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You wake abruptly to the sensation of tubes up your nose, down your throat, plunged into your veins, wires attached to your chest. A sudden rush of information crowds out your memories, heavily and stifling as the air around you - or, no. It's not air, but liquid pressing in around you, your every breath controlled by a mask sitting snugly over your nose and mouth, pumping filtered and recycled air into your lungs and back out again. The fluid enveloping you doesn't sting your eyes, but even wide open, there's nothing to see but green. It's impossible to tell if the dark shadows moving in the distance are humans or merely figments.
Slowly, laboriously, you lift your arm. Is it just viscosity holding you back, or are you really so weakened by the long sleep that you can no longer move with the grace and strength you could before?
Before what?
Your hand hits something flat, hard, and smooth. Glass is your first instinct, but a small, instructive voice in the back of your head rattles off other materials with the same properties. It brings you back into the moment.
The vague silhouette of your hand blocks some of the light filtering in from outside. You know now that the liquid is translucent, thicker than water. You push against the ‘glass' and it doesn't budge, doesn't bend, but you feel a pressure at your back. The terms neutral buoyancy and Newton's Third Law present themselves, and you dismiss them, irritated that such banal concepts interrupted this distinctly new experience.
A click reverberates around you, and the surface you touched retreats. Your hand follows, breaking the surface and touching air.
It's cold.
Likely you have been kept right at the ideal body temperature while in stasis. A hand wraps around yours and pulls, dragging you up, up. Your head feels so heavy, like something is trying to pull you back, to drown in the silence and lukewarm green of that endless artificial sleep.
It's really cold. So very different from the island...
The pulling doesn't stop until your head has surfaced, the room you are in slowly coming into focus as the fluid drips from your face. It slides off of your skin and hair like water from a lotus leaf. You ignore the person in front of you initially, as you take in your surroundings. He's speaking, and though you let the words flow in, holding onto them for later, you aren't listening yet. The room is large, circular, and with a number of the… stasis pods, you decide to call them, forming a ring around a central tower spangled with bright LEDs and beeping monitors.
You must have shivered, because the young man shakes you by the shoulder and says something about blankets. Oh, fine. You might as well tune back in. “Hey, hey… Can you hear me? You and the others just forced a shutdown. We're going to need you to get out of the simulation chamber. You've been through a lot. Come on. Are you listening? You're cold, aren't you? If you get out we can get you blankets, alright?”
He helps you out of the stasis pod, freeing you from the wires and tubes. Fewer than you'd imagined... remembered? The liquid rolls off your skin and even your clothes without sticking. A number of possible chemicals that could make up the stasis fluid flick through your mind like flashcards. You dismiss the ones that would be toxic, paring it down until-
-your legs crumple underneath you. The young man catches you under your arms, staggering under your weight. “You've been in the pod for over a month. You're going to be a little weak for the next few days.”
The betrayal of your body to your intentions infuriates you, and you want to destroy the person helping you back to your feet for the sheer reason that he's seen you like this. You bite back your anger, at least for now. It would be ineffective at best, self destructive at worst.
What do I remember?
You get your feet underneath your body again, and with the young man supporting most of your weight, you are led out of the simulation chamber.
A boat.
The hallway is brighter, but the lights flicker faintly with poorly connected fluorescent bulbs. Coming from any reasonably lit area, you know this narrow space would seem oppressively dark by comparison.
Maybe there was an island after all, just not that island.
He leads you to a room, and swings the door open with his free hand. A vase of pink lilies, a lone splash of color in an otherwise stark white room, sits on the bedside table. It's not enough to mask the sterile hospital smell. You take a step back, pulling away from the young man instead of entering as he intended.
Your motion sets the young man on edge, but he stays on top of the situation, holding his hands out to placate you. “Don't worry, Hajime.”
That name. That name. No. No.
"This is only temporary while we make sure everyone else is going to be okay.” His voice is gentle, but your glassy stare must unnerve him, because he shuffles a bit, and tries a different tactic. “There's no telling how the hard reset of the simulation affected everyone. Akane especially wasn't in good condition going in, and we need to make sure she's alright.”
When I was brought here from the boat. I didn't struggle, then.
So you won't struggle now, either. You nod once, and head into the room. The concerned look he gives you is not lost. You've made a mistake somewhere, but you're not sure where.
The door closes behind you, and you hear the telltale click of the lock. Now, at least, you have time alone to think and to remember.
