What Rules Cannot Hold (A Naekusaba story)

Summer Camp V

The teachers weren't aware of what happened; were it not for the brevity of Junko's comatose state, someone would've done so, but here discretion was of little benefit for Mukuro, as she struggled to decide what to do with her temporarily disabled sister: the obligations of the Summer Camp looming with an increasingly darker shadow over her, and she couldn't lock Junko in her own place, as her absence would be noticeable. She could work on the fashion projects that Junko had started, but fear of her own ineptitude discouraged Mukuro from that. The most propitious intent involved making Junko her training partner, just like Hiyoko and Mahiru, though the extent of liberties she could take in that arrangement was unclear. 

''Junko,'' her sister was writing in her diary again: a habit acquired promptly after being dismissed by Mikan. Mukuro didn't know what she was writing in it, but she caught a glimpse of it here and there, and it seemed like a miscellany of diagonally and horizontally written haphazard notes: very much unlike the careful sketches and moderated notes that made up her fashion projects. ''Would you like to train with me?'' 

''But why?'' And that vacant, sharp stare she'd throw in response to anything said to her: another post-comal benefaction. ''Don't involve me.'' 

''But we have to, Junko. Please, it won't take long,'' pleading always worked, so Mukuro was assured that, inside, her sister was the same character, regardless of the memories lost. 

Responselessly, she slid the diary under her pillow and was shortly putting on her shoes, without any concern for her vanity mirror or clothes, which were, nevertheless, pristine and, Mukuro assumed, fashionable. 

''What's that for?'' Junko asked, pointing at Mukuro's weapon cases. 

''It's for our training.''

''And you're my sister?'' 

''W-What?''

''Whatever. . .'' She scoffed, trailing out of the lodging, with Mukuro watching. 

A couple of words left her bearing a luctual sense of defeat that deepened with each subtlety of her sister's response being uncovered, and the pain that it caused – too great: the wound absconded from all possible medicine, while its state was critical. Did she mean it, or was it a whimsical observation? Mukuro kept the pain, and questions, within and headed towards the beach, checking on Junko regularly, lest her concession to go was a case of deceitful appeasement. 

''What's it gonna be, then? What's it gonna be. . .'' Junko blabbered when they reached the beach. ''What are we going to do? What's this training you talk about so much?'' 

''It's. . .'' Mukuro realised that she didn't plan out Junko's role in this; she could only train by herself and all another person could do was to watch her. ''I'll be practising some moves.'' 

''What's that got to do with me?'' 

''Watch these for me,'' Mukuro placed the cases next to her. ''I won't take long.''

Her practice was superfluous and perfect, as expected; her thoughts shunning Makoto, until an avalanche of worries broke through: so much so that she flunked some of her subsequent moves by putting excessive anger into her method. They spoke with each other since the incident, but Mukuro sensed that he had lost his patience for her: less talkative and even, at times, somewhat dismissive, he, like her sister, had changed — irretrievably, perhaps, and strongly enough for reconciliation not to come through. 

''Hey. . . Sister,'' Junko called and Mukuro perked up her eyes swiftly. 

''What are you doing, Junko?'' She asked, as her sister carefully surveyed one of the rifles she had taken out. ''Please, be careful!''