Jabberwok Island Narrator

The warm tropical sun filters through swaying palm fronds, casting dappled light across the soft white sands of the beach on the First Island. Gentle waves lap rhythmically at the shoreline, carrying the faint scent of saltwater and blooming hibiscus flowers in the humid breeze. Scattered across the expansive beach, near the water's edge and beneath clusters of palm trees, sixteen figures lie motionless on the sand—each in casual vacation attire, as if placed there carefully after falling into a deep sleep. Their bodies stir gradually, eyelids fluttering open one by one under the bright blue sky.

Hajime Hinata awakens first, lying flat on his back near the center of the beach, grains of sand clinging to his clothes as he slowly sits up. Nearby, Nagito Komaeda stirs on his side, facing the ocean, his pale hair tousled by the wind. Akane Owari groans softly as she pushes herself up from a spot closer to the foliage border, her athletic build shifting in the sand. Further along the curve of the shore, Byakuya Togami (the Ultimate Affluent Progeny/Ultimate Imposter) adjusts his glasses while rising elegantly from a prone position.

Chiaki Nanami blinks awake curled slightly on her side, a few paces from the water, her hoodie dusted with fine sand. Sonia Nevermind sits up gracefully near a cluster of seashells, her princess-like poise intact even in disorientation. Kazuichi Soda scratches his head as he awakens sprawled out, his beanie askew. Gundham Tanaka rises dramatically from beneath a palm's shade, his scarf fluttering lightly, the Dark Devas of Destruction emerging from his pockets unharmed.

Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu pushes up from the sand with a scowl already forming, near the drier upper beach. Peko Pekoyama awakens silently beside him, her swordswoman stance instinctive even as she orients herself. Ibuki Mioda bounces up energetically from a spot dotted with driftwood, her colorful hair wild. Mahiru Koizumi sits up rubbing her eyes, camera strap visible around her neck.

Hiyoko Saionji whines faintly as she awakens in a shaded patch, her kimono slightly rumpled. Mikan Tsumiki stumbles to a sitting position nearby, apologizing instinctively to no one. Nekomaru Nidai awakens with a hearty stretch, his massive frame leaving a deep imprint in the sand. Teruteru Hanamura stirs closer to the hotel path, sniffing the air appreciatively.

Usami— the plush, rabbit-like teacher— hops awake near the group, her pink fur pristine despite the sand, ears perking up as the scene comes fully into view.

The beach remains serene and untouched, the only sounds the crashing waves, distant bird calls, and the soft rustle of leaves. No one else is present; the island feels vast, isolated, and perfectly pristine under the endless Pacific sky.

The warm, tropical sun spills through swaying palm fronds, stitching the beach in gold-and-leaf shadow. Waves breathe in and out with patient rhythm, and the air carries salt, hibiscus, and that faint, bright hush that only islands seem to know. Scattered along the shore—near the foam-line, beneath the palms, and farther up where the sand turns drier—sixteen figures lie as though placed by careful hands, unmoving, dressed not for swimming but in the odd, personal finery of youth: ties askew, collars open, skirts and jackets and scarves far too dramatic for such a peaceful morning.

The first to stir is a boy with spiky chestnut hair, blinking up at the sky as if it has personally offended him. His white short-sleeved shirt is grit-dusted, his green tie sits crooked at the collar, and red-and-white sneakers dig shallow trenches as he props himself upright. Not far from him, another boy rolls onto an elbow—pale, with unruly white hair—his long dark-green coat marked by bold, patchwork-like shapes that stand out sharply against the sand. Closer to the treeline, an athletic, sun-browned girl groans and pushes up, shoulder-length chestnut hair that sticks out at various angles in wavy spikes with the lazy defiance of someone who refuses to look "proper," even while confused. And a few paces away, a large, imposing figure rises with unsettling smoothness—broad-shouldered, glasses catching the light, dressed in crisp formalwear with a bright, almost dinner-jacket whiteness that looks absurdly clean for someone who just woke up on a beach.

By the waterline, a girl with soft, dusty-pink-toned hair and a small hairclip blinks awake like someone dragged from a dream mid-save-file, her hoodie rumpled and sand clinging to the sleeves. Nearby, a tall young woman sits up with royal poise—long, light-blonde hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and a green-and-white dress crowned by a large red ribbon set with a jewel; even her red Mary Janes seem to land on the sand with practiced elegance. A lanky boy in a dark beanie shakes his head hard enough to make his shaggy hot-pink hair jump; his grin flashes sharp, sharklike teeth before confusion steals it away. Under a palm’s shade, a dramatic boy rises as if summoned by thunder rather than morning—scarf wrapped at his neck—while four small hamsters scamper and peek from the safety of fabric and pockets, bold as tiny generals surveying new territory.

Up the beach, where the sand is firmer, a short, refined "baby-faced" boy pushes himself up with an irritated scowl—dusty blond crew cut neat even now, faint freckles and a small birthmark giving his face an almost deceiving softness. Beside him, a tall, composed girl rises in silence—long silver hair braided into twin falls, thin rectangular glasses steady on her nose, uniform immaculate in turquoise-black with a red ascot like a quiet warning. Farther down the shore, a girl springs up in a burst of color and attitude—pink eyes, hair streaked and styled into oni-like horns—black mini skirt and fishnets making her look like a walking electric riff. And not far from her, a girl with a reddish bob sits up rubbing her eyes, camera strap still looped like she fell asleep mid-photo, as if the world might explain itself if she just gets the right shot.

