What Rules Cannot Hold (A Naekusaba story)

Summer Camp VI

Makoto made careful strokes with the paintbrush; the lines and signs marking the extensive landing area had to be redone, as the paint used wasn't suited for the island's weather conditions. The end of this tedious toil was close, so he took a break, walking along the fencing at the edge of the forest. 

That he was responsible for something like the rest of the students was enlivening, but doubt attended that glimmer of satisfaction; he wasn't cultivating his talent, and that wouldn't be ignored by his teachers – unless they were mistaken about his talent? Wasn't it odd for him and Nagito to share a talent, when everyone else had their own? To assume that would've been more prudent than assuming amission of judgement on Hope's Peak Council's part. Although, he did win the lottery, so their decision concerning his talent might've been due to presumption. 

Mukuro also attended his thoughts at these times; he saw that postponing his intention tottered their stability, perhaps because of the mutual, or one-sided, tacit tension dictating their smallest interactions: hint here and there, but each hint going nowhere; circumspectly approaching the issue and retreating whenever laziness to act blamed the pressure of shyness. 

Along the way, he noticed an opened gate that was aligned with a dilapidated leading into the forest; Haiji made no mention of the need to go anywhere near the surrounding forest, yet this could've been one of the older parts of the airport that he had seen elsewhere. Makoto walked down the path, rigorously checking each step as many concrete slabs were either cracked, hollowed, indented, or shaky, while plentiful vegetation seeped out from each side: long leaves and ferns reminiscent of rows of spears. Heavy droplets from above added to his struggle; he had to push forward since the way back out of the forest and to the airport would leave him drenched, but it was still to be seen whether the road was leading him anywhere. 

The storm hurled rain at the trees with all its impetuosity, gradually masking the way forward with a misty, watery mirage; the increasingly loud tapping of rain drops against the slabs and treetops sounded like a herald of an upcoming hail. Makoto hurried forth, believing that he was closing in – but he wasn't; instead, his sploshing trainers lost their grip, and he fell into a puddle, goring his forehead against a slab segment hidden beneath the water. Stricken by hunger, cold, and thirst, he lifted himself out of the puddle and fell back in; his wounded forehead stung, ankle burned, and body froze. Makoto made another attempt and got on his legs, blundering into the forest, where the rain's intensity was staved off by the trees, but the body was all too weak – perhaps uplifted only by the spirit's strength. 

Walking through tall packs of nettles, cloth-rending briars, and disorienting spiderwebs, Makoto considered stopping when the muddy earth underneath him began to give way; fortunately, he slowed his descent by seizing onto the roots and greenery protruding out of the hill. Nevertheless, the fall upset his ankle too severely for him to continue walking forward without propping himself on the trees, which were scarcer in this part of the forest. His hope to find shelter remained strong, but spotting a run-down building among the trees filled him with more doubt about his goal than any prior mishappening. He looked inside through the glazed window, seeing a dusty table and wooden shelves carrying individual, yellowed sheets of paper. 

The door's creaky hinges welcomed him in, while he held onto a coat hanger, looking around what must've been a lounge, littered with leaves and marked with a peculiar ants' nest that formed in a hole in the floor. Dragging the coat hanger a little with him, Makoto fell onto an armchair that puffed out a cloud of blinding dust. He took out his walkie-talkie: still operational, though the display was shattered in multiple places, and so the GPS function was unusable from his end. 

Before sleep overtook him, he clung to that radio; hearing a strange note of static, or an unclear, gravelly voice through the dreamy state he had entered into, feeling strangely warm: the image of Mukuro lying next to him returning to him with tangibility. He indulged in his fancies until a bout of fierce thunders brought him back. The dust that the armchair sneezed out was still hanging in the air. Curious about the rest of the building, Makoto walked against the wall, finding the hanger too awkward as a longer means of support.