from Hope's Peak?" Miaya asks. "Except Naegi, of course."
Mukuro simply clasped her hands together and stared down. It was slightly unnerving, to know that your every action was under observation. Any movement, no matter how insignificant... A blink, a heavy breath, the tightening of a jaw; The Ultimate Therapist would find meaning in it. If Mukuro even thought about her questions, then her subconscious would answer.
Time passed slowly. Her therapy session was scheduled to last fifty minutes - she was just over halfway through. If nothing else, she was thankful for the wall clock that allowed her to tell the time. Doubtless that if she were left to rely on her internal clock, she would have been four hours in. She wondered if Makoto was waiting for her in his car, or in the waiting room. Even now, she could vividly recall the look he gave her when she was called to Miaya's office.
It was a mixture of worry and confidence; he was hopeful, almost painfully so. Hopeful for her, and painfully sure that she could get better.
Better.
That was the word, wasn't it? Mukuro was sick and she needed to get better. She winced outwardly at the blunt admission, but she knew that it was true. Sick in the head. A miserable failure in every conceivable way, doomed to disappoint the ones around her, who only wanted to see her fixed; yet here she sat, stubbornly mute. As if she didn't want to be helped.
I don't want help. I don't need help. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. Why am I even here? Miaya has more important patients to help. She doesn't need to waste her time tending after someone like me. I'm just ignoring her. I should leave. I should just run away. Makoto would be better off without having to look after me like this.
A second passed. Two.
But I'm not fine. I'm not fine at all. A dreadful pang shot through her chest as the thought crossed her mind. Painful. It was so painful. A single thought, one that stemmed from her own mind, and it hurt like hell. Her body seemed to rebel, cringing at herself. She closed her eyes, catching a few stray tears before Miaya could spot them.
Makoto would just worry more if I disappeared. I can't do that to him. He cares. I don't know why, but he cares.
She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands. Fenrir's maw grinned back up at her. An overwhelming urge washed over her, an urge to impale the tattoo with a knife. She molded herself into a life of war, and where did that lead her? To a muted room where she was expected to share her life story to some random person being paid to care. Oh, to stab her hand through the wrist and watch the ugly thing drown in a sea of red and metal. It would be so easy; she carried a knife with her at all times. She could do it at any moment, within seconds.
"Hm. I think our time's up for today, Ikusaba." Miaya glanced up at the clock before looking back at her and smiling. "We've made some good progress today. Don't you think so?"
She promised to go to therapy. She promised to Makoto. Here she was though, mind and body in a defensive position. She knew, of course, that this wasn't a real interrogation. Perhaps if she were being interrogated, she could have been forced to admit that in all likelihood, Miaya did want to help. But it was just so difficult. Every instinct in her body, every lesson drilled into her psyche by the instructors at Fenrir, it all rebelled against the idea of opening up.
Makoto's words echoed in her mind: "Trust me."
But she's made it this far! She was almost in the clear! The session was over, even Miaya was staring at her with that expectant look on her face. Expecting Mukuro to bolt out of the room as soon as she could. Because that was the reasonable thing to do. It had been made so clear, ever since Mukuro walked into the room, that she didn't want to be here. She didn't want to talk, she didn't want to open up, it was all so obvious even from the start.
"Ikusaba?"
Her vision blurred. She was crying. Of course she was.
Junko would have been so disappointed. Such a perfect soldier, a stony wall that refused to budge. Only, she was crumbling at the very end. Couldn't even close it out.
That's right. Junko would be disappointed in me.
Mukuro sunk into the sofa she had been sitting in and wiped her eyes in a feeble attempt to regain composure. All she could think about were Makoto and Junko. Doubtless that Makoto would be upset at her too. All of this talk about therapy, and she refused to cooperate, even a little bit. What a waste of time she had been.
Waste. I'm a waste. I can't do anything right.
How could those words ring so clearly in her head? Amidst the uneven, shuddering breaths, through the tears, those self-deprecating words were crystal clear. Like they were the only things that she could understand. Like they were the only things that she knew were real, that they were something concrete that she could cling onto. An anchor for the storm.
"It's okay Ikusaba, you can take as much time as you need to," Miaya said patiently.
"N-No!" Mukuro sniffed and quickly stood from the couch, pressing her hand against the wall as she stumbled a bit from her rush. She shook her head and opened the door to Miaya's office, resisting every urge in her to look back at the therapist. She stormed out into the waiting room, drawing a few glances from the other patients there, including Makoto, who had been waiting for her all along.
