Chapter Text
One thing Ouma realized from hanging out with Momota was how charming he was. It was painfully obvious that Momota was supposed to be some kind of deuteragonist. Maybe even the protagonist, if Saihara was ever… incapacitated.
But he was getting off topic. Regarding Momota, Ouma couldn’t help but enjoy the company. In spite of his dangerously optimistic worldview, Momota was surprisingly smart, at least in topics of hard sciences—something to be expected from the Ultimate Astronaut.
Besides that, the most important factor in Ouma’s eyes was the fact that Momota was reliable.
Begrudgingly, Ouma admits that Momota is almost a perfect ally. Almost. Momota’s stubbornness, blind trust, and superiority complex wasn’t only aggravating, but deadly. It would be a hindrance having a partner whose capacity for deduction was affected by biases. Momota’s wrapped perception of reality could endanger his safety, his life and his plans.
If someone doesn’t have any doubt, why would they search for the truth? They wouldn’t bother.
They wouldn’t want to.
Along with that, Ouma found extremely funny how simple minded Momota was. He could choose to trust or to condemn without having any solid evidence to support his claims, just his instinct. That was going to be a pain to prove wrong, but Ouma didn't know yet how to take advantage of that mentality, since Momota was stubborn with his beliefs of people and the world.
When they couldn't come up with more clever and funny insults, Ouma decided it was a good time to leave. He wanted to go to his bedroom, take a shower, change clothes, and then examine every nook and cranny of the room to see if there was something that would help him figure out who he was or why he chose to participate in the killing game.
Getting Momota to go away and leave him alone for a minute was hard. In fact, it ended up being impossible. Momota was sure Ouma would pass out, hit his head and die, something that, according to the Ultimate Astronaut, could be prevented if he was breathing on Ouma’s neck 24/7. Hell, Momota even told him showering was a bad idea because it would be easier to slip and fall on a wet floor, and getting his bandages wet wasn't ideal.
After some arguing, they agreed that Momota would be in Ouma's room while he showered, and then Momota would change his bandages. However, having his privacy and agency violated made Ouma's blood boil. He knew he had endured worse before—in a previous life, he thought—without overprotective care. Ouma was sure he would be fine on his own. It also made Ouma a bit nervous letting Momota inside his room, since he didn't know what was going to be inside. Hopefully nothing incriminating like a weapon or something of the sort.
When he got in front of the door of his room, he kneeled down and pulled out his lockpicking tools. He pretended to not hear Momota’s prying questions; when did you learn to do that? Why did you even decide to learn?
Ignoring him, Ouma eyed the unfamiliar tools, his mind only identifying the tension wrench. Muscle memory would have to suffice. Without effort, and in a surprisingly natural manner, he inserted the wrench and cranked it millimeters to the right. Shortly afterwards, he instinctively knew to drive in a thin needle with a crooked tip. His mind was working to figure out the spontaneous actions of his body. Frustratingly, the movements and feelings were unrecognizable.
The overall procedure was painfully awkward at first; his shaky and sweaty hands made the process complicated. But as time passed each action was done quicker and with more precision. Finally, he turned the wrench fully to the right, unlocking the lock. However, he didn't get a chance to feel proud or impressed of his achievement, since as soon as he opened the door, Ouma saw a monochrome card key lying innocently on the floor, some centimeters away from where he was kneeling. It looked as if someone had slid it under the door.
Ouma's eyes widened at the realization that the card key was probably the motive Monokuma was talking about earlier.
Without missing a beat, Ouma placed his hand on the card key and smoothly, with the help of that hand, stood up. He made sure not to close his hand fully, so that it wouldn't be obvious to Momota that he grabbed something off the floor, and that the reason he put a hand down was to use it as support for getting up. Then, he nonchalantly placed both of his hands inside his pockets, and put the card inside his left pocket, and the lockpicking tools in the right one.
“Told you, getting inside wouldn't be a problem for me!” Ouma said, turning to face Momota and giving him a smirk. He couldn't contain a small chuckle from escaping from his lips, he was in a good mood. Momota looked impressed but tried to hide it by rolling his eyes. If he noticed anything about the card key he did not show it. Instead, he walked past Ouma, getting inside the room and closing the door behind him, however he stopped right on his tracks when he passed Ouma.
