entanglement | momochako

in which dresser drawer do you keep your secrets?

Yaoyorozu Momo knows thirty seven different types of smiles. They're deeply etched into her consciousness, ready for her to pull out at any occasion. She chooses one of pleasant interest for this one, leaning back into her seat as her classmates discuss their lives.

They're talking of days spent haggling at the konbini, of a school filled with laughter and friends. Their voices are addicting, bright, and cheery and ethereal, and it leaves a sweet taste on Momo's tongue which clashes bitterly on the inside of her smiling lips. Her classmates are clumsy and jaded and they've learnt all about alien things, somehow all on their way to UA. Things that Momo doesn't know of. She's only had a tutor and her sensei, and they only taught efficiency. Her classmates' lives are quaint, and utterly mundane, and they're so different. They each have vivacious personalities that they bring to the table, and Momo supposes she must have one too, but it's not hers. Who is she really? All she can think of is the image she must present, straight spine, shoulders back, pretty smile. Something she's built. And she feels comfortable in it, since she's been taught how to slip into her masks, how to leave herself pliable like putty, how to work harder and harder to achieve whatever illusion she must project.

Momo tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and fold her hands together on her lap, letting her hands clasp each other, touch each other, ground each other, without her seeming too weak because the classroom is too bright and airy and too big and too small all at once. It's dizzying, and she finds herself biting her lip and sighing. Focus. A small crack forms on her palms, sealed away the next second as the cool wooden surface of the matryoksha doll skims her fingers. She's always loved the dolls. She can empathise with them, the way each expression is pulled apart to reveal another painted face, another role – one of a mother, a sister, a daughter. They all come together, blurring slightly in her mind, and below them all, if somebody took the trouble to peel away all the layers, there would be a small stunted diminutive one, a remnant of a personality, of something which should be tucked back into all the layers, lest it be seen, or lost. But Momo loves her parents. She is a good daughter, and she will do whatever she needs to do, take herself apart and put herself together if she must.

Now she has been told to be a hero. She's never done that before, she thinks. She feels strangely attracted to the bold, brilliant characters of her friends, a world away from the gilded halls she spent her childhood in. There's a reason she's here.

She's always had a purpose. There have been days of scanning large books, digesting each little bit of information; chemical formulas, behavioural cues, a new way to kill. Each little titbit tucked away between the folds of her mind, and taken out when needed, and sharpened, and put back, and taken out.

She's been polished and polished to be the perfect weapon, sharp with unassuming feminine curves which make her approachable and scream not dangerous. She's not meant to be dangerous, she's precise and will only do what she needs to do.

She would kill one of her classmates if she needed to. She's been hardened by years of training, by years of hiding bruises under careful make-up, of working and working and working to be whatever she needs to be be. She's been taught how not to flinch, how not to panic, how to do any job quickly and efficiently. She's needed to know how to not get bloodstains on her pretty printed dresses, how to be quiet when sharp pain rattles her bones. She knows nineteen different pressure points on the human body. And she's used them, nights sneaking into houses by the third floor window, with only a name and a photo and a job. Nights entering homes by the front door, welcomed in another way. A way that would make other people flinch, but only makes a dull vein throb somewhere near her temple. She knows how charm people with her smile, how to dazzle them using her gold and her body. She knows how to lick her lips, taste cold metal and give a pretty smile. She's done whatever they've asked her to.

She's worked so hard.

She remembers the nights whispering secrets into her pillow, far away from anyone who could ever hear her, because she had to keep it all inside herself. Keep being the picture of perfection. But could she really? Sometimes she would break down, hug her arms around her body, feel herself be for a second, and then onto the next task. But she would never cry, never cry, because it would show and spoil her pretty face. She never cried. She knows how to wash her reddened eyes and hide her eyebags with more powder and smile as she stepped into the sun for breakfast. Who was she lying to then? Her emotions are twisted up into a little bud near her heart, too small for anyone to see, all concentrated and ever so potent. They tell her to be afraid, to waver and she doesn't listen to them.

They tell her to not pick up the inevitable call from the cellphone tucked inside her shawls. But that's not what she's supposed to do. She's supposed to carry out her job, like she's always done. Pick up the call, and then dispose of the phone as soon as possible. And then move onto the next one. The next job, and then another, complete each one as skilfully, and as quickly as possible.

She doesn't want complete this one quickly. She is going to ignore her emotions.

She stands up and gathers up her books as the bell rings and walks outside, chattering with Jirou, who looks at her like a friend, looks at her like someone she trusts. Chin up shoulders back smile. She's going to do her job. But she doesn't want to, she wants to spend more time away from any checklists, spend more time with- she wants to feel this light and float and float and open her heart-

She wants to know who she really is.

That night in the dorms, she sits on the bed, thumbing her perfectly trimmed nails. It's dark, and she can see easily. She can see the hunched outlines of the desk and the chair, their shadows stark against the wardrobe. The clock by her bed turns on, flashing 11:00, and the covers rustle as she turns it off. She looks back down, breathing out. Her hair is loose, cascading down her back, and it falls in front of her face. She pushes it back.

Ground yourself. You know what you have to do.

She's done harder, she's done worse without breaking. But never outside her fragile little bubble. She's been dancing inside it all by herself, too perfectly, afraid of it shattering. Until now. It won't break, it won't shatter.

Momo turns and looks through the glass of the window, towards the gleaming sky.

a/n

did someone say guilty pleasure? this is an extreme niche ive carved myself into and if you care to join me, welcome.
assassin momo is one of those concepts that send goosebumps down my spine- im a huge sucker for villain yaoyorozu. i definitely see her being smart enough to be quite a stealthy assassin... as always, drop a comment or a vote if you enjoyed it.

next chapter ochako pov!

preview

Back in her room, she runs her hands over her arms- feeling all the old little scars and all the memories. Somewhere in Kyoto, there's a market she knows by heart; fluttering tarpaulin blue against a hollow grey sky.