He stood from his seat. "Mukuro, are you-"
She ignored him, walking straight to the exit and towards his car, a modest family van colored a dark shade of red. She climbed into the passenger seat, finding herself completely unsurprised by the fact that it had been left unlocked. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand once more to see Makoto had followed her out, a perturbed look on his face. At a snail's pace, he opened the car door and sat in the driver's seat. "Are you feeling alright?"
Mukuro shook her head.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Mukuro shook her head.
Makoto nodded and started up his car, taking a deep breath. Of course. He really was disappointed in her. She could see it from every detail, from the way he was talking to how he was gripping the steering wheel. She withered in her seat, wishing for nothing more than the ability to just vanish, forever. Still, she couldn't help but feel the tiniest sliver of accomplishment. She was out of the stuffy office and back with Makoto. Even if he was upset, well... at least she had survived. There was guilt, of course. Guilt for having the audacity to feel any sort of satisfaction from any of this.
But I can't help it, she thought, glancing out of the car window. I really can't.
Why did he have to use a red marker?
Mukuro stared at the calendar pinned against the wall where among other various dates, her next therapy session, which was set to happen in five days from now, was marked in red: "Therapy Session, 3PM".
That's all it said. It didn't have her name on it, it didn't specify that it was with Miaya, or where it was. Mukuro couldn't help but feel irrationally upset about how it was written. In red marker! What, there wasn't any other color available? Or did Makoto just happen to pick red? Why? Was he just drawn to that color? Maybe it was his favorite color.
I should ask him later. Nonchalantly, like it's a random thought. Just a way of making conversation.
They hadn't talked much since her first therapy session. In fact, she got the impression that he was kind of avoiding her. To be fair, she had been staying in her room for most of her time, but there had been at least a few times where she gathered up the courage to venture out. A part of it was because of the walls in her room; no matter how much time she spent in there, those damned pitch black walls.
The biggest reason for why she bothered coming out of her room though, was Makoto.
She was somewhat embarrassed to admit it, even to herself, but she found Makoto's presence comforting. She didn't want to hover around him 24 hours a day, but every now and again she would deliberately sit in front of the television and watch some random show that she didn't care about, in hopes that Makoto would sit next to her and watch as well.
That never happened, of course. All that happened was that she ended up watching television by herself. Maybe if she could muster up the words, she'd invite him to watch with her.
Never was good with being social.
Awkward. Junko always teased her for being socially inept, didn't she?
Junko.
Bright, searing pain flared up in her mouth; she flinched and instinctively brought her hand up to her jaw. It took a few seconds, but she realized she had been biting her tongue. Judging by the warm, salty taste coating her mouth, she had managed to draw blood too.
"Perfect." Mukuro muttered to herself as she stepped back from the calendar. She rubbed her cheek and shuffled upstairs to the restroom, where she spat out a nasty mouthful of diluted red into the sink. She rinsed her mouth a few times, wincing at the pain flaring up in her tongue.
Eventually, she left the restroom, only to be greeted with the sudden sight of Makoto standing in the hallway.
"Hey Mukuro," Makoto said, greeting her with an awkward wave, "do you want to go out with me to a ramen shop? I was thinking of getting something to eat."
Mukuro stared at him for a few seconds, brain working sluggishly to digest his words. If there was one thing she hated above all else, it was how slowly her mind worked these days. She would have to think thoroughly about her possible responses before she could feel comfortable speaking. Of course even then, she would probably manage to stumble over her words anyway. Ever since Junko died, she-
She winced. More pain. God, why was she so intent in biting her tongue?
Wishing to rather not respond to Makoto with a mouthful of blood, she instead offered him what she hoped was a smile and nodded. He brightened up at her response, blinking a few times as if he was surprised. "Oh! Alright, well, good! I'll go warm up the car."
It was more of an automatic response than anything. She's learned from her time with Makoto that if she wanted to put his worries at ease, the best she could do was smile and nod. Somewhere at the back of her mind however, she was beginning to process the issue of eating hot ramen with a bloodied tongue. Well, not so much of an actual issue than a nuisance. She figured that she could just toughen up and stomach the pain.
As she watched him jog back downstairs, she couldn't help but wonder if she should have just declined. It wasn't as if she were obligated to go wherever Makoto went, to follow his every suggestion. Perhaps it should have been a bit concerning that her first instinct was to agree with whatever Makoto said, even despite her painful, albeit minor, injury. No, she should have first considered whether or not she wanted to go.
Well, do I want to go?
Looking at the situation, she felt as if she shouldn't. She wasn't very hungry and those dull throbbings of pain radiating from her tongue only grew worse with every passing second. And yet, she somehow found the idea not entirely unappealing. Not that she was excited to go out for lunch with Makoto, just that she was looking forward to it somewhat.