“What the hell?!” Momota screamed. Ouma closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, he wasn't ready to see what Momota saw but he had to, he needed to know what was inside his room.
“Wow, that's…” What words could even describe the state of Ouma's room? Calling it 'a mess' would be generous. Boxes were everywhere and it seemed that they were full of papers, multiple books laid across the floor, a strange sight since the shelves weren't that occupied. A small potted succulent rested, almost mockingly, on it. It was a deliberate choice to crowd the place.
And that was the normal stuff that was cluttering his room. There were other, more interesting, things that Ouma had no idea why he had them, like a drone, an inner tube, a microscope. There was a whole set of stairs, for fuck sake, how was that even possible? He tried to find a connection between those items and a reason why he had them, but nothing came to mind.
Ouma felt like he wasn't a messy person. A wave of anxiety rushed over him at seeing his living area so disorganized. It made him want to clean everything before someone would punish him for not being a proper…
His thought was interrupted by Momota. “Why do you have all of this stuff? Are you a hoarder or something?” he didn't sound mad, if anything he was impressed at the sheer amount of stuff that was inside.
“I… I had a concussion, so, you know…”
“Shut up! That's a terrible excuse, you couldn't have collected all of this yesterday. Tell me the truth, what's with all of this!” Momota signaled broadly at the mess.
Ouma had no idea how to answer, so he didn’t.
He walked across the room, arriving at its center. He was immediately drawn to his left, where a whiteboard with the pictures of the students and the Monokubs was standing by its own. He got closer to it and grabbed a marker from the holder at the bottom of the board. Then, he took the pictures of Shinguuji, Yonaga and Chabashira and placed them on the bottom left. With the marker he drew an arrow pointing from Shinguuji to the victims, and the murder weapons along with a simplified version of an upside down effigy with a katana thru its chest. He almost dropped the marker when he finished.
Why did I do that? My body moved out of instinct. Am I used to doing this?
“You are…” Momota spoke, bringing Ouma back to the present, the former was observing the various weird things that were inside his room. “You're investigating the previous cases,” Momota walked towards him, looking at the whiteboard, “not only that but you… Are you trying to figure out who's the ringleader?”
Ouma's eyes widened in surprise for a second. Then it into amusement. He observed in detail the board, the pictures were organized in different categories. Saihara's portrait was pulled aside in the right corner, below it said 'tricky?', the handwriting carried an ambivalence that could not be deciphered by Ouma. His chest ached by the foreign emotions that invaded him. The feelings of hope and despair radiating from reading a simple word was so intense that he couldn't handle it.
“This was a mistake. I shouldn't have let you see this.” Anxiety took hold of Ouma's mind and body, his breathing grew erratic by the second, and the worst thing was that he didn't even know what he was so scared of. Was it because of Saihara?
He felt seen. Exposed. Like a thousand unblinking eyes were staring directly at him. But there was no one besides Momota.
“Wait, calm down, I'm not mad nor am I going to hurt you—”.
“It's not about that!” Ouma screamed, he looked at the door, it was still closed but he didn't know if Momota locked it.
Momota must've realized what Ouma was panicking about since he crossed the room and locked the door, making sure Ouma saw it happening. That caused relief in Ouma's body, now being able to breathe more evenly. However his paranoia wasn't completely gone.
He didn't realize that, in his panic, Ouma had sat down on the bed. His hands were tangled in his hair, probably he was pulling it out in desperation, chasing a moment of relief from his turbulent thoughts. He let his hands travel down onto the duvet, running his fingers on the soft surface.
A cautious hand was placed on his shoulder. It was warm and, even though Ouma wanted to deny it, it felt comforting. He gave a small smile to Momota, and the latter returned it, giving a light squeeze. Ouma wanted to apologize, but he didn't know exactly what he should be apologizing for. Maybe for having a panic attack in front of Momota, but that would be ridiculous. Instead of talking he took the hand that Momota had placed on his shoulder and held it with both of his hands.
