#monothea

Teary goodbyes are all well and good, but the point of a goodbye is that after that it’s over, the end. And so it happens to be for Noel, the same light that had up and vanished Namiko taking her as well as thirty minutes passes you by. 

( tw: decapitation )

The screen shows darkness at first, impenetrable and deep and every other cliche you’ve read in a “twas a dark and stormy night” storybook. It stays like this for so long, in fact, that a part of you wonders if the entire execution is simply supposed to be composed in darkness, the bit that had only taken a moment in Namiko’s execution swallowing up the entire procedure in Noel’s instead.

But it doesn’t, a small fwoomp rushing over the speakers before a light appears on screen, a light turned purple by a lantern’s glass panes doing a surprisingly good job of illuminating Noel’s face. Said lantern holds itself onto the edge of a stick that she grasps, firm and every bit the cliche that her tarot card is.

There’s silence, the darkness blurring everything away more than a foot to her side, and she swallows before stuttering out an all-too-expected, “H-hello?” as she herself backs away tentatively.

She’s stopped, however, by a tall, thick wooden door pressing up against her back, and suddenly the light swells and reveals more of the space around her. Walls stretch in the darkness on either side of her, the door the only way out of this room, no longer empty but now full of present boxes of various sizes.

It becomes apparent to both you and Noel upon a bit of squinting that there’s something written on the door frame, and after leaning back and having the camera pan over the words are simple and clear: “Open the presents, find the key.”

That’s fairly straightforward. Noel pokes the large keyhole found deep-seated in the door before trying the doorknob on top of it, sighing as no reaction is procured. There’s no choice but to open the boxes, then, and who knows if any sort of a time limit exists.

She tentatively props her lantern against her shoulder as she reaches down and taps the box nearest to her foot. There’s no immediate reaction, even as she jerks back, and so she begins to gently pull it open before frowning and trying to pry away at it. Nonetheless, the box remains shut, and so she tilts it and prods before setting it down and trying a new box besides it. It procures the same result, and her brow begins to furrow in concern.

The lantern against her shoulder slips and though Noel is able to catch it before it crashes onto the floor, it falls onto one of the boxes. She grasps at her lantern in frozen fear before confirming that nothing terrible has happened; in fact, the box seems to have popped itself right open.

After picking the box up to make sure there was no key inside, Noel gently takes her lantern and pokes at another box. In the same manner as the first, it pops itself open to reveal nothing.

Noel is not discouraged, however. She begins to frantically taps away at boxes in attempts to find the key. Within a minute, she’s practically smacking her lantern against them in desperation, sweat pouring down her brow. There are hundreds of presents visible just from the light of the lantern, and she can’t even beyond that. Who knew how long she might be here for?

One of the boxes pops open, and the sound of something metallic hitting the floor rings out. Noel gives pause and leans over once more, not daring to hope.

In the process, her lantern ends up hitting one of the other presents in her carelessness. A familiar tune begins to ring out, carried by Monomi’s lilting voice.

“Half a pound of tuppenny rice,” Monomi sings, and that’s enough for Noel to look up in fear. She grabs her lantern and reaches for the box she had originally opened and, lo and behold, a shiny gold key with Monokumi’s faced engraved on it smiles back up at her. “Half a pound of treacle.”

Noel stands up and begins to shove boxes to the side, tripping over herself in her attempts to make it over to the door. “That's the way the money goes,” Monomi sings, and Noel stumbles.

No time is wasted, and with a spring, a pale colored Monobear head pops out of the box. In an instant, Noel is hanging several feet off the ground, everything from the neck up now firmly inside the Monobear head’s mouth.

Her key and lantern fall out of her limp hands, clattering to the floor. The light in the lantern goes out.

“Pop goes the weasel.”

As TIME is left there -- panting, gasping for breath, clutching at her belly -- there’s a long -- too long -- silence, before.

The sound of laughter.

Real... haunting laughter.

That comes almost from the beaks of many birds....

...But only GAMBIT seems to be opening his mouth.

His hooting is a cacophony -- feral; primal; from somewhere deep within his chest.  He reaches up with his talons to swipe at his collar -- though this only seems to make him roar more.

It’s agonizing.

....

But eventually it muffles down to a soft hooting noise, and he looks at you with eyes that seem more animalistic than cute; the charm gone from a cartoon.

“...What fun that was, wasn’t it?  Did you enjoy it?  No?”

“...Well.  I did.  And I’d enjoy it even more if things like that continued to come as a surprise.  Executions -- sparing -- punishments -- you really never should feel safe when you’re so boring.”

....

The table you have been sitting at for the past hour seems to click into place -- you can hear the mechanizations churning as you all seem to be starting to lower--

“...Should you want to avoid even more unpleasantness, keep those portions of the trial engaging as well.  I should hate to have to lose one of you or take a hand from one of your beautiful arms ... without having to.”

....

He... really isn’t kidding, is he...? .... Someone died today -- someone died today and there was no way to stop it; someone died and it might not have even been the owl’s fault; and now--

And now....

....

Where does your autonomy begin and his control end?  What... horrors is he capable of...?

....

And....

