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Published:
2017-02-12
Completed:
2022-04-24
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194,159
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11/11
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Reaching

Summary:

Even if that hand reaches out to him, Ouma won't pull it, or let himself be pulled. A helping hand is useless if the person being helped spurns it. The loop continues again.

Notes:

Everyone thought ndrv3 would be time loop central so I decided to write this time loop AU and give the masses what they want. This will include MASSIVE spoilers for pretty much the entirety of ndrv3 and graphic depictions of character death, so please be careful if you're trying to avoid spoilers for the game! Of course, since this is an AU, there will also be variations from canon, so please take that into account.

In addition, there will be some eventual saiouma/oumasai shipping, but most of that is for further down the line.

This will be a long, long fic in progress, but I have most of it planned out from start to finish, and I'm excited to be able to share this with people. It's my first time uploading my writing in a long, long time, so any feedback or support at all is appreciated. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this long story to come, because I've been pouring my heart and soul into it.

EDIT (October 2017): To all new readers who are starting this now that the game is officially localized—welcome! It's a really long ride, but I hope it'll be a good one for you.

I started this fic in late January/early February of this year, shortly after the game was released in Japanese. Due to that and a matter of personal preference, I use mostly non-localized terms in this fic, including last names, honorifics, SHSL instead of Ultimate, etc. Instead of "mastermind," I use the word "ringleader," because the Japanese version of the game very deliberately uses a different word than dr1 or sdr2 did (a choice that the localization decided not to adapt for some reason). None of these things should be too confusing though, as long as you're familiar with the story!

This fic has come such a long way from when I started it, and I'm just as invested in its progress now as I was back when the game first launched. Again, I hope you all enjoy.

EDIT (April 2022): This fic is finally completely finished, epilogue and all. Thank you so, so much to all the readers, both old and new. Whether you're starting this fic for the very first time or re-reading it... I hope you enjoy it.

Also, for those who are interested, my significant other and I are currently in the process of making a visual novel version of this fic! So far, the prologue and first chapter are already done! You can download it (completely for free, of course) on itch.io, and there are versions for Windows, Mac, and Linux. My s/o has done an amazing job and worked so hard, doing the coding and making beautiful art for this fic, and this story literally wouldn't exist without him, so please go check out the visual novel if you get a chance!

https://310.itch.io/reaching-chapter-1

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

The room is dark and quiet, completely devoid of any signs of life except for the slight rise and fall of his chest as he lies on his back. The absence of windows keeps any traces of illumination from creeping in. Even the bedroom door fits seamlessly into its frame, barring any light whatsoever trying to make its way in from the outside world.

There’s no clock to be found anywhere at all in the room, not even a wristwatch. The slow, tedious ticking of an analogue would only rub at his nerves like an itch under the skin, and the searing glare of a digital would do nothing but ruin this tentative, lightless peace that he’s finally achieved. He’s already well aware that every so often the television will come on, informing him that it’s precisely eight in the morning or ten at night. Whether or not that information is actually correct doesn’t really interest him.

Time lost its meaning for him long ago in this game.

He stares aimlessly at nothing in particular. There’s no light with which to see anything, but even if there were, he’s left his usually-cluttered room barren this time around. Gone are the stacks of cardboard boxes, the piles upon piles of books and binders which were once haphazardly strewn all along the floor at random. Gone is the mountain of crumpled paper balls which once dominated his trash can, filling it to the brim with discarded theories, plans, and memos to himself. And gone too is the whiteboard which once stood front and center in the room, completely covered with pictures of his fellow classmates as he stood in front of it and tried for hours on end to pinpoint the link tying them together and the ringleader behind this game that they’re in.

Rather than just “gone,” he should say they never existed in this room in the first place. He doesn’t need them, this time around. There’s no point anymore.

Ouma stares at the ceiling, feeling the darkness pressing down on his eyelids every time he blinks, and thinks about the mechanical press which killed him—the last time.

It’s almost funny. He’d really thought that one might actually get the job done.

He sighs and shifts on the bed, hoists the covers up over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. But it’s a futile effort and he knows it. Exhaustion seeps through every bone in his body, beating like a drum (like a mechanical press crashing down) above his right eye, but he still won’t be able to sleep no matter how hard he tries.

After all, whenever he closes his eyes, he can clearly see each and every wrong step, wrong turn, wrong move, wrong guess he ever made playing out on the backs of his eyelids like a movie on a screen.