The difference in size was remarkable, however Momota's hands weren't as rough as he wrongly thought. It was clear to Ouma that Momota took great care of his appearance, even in minor details. As he touched his palms, fingers and knuckles, Ouma thought that those hands weren't ones of a killer.
He hated himself for arriving at that conclusion.
Directing his glaze to Momota's face, Ouma noticed that there was a slight blush on Momota's cheeks. Light pink. Pale magenta.
How amusing.
“Have you ever felt as if you were living inside a dream?” Ouma said softly, letting go of Momota's hand, “that you will wake up, suddenly, and be somewhere else?” Or someone else.
“No,” Momota said, somewhat shocked at Ouma's random question, “but I wish we were in one. So that we can leave this hell, this nightmare, behind.”
“But if reality is just another nightmare, would you still want to wake up?”
Momota frowned. His usually bright eyes turned dull, a faint shadow of despair covering them.
“I would,” Ouma said honestly, “I hate lies.”
That made Momota chuckle. He didn't know why saying that made Momota amused, but at least the air around them wasn't as heavy as before.
“Although,” Ouma continued, “what are lies? Things that are false, obviously, but, how do we differentiate between things that are true and false? Some lies stop being lies when you discover something new. In that case, aren't all things lies because of our lack of information?”
There was a silence, both Ouma and Momota stared at each other's eye's, waiting for something to happen. Momota was the first to break the silence.
“What the fuck are you talking about,” he looked at Ouma with annoyance, not directed at him tho, “stop talking in riddles. Can you say something that doesn't need a degree in philosophy for once?” He shook his head, with the intention of getting rid of whatever thoughts bloomed on his brain from Ouma's comment.
The shaking won't do anything, only make you look like an idiot that doesn't enjoy metaphysics, Momota-chan.
“I'm so sorry for being smart,” Ouma said sarcastically, “forget I said anything, you're no fun to talk to.”
“I could say the same thing about you, asshole,” even though Momota's voice was brimming with annoyance, he still sat down on the bed next to Ouma. “I just don't understand what was that about? Why do you make everything so complicated, you should just say things straight.”
If Ouma was more immature he would make a joke regarding his—and apparently Momota's—sexuality, or maybe he didn't have the energy, so he just hummed in indifference. Now he was thinking about how he hated the type of mentality Momota had. There was never something as a straight answer. Even when it was a closed question, were yes and no are the only answers, there was always a world of possibilities that could alter the resolution. And that made it more difficult to manipulate Momota in a way. He realized he couldn't say something with no clear purpose, and hope that Momota could interpret that in a way that was favorable. Also, his goal of trying to make Momota his ally became trickier with that information.
He must have spent a couple of minutes thinking because Momota got restless and began examining the things that were on top of bed. Which was a fucking horse mask.
Of course, Ouma sighed, why am I not even surprised I have that thing here.
“... I'm not even going to ask why you have this,” Momota said. Ouma was relieved by his decision, one of the only smart ones Momota had. But he still couldn't keep his hands to himself and lifted the horse mask, revealing that inside of it was a colorful device.
Ouma didn't have a chance to analyze it, he barely got a glimpse of it, since Momota grabbed it as soon as it was free from the latex confinement of the poor imitation of an equine.
“Why do you still have the motive video? The Monokubs made us return them after Tojo's trial,” Momota said, clearly accusing him.
“Why do you think I had it hidden?” Ouma said nonchalantly. Obviously he didn't know what that thing was nor why he had it with him, he needed more information about this before he could come up with a credible lie. He guessed that he must've had it for a while, since this Tojo had been dead before the previous trial. “Besides, I don't know if you have noticed but I like to collect things,” Ouma said sarcastically.
“Shut up, I now know you're a hoarder,” Momota said, lacking the usual strength in the tone of his voice. “Is this Maki's?” he asked while inspecting the device, his hands tracing the edges of it with care, seeming almost afraid to touch the screen.
“Why do you think that?” Ouma was genuinely curious, but his voice expressed everything but, it was full of sarcasm. He couldn't let Momota know of his amnesia, at least not yet.