Just....

How long are you supposed ... to be here ... ?

....

Soon, the table slides to a halt -- your chairs almost touching the ground again -- and maybe some of you have gotten up already when: 

Hauntingly, almost like an echo:

“Ah, before you go ... know that there is still the matter of your class punishment.  Now, I hope you don’t find me rude, but this is supposed to be prohibition, isn’t it?  And what’s prohibition when you all are hiding treasures in your rooms?”

“...So!  It is with a heavy heart that I must say that, until I give another motive for death, all alcohol and cigarettes will be disposed of on premises.  Were you one of the few to have not voted incorrectly, fret not -- your hoot will supply you with whatever you ask for.  Now!”

He straightens out, and the gates guarding the exit of the Casino slide open.

“...Get to bed!  It’s well past midnight.  And, ah.”

12 Students Remaining

Genta had, admittedly, always been a little frightened of Akio. 

It wasn’t that he’d disliked him. But.. between his profession, the somewhat ominous, threatening remarks towards other students he’d made during previous trials and his...  relationship with his dolls, there’d always been something disconcerting about the other. 

It wasn’t until some unknown figure was digging around in Akio’s chest as he, powerless, pleaded for him to stop, that the philosopher checked himself enough to assess his parting words. 

Was he just, on some grouchy, petty level, irritated that the other had insinuated that he could have performed this crime? That his ‘selflessness’, as it was touted, nearly costed someone else their lives?  Was it just that he was too hungry, too sleep deprived, too much in need of a shower for this?

...Or was it simply his own selfish bias towards the matter that motivated him to speak?

The chip snapping rang out through the room. The familiar weighty heaviness came to the back of his throat again, and he’d gritted his teeth. Adachi said... something, while looking at him, but he hadn’t been paying him much attention. Probably some insult or another; nothing he cared to respond to at the moment. Without another word to anyone, Genta departed the room, tromped right back to the fourth floor and made no further effort to put in a public appearance that day. 

...

... But, of course, as poor as his appetite was, surviving on vending machine fluids was probably ill advised... so he’d come back out a bit later the day following. After a quick trip to the grocery in which nearly every option on the shelf had proved equally tempting, Genta found himself hauling no less than three boxes of different cereal, a carton of eggs, a package of bacon, a basket’s worth of assorted fruit, two loaves of bread, a box of frozen waffles and an entire tray of blueberry muffins over to the hotel kitchen. 

It was while he was mulling over if he was actually capable of eating half of what he’d picked up that one of his fellow ailing classmates showed up. 

“...Morning, Fenn-san.” 

He dipped his head a little in acknowledgement, pushing a finger against his glasses to assure they stayed atop his head before returning to eyeing down the pile he’d brought up. 

( tw: bombing ) 

Drawing from the same deck, the improper card reading continues. This time, however, the speaker is not Monomi but rather her companion Monokuma. He goes through the same motions, raising a card and letting it levitate above his hand, a faint, red, ephemeral glow encasing it as he spoke in an oddly respectful tone:

There once was a girl in an orphanage.

That’s really all The Hermit was, when it comes down to it.

There’s only so much that can be done there. 

No family to call one’s own, save for the other parentless children bored out of their minds.

So The Hermit spends most of her time not among them, but rather among piles upon stacks of books.

She drowns herself in knowledge not for any scholarly pursuits but rather with the intent of entertaining the other children around her.

Stuffed bears. Dinosaurs. Dolls. 

Then stepping up a notch, wanting to impress more children, producing robots that could walk and dance and sing.

They love it. 

And so then she escalates.

She makes them an anthropomorphic ninja mecha shark. It’s every bit a dream as it sounds.

And it’s real.

Someone else notices. Two someones, rather, two someones who hold her hand.

The Hermit’s older than the rest of the children yet it is these two that ask her to live with her.

She puffs her chest out with pride and lives out the best three years of her life. 

Her newfound parents are busy with their research, but she doesn’t mind.

With her free time and resources, she’s making more and more toys with more and more advanced programming. The media loves her.

The Hermit’s a prodigy, and she knows it.

But more importantly, her parents know it.

It’s by chance that she finds the video, a grainy image sort of thing. 

It depicts a new experimental warfare drone that throws down bombs that kill. They devastate far more than human hands.

But that’s not the only notable thing. 

Its actions are familiar, chillingly so, and so The Hermit digs deeper.

These sins might not be hers, but they still need to be paid for.

The arcana is the means by which all is revealed…

Do not fear! Even if light has been lost, our thoughts will be connected. 

“EEEEH? NAMICCHAN YOU AIN’T LYIN’?! YOU’RE REALLY--”

It’s an outburst delayed and unnecessary given the confirmation that Namiko Nakasone was, indeed,

“-- the murderer.”

He’s quiet for some time after that, allowing for the others to speak, direct their criticisms and questions at the narrator. Slipping off his glasses, he’s not planning on saying a thing until... 

“Did I really just hear that? That you don’t want Namicchan to die? You say that but you voted for her, knowing fully that to do so was to condemn her to execution. You said so yourself, Ji ・ ro ・ chan ☆ ”

He waves a paw hand, nonchalantly. 

