#hexapodboy

The sky is clouded, grey with tears and hollowed happiness, but she looks into it and tries to smile. 

 Her fingertips rest at her throat, touching the scar tissue. 

She hates it. She hates the feel of it, the memory of it, the cause of it. She can't speak now. It's hard to speak.

 It's a rock lodged in her throat, tearing out any verbal noise, cutting and slicing at the words. The island which all of them rest at is just a shadow of what it was in the simulation, the hazy thought of a party, fireworks on the beach, and the cracking of a coconut floating through her mind. 

 The shell of Mioda Ibuki lets her knuckles rap against the dying tree of the beach. 

It sounds artificial to her, fake and created. Even the sound makes her wince, too loud for her. 

 Someone comes to check in on her every so often.

 It's a man with two different colored eyes, his face familiar but eyes not at all. They're green and red, softened by the thin smile he has stitched to his lips. Green and red. Green and red. Red and green. Red and green. 

 Green, green, green. Red, red, red. 

 His eyes were red. His hair was green.

She doesn't want to remember. She remembers anyway. 

The world seems to tint darker in the millisecond before the memories start to organize themselves. 

Grey becomes black. The dull yellow-white of the sun (that seems to get darker and darker every day, as if it's getting darker every body that's added to the death count) becomes a brilliant red-pink. It reddens into a blaring color. The same color as the flames that ran from window to window, fingers of fire reaching to skim across each story of the building. 

 She remembers the smile that split her face at the sight of it. The sickening, rotten smile that had curled back so far that you can see her teeth. The dance of death. 

She remembers it clearly, too. The bodies that crashed and splintered to the ground, fine bones snapping instantly. 

 She had graduated. At the time, the thought was filled with glee, ready to take on the world without hesitation. 

Just as Ibuki turns her back, she can see the shadows of the Reserve Course try and run. One bulky one dashes past. Is it Sakakura? 

The thought almost seems amusing. Even in this chaos, he's still trying to keep things straight. Bodies toss themselves off building. Ibuki takes a step towards one of the buildings, movements slow and hypnotized. Nameless Reserve Course students become shadows, a mark of crumbling ash on the ground. 

"She should make music based off of this," the girl warbles, letting her hands drift towards her ears, cupping them. "The song of complete and utter happiness, freedom, and expression! Oooooohhhhh, Ibuki's just about trembling!" 

Her nails scratch at the curve of her ear. Red roses come to the surface, buds of blood. They scrape against the metal of her gauges and spikes. "She should get the full experience!" 

 Like a zombie, the musician stalks towards one of the buildings. None of her classmates stop her. The windows are utterly and completely shattered, pieces of glass being kicked over the edge and falling, like rain, on the crumbled bodies. 

Ibuki takes one step towards the building of the Reserve Course, where the dorms were. As she slips into the remains of the doorframe, hair just barely avoiding catching fire, the dull whites of her eyes roam the hall. 

She advances up the stairs, one flight, two flights, three flights, four flights. People run past her, stringed and laced with chaos. 

She remembers the look in his eyes clearly. 

It's relief. 

WHY DID HE LOOK AT HER RELIEVED? IT'S HER FAULT. IT'S HER FAULT.

 The Reserve Course building is exploding with chaos. 

Tears are in his eyes from panic and fear, and Ibuki merely offers him a smile- a beaming, open smile that she always wears. It's like the Reaper has come and beckoned him with a simple hand, coaxing him to their side.

"Gonta-chan," a laugh cuts through the screams of the suicidal students. "Everything's A-OK, see? Mioda Ibuki is present and here to stay- this entire world is her playground, like baby otters playing around in snow stained with the blood of lambs and mud!" 

 Usually, Ibuki's words are everything but dark- but the words are fueled with the prospect of killing and blood. The prospect of death and pain. 

 "Since Ibuki's the super super comfort friend, grab a blanket and cuddle up to her 'cuz she's got a video hiding underneath her skirt, dedicated personally to Gonta-chan!" 

 The memory makes her sick. It causes her stomach to twist and turn, it makes everything sting and hurt and now the world's dark and it's my fault it's my fault!

She’s sobbing. The cry of tears makes no sound, instead just a musician drenched in tears and snot. She doesn’t even try and cover it up, pressing her hands against each side of her face, digging her nails into the skin, trying to rip it off, trying to scratch it off, anything, anything, anything to distract her. 

He had looked at her with trust in his eyes.

WHY? WHY DID HE DO THAT? NOW HE’S DEAD BECAUSE HE TRUSTED HER

BECAUSE.

HE.

 TRUSTED.