[Fic] So this was it, then.

Kokichi stood in the empty hangar, in the silence. Momota was still unconscious in the bathroom. The Exisals had been sent off to guard Monokuma. He was alone. Not for the first time, but...

"You're alone, Ouma-kun, and you always will be."

The faint whir of the idle machinery in the hangar was deafening.

Kokichi plodded over to the stairs leading up to the controls of the press, letting himself slump onto the bottom step. What good would a performance do now? No one was watching.

Well, no one important, anyway.

This was it. This was where he was going to spend the rest of his days.

Stalemate was the only viable move left.

He wondered what they were thinking, wherever they were, whoever they were. He hoped they were panicking. He hoped they would give up. He really couldn't take this for much longer.

He was so, so tired of lying.

How did they manage to do that?

Momota was going to wake up eventually. Kokichi had to prepare for that. His notebook was tucked in his waistband against his back, waiting to be opened, but Kokichi didn't reach back for it. He stared listlessly at some point on the floor in front of him. He had work to do. He had to move.

He had to move.

Move.

Kokichi's head thunked against the stair railing.

When had things gotten so bad? What happened? How did he get here? Was this really okay? Would he really be okay with living out the rest of his days in this hellhole, playing a role just to make it stop? Was there anything else he could do? To make it stop? He just wanted to make it stop! That's all he wanted! He needed some time to think and if this was the only option, then—

This wasn't really stopping, though, was it?

The killings might stop, but the game never would. It would never stop, not as long as they were trapped here. Not as long as everyone was watching him. It would never, ever stop. Things were too far gone. They'd lost too many. He hadn't worked hard enough. Hadn't been quick enough. What good was a Talent for leadership if no one wanted him to lead? What was the point anymore?

The cold air and the chill of the metal stairs were starting to creep through his clothes.

He couldn't not. It was who he was.

Move!

He didn't move.

He glanced at the hydraulic press, looking it up and down. It was massive, taking up a large corner of the hangar. The base panel came up past his knee, almost like a bed. He wondered how it would feel to lay on it. There wasn't anywhere more comfortable. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if he got a chance to sneak out and snag his pillow or something—no, that'd just draw attention. He didn't want anyone's attention anymore. He'd manage.

He had to. This was it. This was his life now.

He wished it was a lie.