“Of course, it’s much more complex than that -- someone was going to die whether Namicchan or anyone else. Buuut... mm, I can’t put my finger on it but getting cold feet like this is really uncool, y’know? You knew what you were doing, don’t pretend like you’re somehow any better than Namicchan. Actually, that does remind me: it wouldn’t be fair to pick on Ji-chan, so let’s just make this address to everyone who voted for her --”

“You just killed someone, same as Namicchan! Doesn’t matter if you’re the one swingin’ down the axe, your actions directly caused her death! Maybe some of you can live with the fact, and some of you can’t, but either way you’d better get used to it -- that feeling of blood on your hands that’ll never ever go away ☆”

He flashes a totally inappropriate peace sign before sticking his hands in his pockets and turning his attention towards the narrator.

“Hey, hey! Namicchan you wanna know a secret? You’re totally the my number one most favorite person in the room right now!”

-- If it’s actually supposed to be a secret he doesn’t seem to care, blurting it out at normal volume.

“Dunno if I said it to eeeveryone, but people who commit crimes... are the best ahaha ☆”

His smile is bright as he says it, as if he’s talking about his favorite superhero. But then his smile shifts from mirthful to something more... wry.

“Y’know... as a hero you can’t expect to save everyone -- you wouldn’t be able to do anything if you didn’t accept such a simple fact. You just gotta save who you can... what’s done is done -- roll with the punches, yeah?”

And then the smile falls completely, and in his tone there’s something that might be interpreted as genuine remorse.

“So... then... why do I feel like I failed you, Namicchan? Not just you, but Takasugi-san, too? You asked me what I thought about all this -- our confinement, the killin’ game... and... I was pretty dismissive, wasn’t I? Talkin’ big about how I wouldn’t let anyone get hurt anymore -- while not believing in the possibility that anyone would. ... Did you feel cornered? Scared? Like you didn’t have any other options? Why didn’t you talk to me? Did I give off an air of unreliability? I would have figured something out for real, y’know! I...”

He shakes his head before that insufferable smile is back on his face.

There’s the sharp creak of wood shifting suddenly and a short-lived shriek as the floor quite literally drops out from beneath your resident dramatuge and sends her plummeting below. Should you dare to look, however, you’ll see that she vanishes from view soon afterwards—either way, your attention is soon drawn to other things.

In an instant, a column of light beams up from the table’s center. It’s blindingly white at first, then takes on a more mint green hue, then… darkness.

But not for long.

Wherever you sit—the angle doesn’t seem to matter—you can clearly see a stage fading into visibility within the viewing column. Lavish red curtains cover your view of anything behind the stage’s apron. The audience members murmur softly amongst themselves, a familiar gentle sound—hoots, you realize. All at once, the lights dim, a hush falls over the audience, and the curtains part, signaling the start of the show.

It’s a plain affair, with no set pieces to speak of, save for a single chair in the center where TIME sits—no, where TIME is restrained with golden rope, unable to do much but wriggle around. But she stops when she notices those beady eyes on her, instead lifting her head to give off a much more dignified look.

Silence.

More silence.

(... Is something supposed to happen?)

Just as the thought enters your mind, there’s a “boo!” from the audience of hoots, erupting into a chorus of booing and jeering. TIME gives them a look that screams “what the hell do you want from me?” and struggles again with the rope, but it doesn’t accomplish much. Her brows knit together in frustration, and she opens her mouth to speak.

That’s when the first tomato lands onstage.

The audience is nothing short of raucous. They fling more tomatoes—rotten, moldy things—that land onstage with sickening squishy sounds. All of them miss TIME with room to spare, which seems to incense the audience even more, which seems to further impede their aim—if they’re even trying to aim for her in the first place. They might have better luck if they weren’t, you think.

TIME seems to think something along the same lines, because she breaks into a grin, unable to suppress the rebellious spirit within her any longer—

In the very back, a shadowy figure stands, yellow eyes glinting, and aims with deadly precision.

The tomato travels at an impossible speed and hits TIME straight in the stomach, splattering upon impact, giving the impression of blood. Instantly TIME’s eyes widen and a piercing scream tears out of her throat, unlike anything you’ve heard from the woman before—and you realize that, through the fabric of her tomato-stained white shirt, her stomach seems to be glowing in the pattern of some insigna you can’t for the life of you match to any human language.

TIME doubles over as much as she can given the restraints, face contorted in pain, as though she has a hot brand pressed to her skin and not a tomato. Her stomach glows incessantly. The audience of hoots cheers and applauds, almost loud enough to drown out the fact that she’s still screaming.

And screaming.

And—

The column disappears, and with it, the view of the stage. But TIME is there in the center of the table, still tied to her chair, still crying out in what seems to be immeasurable agony. Fortunately for your eardrums, it dies down after a moment, reduced to pathetic whimpers. The insignia on her stomach, too, fades, if you’re observant enough to notice. Besides her body language belying pain and the tomato staining her shirt, she seems perfectly fine.

CURRENT VOTES:

One for each, minus a few!

GAMBIT’S CHOICE IS…