If it wasn't the thought of getting a meal that appealed to her, then it had to have been...
Makoto. I want to spend time with Makoto.
Yes, that was it. That was also why she's been hanging out around the living room. Right. She wanted to be with him. That was all.
Her mind wandered to the past, back to her days at Hope's Peak Academy. Up to that point, she had been treated with reverence, caution, or both, by nearly everyone she had met. Even those who didn't know about her talents as a soldier skirted away from her sharp gaze and cold, clipped tone. Of course, when she first arrived at Hope's Peak, things weren't any different. That was, until Makoto introduced himself to her.
He didn't care that she was a killer.
He didn't care that she was the Ultimate Soldier.
What he did care about was that she was his new classmate, and that he wanted to get along with her. So he simply introduced himself and gave her a bright smile. A real, genuine smile, one without any hidden intents or restrained fear behind it. Even just thinking about it, even if it was so long ago, she could feel butterflies in her chest as she relived the memory in her head. Until she met Makoto, the only person who treated her as something other than a killer to be feared was Junko.
Junko...
The butterflies dispersed, only to be quickly replaced by that familiar sense of nonspecific dread. It weighed down on her lungs, making it hard to breathe as the name of her dead sister began to clutter her mind, blocking out the nostalgic memory.
Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko
It was hard to breathe.
Why? Why was she like this?
Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko
Why was her heartbeat so loud?
Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko Junko
Why did she-
"Hey! Mukuro, are you still there?"
She jolted from her stupor, startled by the sudden loud call of her name. All at once, recollections of what she had agreed to do filled her thoughts. How long had she been standing there for?
She swallowed the half-mouthful of blood and saliva she had managed to accumulate in her mouth, nearly gagging in the process. "C-Coming! Just hold on a second."
As Mukuro walked back to the restroom to rinse her mouth out once more, the tears that had threatened to spill out of her eyes receded, though she didn't pay this fact any mind..
"Um, yes. I'll have an order of the Sanuki Udon, please. And a glass of water."
The waitress at the bar nodded at Makoto's order, jotting it down on her notepad before glancing up at Mukuro.
"I'll have the same thing." She muttered. Makoto frowned in worry; ever since they sat down, she hadn't taken more than a single disinterested glance at the menu. As far as he knew, she hadn't eaten a single thing since her therapy session, unless she had been sneaking food from his fridge during the night. Somehow, he doubted that though.
The waitress smiled and said something before leaving to the kitchen with their orders, something that Makoto couldn't catch. He was too busy racking his brain for something, anything to say to Mukuro. It had gotten awkward between the two of them recently, with any conversation being clipped and cursory at best. She had been spending most of her time either cooped up in her room or blankly staring at the television in his living room, obviously not paying much attention to the programming. Makoto wanted so badly to try and talk to her, to be a good friend and help her through what she was going through, but everything about her posture begged for solidarity.
The way she avoided eye contact with him, how she flinched at any accidental physical touch, her flat and disinterested tone when she spoke... It was almost like they were back in school together, back when she was known by all of their classmates as the cold, unfeeling killing machine who was practically tethered to Junko. To his pleasant surprise, he had managed to form something of a friendly relationship with her back at school. He wouldn't exactly call it a friendship, but it was something that approached that term, maybe a step or two above being acquaintances. He knew that he considered Mukuro a friend, but had no idea how she felt about him.
But then graduation came, and a year passed, and neither of them had spoken to each other once during that entire time gap. He'd figured that she had been deployed somewhere, probably far away from Japan, and, well, how was he supposed to contact her then?
In hindsight, perhaps he should have made a greater effort to keep in touch. Maybe ask for a mailing address or phone number before they parted. Heck, he could have probably tried to get some information out of her sister, Junko. He knew for a fact that she stayed in Japan after graduation. It was hard not being updated on her, with all of those fashion magazines and online articles gushing over her looks. She'd gotten famous. Seriously famous. From what he could tell, she even had a sizable fanbase in several other countries, like the United States.
"What's your favorite color?"
Makoto blinked. "Huh?"
Mukuro's face inexplicably grew red, her stony expression crumbling. "I... um, I asked... What's your favorite color? I... nevermind.."
"No, it's alright. Sorry, I guess the sudden question just caught me by surprise," Makoto said. "I don't really have a favorite color though... I guess maybe green? I don't know. Haven't really thought about it to be honest... What about you?"
Mukuro merely shrugged in response, face still red. It was strangely familiar, Mukuro acting so flushed. For some reason, back when they were in class together, she'd often stumble over her words and be generally awkward, though he couldn't blame her for it. From how other people treated her, it was clear that she didn't have many chances to practice her social skills all that much. Apparently, that hasn't changed much, though it was pleasantly surprising to realize that she was actually trying to make some small talk.
