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The sky, despite what most people would say, was more beautiful than ever.
Red. Like Junko’s eyes, hidden under their blue contacts. Color that only Mikan has seen. (And Yasuke, but that ship has sunk; he has been dead, rotted and decayed by now, for months. Mikan should know—she is the one who disposed of his body, ecstatic that her beloved chose her in the end, their silly competition ended by Junko’s own hands.) Smoke, always drifting, the burnt smell of fires distant and far off. Like the cigarettes Junko would smoke, before the tragedy came to fruition; before everything came undone. The whole world, made up like her beloved.
Beautiful. A wildfire. Created from a single match; despair spreads.
The people are yelling, copycats of her beloved and crude. Nothing like them, nothing like the real thing. Imitating both her beloved and their group, but inferior to both. Not worth her time. She ignores the screaming, ignores the pleas. People in pain are everywhere. That never changed from the start.
She, chosen and holy for it, could only shake her head in disgust and a little pity. She ignores their cries, clutching her phone as she turned up her headphones. (Blocking out them begging for help like they ignored her.)
Junko’s voice, bright and peppy and out of place, comes through like music on the other side. “Mikan-senpai, Mikan-senpai, aren’t you excited?!” They squealed, and Mikan smiled fondly.
“Of course,” she murmured into her headphone’s subpar mic. “I’m with you, after all.”
Junko laughed. Like bells. (Like screams.) “Oh, Mikan-senpai!” Shrill, perhaps, but Mikan only smiles at the cloying tone. “You’re so romantic! What’d I ever do to get such a great girlfriend like you?”
Mikan tucked her hair behind her ear with a grin. Wide, their energy infectious. (Like always, really.) “All you had to do was be you.”
Genuine, sincere, the words make Junko coo, as if she was an adorable puppy who just showed her belly. “Aw, Mikan! Such a charmer!”
“I live to please you.”
“You’re cute. But don’t think you can distract me—we’re on a mission, doll.”
Mikan giggles. “Of course, of course. So, dear, where do I head from here?”
“Your old bullies should be, hmm… East to you, pet.”
Trusting their words, Mikan nods, humming in agreement. “I don't need this, you know,” she admits into the brief, comfortable silence that sprouts between them (the only silence that matters; the screaming never stops).
Junko paused. “These people hurt you.”
“They did. They also don’t matter; you do.”
“That’s sweet.” Another pause. “But they touched what was mine. No one can hurt you but me.”
Mikan giggles, once more. “So possessive, Junko-chaaan.”
“Only of you.”
“You’re sweet, too. My very, very sweet girlfriend.”
“You really don’t want to hurt them for what they did to you?”
“I do,” Mikan admits, “But you matter to me more.”
One more pause. They must be unsure. “Come back, then,” they decide, “I’ll smuggle you back to Hope’s Peak and we can snuggle as my classmates kill each other.”
Laughter. “Junko, that’s reckless. I don’t mind doing this with you, you know? If you want me to make them scream, well, they’ll scream. It'll be fun. Torturing people is an ideal date, don’t you think?”
This time, Junko laughed.
“You understand me so well, Mikan-senpai.”
(They give them hell. Obviously .)