Archive of Our Own

There was a creaking sound, as the vessel he was in rocked back and forth. Creaking, and it was awfully noisy. It would be wrong to say it was swaying from side to side—rather, it was shaking, intensely and insistently. He could, with some effort, make out a basic pattern of shakes—but, it was rather interesting to not know what was coming; and the nature of the shifting room was one of small unpredictability. Even for someone like the boy, if he didn't try intensely, he could be somewhat caught of guard by the shakes.

Maybe that flaw made him human. Or maybe it simply made him defective. He is sure, if he tried, he could easily deduce why the room was shaking; which is exactly why he didn't. To the boy known as Izuru Kamukura, being surprised was a rarity to delight in.

It was, of course, rather easy to steady himself when the rocking became violent. Just a small, unnoticeable tilt of his foot, and Izuru could stabilize himself without issue. The room had a low ceiling, and he knew with just a glance he wouldn't be able to stand in such a room; but even that was comforting to him.

Yes: it was rather exciting. He is sure he could predict what would happen if he tried, but Izuru didn't. After all, he had no clue that it was so fun—not knowing what to expect. He savored the feeling for as long as he could, because he was sure—he was certain—that it would eventually get boring, too. That is what he was expecting.

Izuru Kamukura, after all, was a boy beloved by talent.

…Ah. How boring.

“You really don't have the right to be so excited,” the voice came from the other side of the boat. Yes, a boat—even without trying, he deduced it was one eventually. It made sense; water was a part of nature, and nature could be some of the most unpredictable things out there. The boy in front of him continued, “After all… You left Chiaki-chan, didn't you?”

Annoyance. That was the only way to describe the quick, fire-light sensation in his stomach. But even that faded quickly, disappearing into smoke.

“And you are?” Izuru spoke.

“Ah. How rude of me. I know you, but you don't know me. I'm Nagito Komaeda. Chiaki-chan told me about you, Kamukura-kun.”

The sour feeling intensified. Chiaki Nanami. Izuru, of course, knew the girl—and the uncomfortable feeling in his chest solidified at the thought of her.

“I see.”

It was easy, at a glance, to spy this boys character. Foul and rotten, the smell exclusive to those already doomed, already finished. The sharpness of his eyes, too, was easy to see.

He already has a grudge against me. Izuru concluded. What a pain. How boring.

“How unlucky.” Nagito remarked. “Being stuck in a room with the guy who broke Chiaki-chan's heart! Really, really, how unlucky.”

“Are you angry?” Izuru asked, though he could already guess the answer. “That I was her first choice?”

Those sharp eyes flinted. “Of course not,” Nagito scoffed. “Because… you weren't her first choice, were you? That… was Hinata-kun, wasn't it?” He smiled, and it was like a blade, like a baring of teeth.

“Hm.” Izuru leaned back. “Perhaps. But that still means you weren't, too.”

“Maybe I wasn't her first choice,” the boy says, like he was unaffected by such a fact, but if you listen closely there is a faint, almost undetectable warble to his words. “But you made it so I was her only choice. And I won't forgive you for that.”

“I didn't owe her anything.”

It is true. He didn't—not truly. He didn't know her, and she couldn't accept him. People always wanted things from Izuru—even Junko was no exception. They grasp onto him, cling to him, demand he gives them absolution, but he can't. He never could. He is a flawed and broken weapon—a man-made God. 

(After all, what is God for, if not to fulfill the wishes of sinners? He is something humans made, a fantasy of forgiveness for even the worst crimes, a being that could save them. Hope's Peak snatched a piece of him, that “God,” stitched it into Izuru's skin, and rebirthed him from the ashes of his old identity: mankind's artificially made hope.)

(He is useless at saving anyone—because just like God, Izuru Kamukura does not care.)

“How could you leave her?” Nagito Komaeda asks. “How could you abandon her, when she needed you most?”

And Izuru Kamukura answers: “Easily.”

Those eyes flint once more. Angry, accusing eyes. Everyone always wants something from Izuru, in the end. He is used—and used up. Like a toy. Chiaki Nanami didn't want him, not really, and neither does this boy.

“How could you not try to save her? You just left her there. You just left her there with Enoshima.”

“And how,” Izuru Kamukura answered, “Has saving her worked out for you?”

And Nagito flinches. 

“Even… Even if I can't save her…” her murmured, more to himself than Izuru. “I wouldn't let her go for anything. As long as Chiaki would want me, I would stay.”

Izuru sighs. “You say you're devoted to her, but that doesn't explain your hand.”

“This?” He blinked. “This… this hand belongs to Enoshima, that's true… but that's only because I needed to take her power. If I took it for myself, she could never use it against Chiaki-chan again. This hand belongs to Enoshima, but I belong to Chiaki. Look—I can prove it. Can't you see?”

He holds up his other hand; right there on his wrist is her name. Like a mark of ownership, like a brand. Izuru is immediately disgusted. 

“Is that what you call love?” He wonders. “Is that what you call saving each other ? And you think I should have let her do the same to me, I suppose.”

“It's not like that,” Nagito shakes his head. “I asked her to do it. I wanted her to do it.”

“And that was salvation to you? How audacious. You said you stayed with her to try and save her, but isn't it the other way around? You wanted her to save you so badly.”

Nagito Komaeda laughs. A horrifying, ear splitting sound. 

“Please, Kamukura-kun,” he smiled like a shark who had smelled blood in the water. “We both know I can't be saved.”

Ah. The pieces click together. Suddenly, abruptly, Izuru Kamukura understands. He realizes, quick and simple, who the traitor who sold them out to Future Foundation—to Makoto Naegi—is.

“I think,” he says slowly, his eyes gliding over Nagito and to the window, “You should tell Chiaki Nanami that.”

“Huh?” Nagito blinked, uncomprehending of his words. Izuru sighs, the dullness of the conversation taxing.

“Regardless of how we ended up here,” he says. “I can already predict how this is going to go. After all… I have one final ace up my sleeve—something that girl left to me. I'll use her like she used me, in the end… And I won't save anyone.”

“Are you… Talking about Enoshima?” Nagito asks. “How interesting… Will it give birth to a hope of the likes I have never seen? I'd definitely, definitely like to see that.”

But Izuru Kamukura is no longer listening. After all, the pieces have all slot into place. The identity of the traitor among them—their reasoning and motivations—the purpose behind Chiaki Nanami's plan for Towa City—all of it is clear.

Izuru Kamukura only had one thought, in the end:

How boring.