—
The earliest coherent memory you can find, untainted by restraints cutting into your wrists and legs or fogged by drugs, is of you sitting on an examination table in a thin shift. A young man, really a boy your own age, sat spread legged on a countertop, while a stern faced adult man stood by watching and taking notes.
They looked at you like a bug pinned to a corkboard, and even as you wondered where that idiom came from (as you have yet to see a bug or a corkboard) the boy already moved on to asking questions.
“What is your name?”
You reached obediently for the answer, but it disappeared, filtering through your hands like trying to hold water. Though even as you grasped for the fading syllables, you thought maybe... maybe that name isn't what you were looking for anyway. You shook your head to give at least some sort of reply, to sate the impatient stares they fixed you with.
“It appears to have worked." The note of approval in the adult's voice was directed towards himself, it seemed.
You would later find that assessment incorrect. That young man, who you soon learned to be Yasuke Matsuda the Ultimate Neurologist, and the much older men he worked for, valued you greatly.
“Your new name is Izuru Kamukura. Welcome to Hope's Peak Academy.”
—
You take a deep breath, exhaling through your teeth. The memories flood back to you, the lessons you learned, those hours upon hours spent illuminated in the blue tinted glow of screens, quietly observing those world-class exceptional students as they flourished in their respective fields.
In the beginning they were astounded by how quickly you could pick up new tasks, no matter how simple they seemed to be.
“You are a true genius,” they would tell you, with bright smiles on their faces. “You really will be the Ultimate Hope!”
Whenever you completed one assignment, another would be set before you, all to be performed under the unblinking eyes of cameras in all directions. The mountain of work each day blurred into one long smear of drudgery, broken only by the precious few hours you had to yourself at night.
You cherished those hours on your own, pushing away sleep for as long as possible. When you slept you became someone else: someone weak and powerless, someone with no talent and a name that you had long since thrown away. Sleep didn't come easily anyway, with the words and images from lessons earlier playing on constant repeat.
Eventually, you found one of the best methods to quiet your thoughts was to clean. Your jail cell of a room, already sterile with respect to decorations — only the portrait of the original Izuru Kamukura had been affixed to the wall to remind you of the legacy that you represented — became even more so.
As your hair grew longer, grooming it became another method of quieting your mind. This ‘accelerated growth' concerned the steering committee; they wondered if it was a sign of some dangerous side effects. A form of brain cancer, they wondered aloud, like that one student? The neuroscientist's protest that dementia and cancer aren't the same thing went ignored.
The pointless conversation dragged on, and for the first time in all the meetings, you spoke up without being asked to. “My hair grows quickly because I will it to.” You meant to satirize the uselessness of the conversation by offering an option too ridiculous to be possible, but the entire room fell dead silent at your words, apparently in awe of your ability.
Yasuke argued it was impossible, but they took you at your word and let you keep your hair long, so you never bothered to correct them. He later confided in you that they were all talentless idiots who he must keep happy if he wants to retain access to the lab after he graduated. In return, you told him you'd lied to prove a point, but it flew over their empty and balding heads. Finally, someone laughed at your joke.
----
Moments of amusement were few and fleeting. Resentment soon drowned any interest you once had in the lives of the other students, a feeling dulled only mildly when a new year of students arrived and brought with them fresh talents to study and assimilate.
The face of one of those students floats to the forefront of your mind, and you scowl with realization, snapping back to the present. That boring student was the very one who had led you into this room. Makoto Naegi is the name of that young man, and Super High School Level Luck is his talent.
Or was it?
He outlasted many in the apocalypse, and though the broadcast cut out before the end of the last trial, you recall whispers of a true Ultimate Hope. That plain, unassuming person orchestrated the Neo World Program that could have completely counteracted the influence of despair on you and your classmates. Would have, without your interference.
You almost feel smug that you managed to topple his attempt to tame your classmates, but that bitter satisfaction is dulled by the aftertaste of defeat. Not at the hands of your former self. You hardly consider that a loss, as somehow the conclusion to that game surprised even you. Rather, you understand your plan to use Junko was only another way she had manipulated you into spreading her despair.
The first time you saw her, she did not particularly stand out. The start of a new school year was marked only by new footage of unfamiliar students provided to you for study, and among the subjects all were equally noteworthy. As time passed, you grew curious. Whether it was the occasional knowing smirk cast towards the cameras, or simply recognizing something in the way she watched the other students, you looked into a mirror when you looked at her. They said her talent lay in the realm of fashion but you could smell a hideous rot behind her prima-donna smile and layers of makeup.
Because of this, when she appeared one day casting a larger than life shadow from the door to your dark, featureless room, you were not surprised.