“Why?! Because you hate her, maybe you have it to blackmail her…” He sounded unsure. Ouma couldn't do anything with that, he didn't have any type of information regarding the video, but something in his body was telling him to not lose it. His chest hurt at the thought. He needed to see it. Needed to keep it hidden within the deepest entrails of himself.
“You're correct Momota-chan!” Ouma said cheerfully while standing up. The world's a stage and all eyes were on him. Even the ones that he couldn't see.
“This—” in one sweep Ouma grabbed the device— “belongs to our dear Harukawa-chan,” he smiled, showing his teeth. A rabid dog's attempt at intimidation. “It doesn't matter what my plan is with this. Does it matter, Momota-chan?”
Momota was about to blurt an answer, but Ouma was faster. With one hand he removed his scarf, dropping it to the floor. And as it fell so did his mask of hysteria. But a new one took its place. A smooth, imperceptible transition from mania to paranoia.
Pointing at his neck, Ouma continued, “she did this to me,” his voice was serious with a hit of fear, “I need something to protect myself, anything. Call it black mail or whatever, but I won't let her kill me.”
One final touch, a slight push, and Momota would be on his palm. He needed to gain Momota's trust.
Ouma sighed, and a new mask bloomed on his face, resignation.
“Take it,” Ouma offered the device, “it's yours if you want.”
Momota was shocked. His eyes were wide, and he raised a hand cautiously to take the device. But he didn't grab it. The hand stayed still. “What's in it?” He was scared.
It took everything in Ouma to not break down in laughter.
“That's for you to find out,” Ouma's voice was sober.
“Yeah, I know, and I want to see it, but…” Doubt. Fear. Momota didn't want to see the video because maybe it would reveal the parts of Harukawa that he desperately wants to ignore.
Ouma sighed, “like I said, if you are curious then go ahead and watch it. But I won't tell you exactly what's inside it. The only thing that I will say is that it's not pretty.”
And with that Momota lowered his hand and looked away from the motive video. Ouma let a slither of a smile form. He had won.
“You aren't missing much by not watching it, so don't worry your pretty little head about this,” Ouma said while walking to the closet and opening it. Inside there were a handful of clothes identical to the ones he was wearing. He placed the device on a shelf that had a couple of folded undershirts and took a new pair of clothes. “I'm gonna shower now, so don't do anything weird, like snoop on my things, I'll definitely know and scare you in your sleep!”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Just don't fall and die in there,” Momota grumbled, but Ouma recognized a hint of genuine worry.
“Don't miss me too much!” And with that he went inside the bathroom.
As soon as he closed the door he felt his mood change. Maybe it was the abrupt change in scenery, since the bathroom was spotless, everything was neatly organized. Too clean, and too normal looking. The walls were painted in a gray-ish blue, tiles in a stylish black and white pattern, some soft looking towels and an enhet mirror cabinet with two doors. It felt liminal, like this place was removed from time.
Seeing his reflection in the mirror was strange. It felt disorienting. He opened his eyes widely, his reflection did the same but something was off. As if there was a lag in reality. Buffering, not working properly. He tilted his head, looking intensively for some kind of glitch.
As he gazed at his reflection, a chill ran down his spine—he couldn't recognize the person staring back.
Logically he knew it was himself, but something deep inside told him that the man in the mirror wasn't him. The deep purple eyes were uncanny, and the emotion that was reflected on them did not belong to him.
Then, he closed his eyes for a moment—one, two, three seconds—and then…
When he opened them again, it was unmistakable. A different person stood before him. He looked almost identical to Ouma, save for one detail— a smirk that seemed playful at first, but was laced with hatred and disdain.
Neither of them spoke. Ouma simply watched, moving slowly, noticing how his reflection mirrored every motion with a mocking precision, and smirk never fading. He despised it. And when his frown finally surfaced, his counterpart let out a mocking laugh.
Ouma couldn't take it anymore. His voice cracked with rage, “Who the fuck are you, what do you want from me?” The words tore out of him, desperate and raw, demanding that something made sense.
“You don't remember, don't you?” The other him said, still laughing, “you've forgotten your own name. I can't decide if that's pathetic or perfect. Either way it's hilarious.”