"Have you ever been here? This ramen bar I mean. I think it's kind of an underrated gem," Makoto said. "My boss took me here once, which is how I found out about it."
Mukuro perked up at that. "You work? What's your job?"
Makoto laughed sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. "Well, actually it's kind of embarrassing... well, maybe not too much, but it's a little strange. You see, after I graduated from Hope's Peak, word got out that my talent had to do with luck. My luck has always been subtle though, nothing too crazy."
Honestly, his luck was pretty underwhelming, especially when compared against Nagito Komaeda, a fellow "Ultimate Lucky Student" who was in class 77-B back at Hope's Peak. Nagito's luck was nothing short of supernatural, scary even. Once, some of his other classmates made the mistake of playing Monopoly against him. It was quite the sight, seeing Nagito somehow end up bankrupting the bank itself by the time the game ended.
Still though, businessmen sought his lucky talent, though Makoto still wouldn't call it a talent. Eventually, they discovered how they could use his luck to the benefit of their company.
"Basically, I'm employed to do nothing at all," Makoto explained. "Right now, I'm working for this international wildlife protection agency, and apparently, the way my luck works, it's considered good luck if they do well."
"So they're mooching off your luck to get better profits?" Mukuro asked.
"Um, kind of, I guess. While I'm on their payroll, the company continues to grow. It's nothing amazing, just generally good profits being made, goals being reached, things like that. Still though, apparently that type of safe financial growth is pretty valuable, because they're compensating me a lot to ensure that I stay with them."
"A wildlife protection agency you said?" Mukuro frowned. Out of the corner of his eye, Makoto saw that the waitress had brought them their bowls and drinks, setting them down before quietly retreating to tend to another customer. "That doesn't sound like the most lucrative business. Surely you've received better offers from other companies?"
"Well, yeah, but I don't need so much money," Makoto said. It was intimidating and even a little bit frightening to know how much people were willing to pay just to have him 'work' for them. He wouldn't even be doing anything! The amount of money and benefits he has been offered has been staggering. "I'd rather avoid the anxiety of having so much money, really. Plus, at least with SpeciesAid - that's the name of the company - I know that they're doing something good for the world. I guess I just also feel weird about being paid for practically nothing."
"Doesn't sound like a bad deal. You probably have a lot of spare time then?"
Makoto shrugged. "Yeah. Too much spare time honestly. I guess that's why I'm actually kind of happy to have you around."
"Huh? You're... happy? With me staying at your house?" Mukuro stared at him with an incredulous look on her face, as if he had just said something completely insane.
"Of course!" Makoto said, "I really do think of you as a friend, Mukuro. I want to see you get better. I hope that I've been able to help, at least a little. I... I really don't want you to... erm..."
"Kill myself," Mukuro deadpanned. He couldn't help but flinch at how casually she said it. Makoto had never told her, but there had been a few early mornings where he found himself jolting awake, with some heavy fear in his heart. Then the anxiety he felt during the quiet rush to her room, the snail's pace at which he would open her door.
And then the slight sigh of relief as he found her still there, sleeping soundly.
Though I guess I can't say for sure if she was ever really soundly asleep, Makoto thought to himself. He could still vividly remember that one night where he had woken to Mukuro's distressed screams. It was a nightmare, one about Junko, and they ended up switching beds for the night. I still don't know why she felt so uncomfortable sleeping in that guest room... Though she doesn't seem to have that much of an issue with it anymore.
Makoto exhaled and turned his attention to his bowl of ramen. Suddenly, it didn't seem so appetizing. "Yeah. That."
"I won't, okay? I won't," Mukuro said, "I... I wouldn't do that."
"But-"
"No, listen," Mukuro interrupted, "I wouldn't do that to you. Okay? I... I-I don't want to have you find me like that. I don't. I don't."
"Oh... Okay. Thank you, Mukuro. That's a relief to hear. Really," Makoto said.
She simply nodded in response, taking a sip from her glass of water.
They continued to sit there for quite some time, picking at their food without passing a word to one another for what felt like an eternity. Makoto began to wonder if he should say something when she turned to him.
"I... I think of you as a friend!" Mukuro blurted out. "Too, I mean. I think of you as a friend too. I-I mean, from earlier, what you said... When you said that you thought of me as a friend and want to see me get better..."
She groaned and shook her head. "I'm bad at this. Sorry."
"That means a lot to me, Mukuro." Makoto smiled at her before turning back to his ramen. "I'm really glad to be friends with you."
She didn't respond to that, but from the corner of his eye, Makoto could barely make out a small smile.