Because of this, when she claimed to know a salve for your endless days of boredom, you listened.
You remember her words. How she could wield them like her sister wielded knives. How she could, with a perfect smile, size up a person's insecurities and know how to twist and bend them to her will. How even though you recognized what she was capable of, you fell to her wiles. As effortlessly as reading people came to you, she shifted her entire personality the instant you thought you had her pinned down.
Yet somehow, that boring, ordinary student with only luck for talent, brought her down even at the height of her reign of terror.
Something wet seeps under your fingernails, drawing your attention away from your thoughts. Four small red crescents mark each palm from where your nails dug in, blood seeping slowly out. Resentment coils like a snake in your chest, and you let out a long breath you didn't realize you were holding. Your feelings toward Makoto are only a pale echo of the hatred you felt for her. However... Even with the pain dulled by the countless needle jabs and other surgeries you've endured, your body still takes damage. These feelings are self-destructive, and will not serve you to linger on further.
Yet you cannot help but dwell, wondering what he has in store for you. Will he follow in the footsteps of your teachers at Hope's Peak, expecting you to sweep the world as a puppet of Hope? The very thought makes your skin crawl. Makoto and Junko would be no different in that regard, merely two sides of the same coin, treating you as an Othello piece to be flipped to the winning side.
‘Even if this world is a game, you guys aren't part of the game.' A girl's voice calls out from a memory not your own.
That game she spoke of was the very one you yourself had set into motion. A final test, and perhaps a parting gift. Feelings and thoughts, more than words or images drift to the forefront of your mind, as you reflect on what may have happened within the simulated dream.
This outcome, you existing at all, was not one of the prearranged choices. Had all gone to plan, Makoto's hope or Junko's despair would have won. You would either remember nothing of despair, your talents, or the torment that shaped your current outlook, or you wouldn't wake at all, stuck in an eternal island dream.
The specifics elude you like a wisp of smoke, but three words are seared into your consciousness.
Create your future.
How... boring.
Yet even as you try to deny it, you are called to by a future unbound by the limitations and expectations.
From the moment you were named Izuru Kamukura, they caged you. “Izuru Kamukura” was the one they owned, the title of Ultimate Hope a collar more than an honor. Even Junko's offer of freedom was merely an illusion, the leash replaced by puppet strings, your name nothing more than a weapon to turn against the world.
The door rattles suddenly, and is thrown open with exuberance as you turn to look. “Hajime, everyone's-“ Makoto trails off, looking uncertain. “Are you still standing right where I left you?”
“Hajime...” you repeat after him, slowly.
Color drains from his face, but he recovers quickly. "Would you rather I call you Izuru? Either one is alright, really. I just came to let you know the other survivors all woke up alright. The rest are comatose. Stable, but sleeping."
You don't answer his question, though it sticks in your mind like a needle. "What is your plan for us?"
"My plan?" Makoto's confusion is genuine.
Speaking slower, you elaborate. "The Neo World Program was created to cleanse us of despair. Due to my sabotage, it failed."
Makoto's lack of reaction made it clear the admission did not come as a surprise to him. "The Future Foundation won't be too happy, but we all knew how low the chance of everything going perfectly was."
"Do you intend to try again?"
"No. Besides, we have to leave. With any luck, they won't find out and it'll all blow over!"
"You're leaving us here." You let the words hang in the air.
Not an accusation, but close enough to set Makoto to reassuring you. He prattles on about how you can come along if you want, but it would be a lot more dangerous, and how really, it's not too bad here...
Your mind drifts, as the walls confining it fall away. A future you create yourself spreads out before you like an endless sea, full of possibility and free. Free of the contract binding your body and brain to someone else's hope. Free of the tar pit of despair, where every struggle against it just pulls you further in. Free of the shackles of bearing the title of Ultimate. In some ways, you're back where you started all those years ago, before you signed your name away to become Izuru Kamukura. In other ways, this is a new beginning.
"I will remain," you announce, breaking the silence that fell once Makoto realized you weren't entirely listening. "At least until the others wake."
Makoto's eyes brighten at your words, though he cautions, "It may never happen. They... died in virtual reality, and their brains felt it as real. It's a next to nothing chance."
"It's my own future to create. I may fail. I may succeed. Whichever outcome happens will be on my own terms, by my own hand."
"I wish you the best of luck, ah..." His smile falters uncertainly, as he scrambles for how to complete the sentence.
"Hajime," you finish for him, making your decision in the moment, but knowing it's the right one. "My name is Hajime Hinata."