“But You and I—we're not the same. We stand apart. Even in name,” Ouma said, regaining his composure. “I don’t know you, not truly, but in that distance I feel that we are opposites. Not enemies, perhaps, but something more fundamental: we're each other's antithesis”
“Wow, you are no fun at all. And here I thought I was made to be insufferable”.
At that, a stabbing pain in his head made Ouma flinch.
“I'll be straightforward for once in my life, just because I get the feeling that if I don't you might get an aneurism.”
Ouma was about to protest, but his reflection continued.
“You are not supposed to be here. That wasn't the plan.” he said, smirk finally leaving his face, only to put a blank expression. “But you don't have time for that explanation. The only thing that you need to know is that you wanted this. And my existence was conceived because of your desire.”
“You haven't answered anything that I asked you,” Ouma complained. “Who are you?”
“You are asking the wrong questions. The real question is, who are you. The name and identity you are using is mine. I am Ouma Kokichi, the Ultimate Supreme Leader. You are just pretending to be me, when in reality you are not. Well… reality is more complicated than that but for the sake of brevity let's keep it that way. You were the one that made me exist.”
“So who am I?”
“No idea,” the reflection surged, “If you don't know, then how am I supposed to?” The figure in the mirror tilted his head mockingly, yet his gaze was hollow and unsettling, “I was created for the killing game, nothing else. I have no recollection of the outside world, even though I have my theories...”
“But I barely know anything about the outside world. My head feels broken, my memories drift–they come in a flash and vanish just as quickly. I can’t hold onto them, like water leaking through my fingers. And the things I do remember don’t make sense.”
“Well, you better make them work, and do it quickly, we can’t afford to lose time,” the other him in the mirror said, getting more exacerbated.
With that, Ouma felt the card key heavy on his pocket. He pulled it out, studying it for a moment, averting his gaze from the mirror. When he looked back, expecting to see the other version of himself again, there was nothing, just his own reflection staring at him.
He closed his eyes again—one, two, three seconds—and then…
Reality was still the same.
The gray-ish blue walls, the monochrome tiles and fluffy towels. The purple eyes that looked at him with deep terror—terrified not at his situation, but of himself.
A new wave of desperation took hold of Ouma. He analysed the card key in his hands, hoping to find something, anything–a message, a hidden code, some trace of meaning–but there was nothing.
He exhaled sharply, and without overthinking he removed his shoe, pulled out the left shoe insole, and tucked the card key underneath it. Carefully, he pressed the insole back into place.
That way he would have it with him at all times.
Then he took off his clothes and stepped inside the shower, letting the cold water hit him all at once. But he did not flinch. In fact, he felt comforted by the way the stream was turning his skin– and deep, deep below– numb. He looked down, a swirl of colors decorated the white floor: red and pink. Mixing, unnoticeable intertwined. Ouma couldn't tell where one began and the other ended. He realized that he couldn't because it was only one color. Blood only had one color.
—X—
The urge to search every nook and cranny of Ouma's room as soon as he entered the bathroom was hard to surpass, especially when Kaito was beginning to realize that maybe Ouma wasn't as bad and heartless as he originally thought. He could clearly tell just by looking at the state of the room that Ouma was trying to find the person responsible for their imprisonment. Besides that, he appeared to be at least concerned by the death of his friends.
But he digressed. The honest truth was that Kaito's curiosity to see Harukawa's motive video wasn't completely extinguished yet. There were still the remnants of a spark in his mind. He knew exactly where Ouma had placed the motive video, and he wouldn't know if he decided to take a peak. Still, that was something that Kaito wouldn't do, no matter what his mind was telling him. And the reason why he didn’t watch it had nothing to do with Ouma. He received permission and clearance to view it and keep it. So having Ouma in the room wouldn't make a difference.
But if that were true, why did he feel an even stronger need to see the video?
Maybe it was the shame of being faced with the flicker of doubt he now had towards one of his friends. A subtle but unmistakable signal that he might have been wrong to place his trust and belief in Harukawa. He didn't want to fully acknowledge that uncertainty, not yet. Because he still believed Harukawa could change, could face her demons with his help. He just had to try harder.
In the end, he waited for Ouma to finish, remaining seated on the bed. Kaito didn't have to wait long, after a few minutes Ouma stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed and carrying a bag that had clearly been repurposed into a first aid kit. Inside were various medicines, bandages, and other miscellaneous tools that could be implemented to cure wounds or various types of illnesses. Kaito had no idea why Ouma had such a variety of things. The only conclusion he could draw was that it reinforced his theory about Ouma’s personality: the man was completely paranoid.
It made sense, considering the situation they were all placed in—they were in a killing game after all. But still, Kaito didn't understand why Ouma refused to believe in the rest of the students. He wanted to ask, to challenge the constant suspicion, but he already knew how the conversation would go. It would spiral into some pointless philosophical debate about the nature of trust and really Momota-chan, if you think about it, we can’t even trust ourselves or some bullshit that made Kaito’s head hurt. So instead, Kaito stayed quiet while he re-applied the bandages. The process was dull and tedious. Kaito didn't comment on the makeshift first aid kit, nor on the status of his wound, aside from quietly noting that it looked a bit better.
He was nearly finished when a question ran through his mind, one he couldn’t quite hold back. Before he could stop himself he asked, “what do you think of Maki?”
One of the things Kaito hated– though deep down, maybe that wasn’t true– was how expressive Ouma’s eyes were. At that moment, he knew for certain that Ouma thought the question was not only stupid but annoying. Kaito agreed, it was a dumb question.
“You know what, don’t answer that,” he said reluctantly. In a way, Kaito already knew what Ouma thought of Harukawa. He didn’t hate her, not really. His actions towards her didn’t reflect hatred. Instead, he was scared of her, he was afraid of what she might do.
Ouma’s eyes changed. His expression was of mockery and contempt. But his eyes… He was analyzing him.
“I should be the one to ask that—” Ouma said, a smirk forming in his face— “because I can’t understand why you like her so much.”
At first, Kaito rolled his eyes, because that was such an easy question to answer. There were plenty of things he liked about Harukawa, too many to count. But when he tried to think of one, just something simple to tell Ouma, his mind went blank. He wanted to help her, that much was certain. But, what did he actually know of Harukawa?
“Well, for starters she's reliable. She's good at what she does!” Kaito said, his voice carrying a confidence he didn't truly feel.
“And what does she do? The last time I checked she’s still the Ultimate Assassin. If anything she's doing a terrible job because there haven't been many assassinations happening—” Ouma's eyes flashed before smirking— “well, not ones caused by her.”
Kaito clenched his fists in anger. It was truly impossible to talk with that guy. Everytime Ouma spoke he uttered the most offensive and enraging things, it was as if Ouma wanted to make him angry.
“Oh…”
“What.”
Kaito just looked at him—really looked. The twitch in Ouma’s eyes, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose a little too quickly with each breath. All small, but telling. Kaito relaxed and smiled at himself. Everything made sense now. It was almost too obvious, but the realization still brought satisfaction.
Ouma was trying to provoke him—on purpose, with intention. Every sharp word was calculated. Perhaps it was a test; perhaps it was out of defense.
With that revelation, Kaito wanted to keep asking, keep dinging. To tear down his walls, uncover the real Ouma, and find who his enemy was. The anger he once felt began to evaporate and transform into a softer emotion. But not forgiveness, not yet. There were still other things he didn’t understand. But one thing had become clear as daylight. Ouma’s animosity wasn’t aimless. It was a tool wielded to maintain control. A way to reclaim agency, and hold the reins when power was fleeting.
He looked at Ouma again, and saw it—those walls. Not made of arrogance or cruelty, but fear, and other emotion he could not place yet. In Ouma’s eyes, Kaito wasn’t just another classmate. He was a threat. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate to resort to violence. But that mentality didn’t stop with Kaito, it seeped into the other students.
He couldn’t confront Ouma—not yet. First, Kaito needed to give him reasons why he could trust him. It was not going to be an easy process, in fact, he would probably come to regret it . But Kaito had never been one to back down from a challenge, and this one felt like one of the hardest yet. Still, he was ready. He was going to make Ouma his sidekick.
Kaito chuckled, “nothing, don’t worry about it”.