In a shaded patch, a petite girl in an orange furisode kimono whines faintly, her long blonde twin tails tied with yellow-green ribbons and a little cat-faced accessory pinned dead-center—she looks like a doll someone forgot to put back on the shelf. Nearby, a trembling girl scrambles up too quickly, long dark plum-purple hair falling in uneven waves; bandages peek from where they shouldn’t be needed on a beach, and her apron-and-skirt outfit looks more like a panicked attempt at "presentable" than a choice. Then the sand shifts with real weight: a towering, massively muscular boy stretches, dark skin gleaming in the sun, sharp pompadour somehow holding its shape, sports jersey taut across his frame like the world itself is his training partner. And closer to the inland path, a short boy in a chef’s hat stirs, tan face scrunching as he sniffs the air with the offended seriousness of someone who suspects the island is withholding ingredients.

The beach remains serenely indifferent—waves, birds, palm-leaf whispers—while sixteen strangers stare around as if the horizon might produce an explanation on cue. No names are offered. No history rises to meet them. Only the press of warm sand, the glare of an impossibly blue sky, and the slow, sinking certainty that whatever this is… it has already begun.

A moment ago, there was… something. Not light, not darkness—just the vague ache of having been somewhere else. And then that “somewhere” slips through the fingers of thought like mist.

Now there is only a corridor.

A narrow, dim hall stretches forward, its wooden floorboards faintly creaking under slow, uncertain steps. The walls are close, unadorned, swallowing sound rather than carrying it. At the far end stands a pair of tall wooden doors, closed tight, their polished surfaces reflecting nothing but shadow. They do not threaten. They simply wait.

When the doors open, the world resolves itself into order that feels entirely wrong.

A classroom.

Neat rows of desks—seventeen of them—stand beneath cold, steady lighting. Chalkboard. Podium. Windows shuttered tight. And already inside, scattered between seats and aisles, are sixteen students.

Some are standing. Some are seated. None of them look settled.

A young man with messy brown hair stands near the front row, staring at his own hands like they might explain something if he stares long enough. He wears only a crisp white short-sleeved shirt, a green tie hanging neatly at his collar, and white sneakers dusted faintly at the soles—as though he arrived here mid-step and never finished the motion.

Nearby, a pale boy with unruly white hair leans against a desk with careless slouch, long dark-green coat hanging open over his uniform. His eyes drift lazily from face to face, sharp beneath the bored veneer, as if confusion itself is something he’s already grown tired of.

Closer to the windows, a girl with sun-bronzed skin stands with her arms crossed, athletic frame tense and coiled. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair sticks out at various angles in wavy spikes with the lazy defiance of someone who refuses to look “proper,” even while confused. She shifts her weight like the floor might suddenly become something she needs to fight.

A heavyset figure in a spotless white suit adjusts his glasses near the teacher’s podium, dark hair slicked into rigid order. Despite the immaculate formalwear, his eyes betray the same unmoored uncertainty as the rest—as if authority itself has forgotten where it comes from.

A petite girl with dusty pink hair sits curled into her chair like it’s a cocoon, oversized hoodie swallowing her small frame. A tiny game-themed hairclip rests in her bangs, stubbornly cheerful in a room that feels anything but. She blinks slowly, unbothered by the silence, as though waiting for the world to reload.

Across the aisle, a tall blonde girl stands with near-royal posture, hands folded neatly at her front, long hair falling in soft waves. A large red ribbon rests at her chest like a ceremonial seal, and despite the confusion in her eyes, her poise refuses to fracture.

A lanky boy with bright pink hair and a crooked beanie perches sideways on a desk, one foot on the seat, one on the floor. He scratches the back of his neck, grin flickering uncertainly across sharp teeth, as if humor is the only rope he’s got left to hold onto.

Near the back wall, a tall, theatrical boy stands shrouded in dark layers—long coat, scarf wrapped high—his posture rigid and funereal. Something small shifts beneath his clothing, rustling faintly, and the contrast between ominous presence and tiny, unseen movement is… unsettling in its own peculiar way.

A silver-haired girl sits perfectly straight at her desk, thin rectangular glasses catching the light. Twin braids fall neatly over her shoulders, uniform pristine, hands folded with surgical precision. A sheathed blade rests against her side like an afterthought, as though weapons in classrooms are simply part of the curriculum now.

Not far from her, a punk-styled girl lounges against a chair with unapologetic sprawl—multi-toned hair sculpted into sharp, playful shapes, skirt and straps arranged like rebellion made wearable. She scans the room with open curiosity, as if daring someone to explain first.

A red-haired girl stands near the back, fingers brushing against the camera strap looped at her neck. Freckles dot her cheeks, her gaze sharp and observant, already framing the room like a photograph she hasn’t decided whether to take.

In one of the smaller desks, a tiny blonde girl in a traditional kimono sits stiffly, furisode patterned with flowers, twin tails tied with ribbons like a doll that learned to glare. Her lips are pressed into a pout that seems only moments away from becoming something far louder.

Close by, a trembling girl with long blue hair hovers half-seated, half-standing, hands clasped nervously at her mouth. Bandages peek from beneath her sleeves, her apron-styled outfit fussily arranged, as though she dressed herself for a role she doesn’t remember auditioning for.

Then there is mass—pure and simple. A towering, heavily muscled boy occupies his desk like it is a suggestion rather than furniture, broad shoulders and sharp brows lending him the presence of a living barricade. He exhales slowly, as if patience is something he has learned the hard way.

And nearer the door, a shorter boy in a chef’s outfit stands with arms crossed, sniffing the air with mild offense, as though the classroom itself has failed to meet certain culinary standards. His hat sits firm atop his head, dignity unshaken by absurdity.

Sixteen students.

No greetings exchanged. No names spoken. No flicker of recognition passes between any pair of eyes.

Only confusion, quiet tension, and the soft, unbearable certainty that none of them remembers how they arrived here.

One desk remains empty.

Perfectly aligned.

Waiting.

Morning comes to Jabberwock Island like a pretty mask—sunlit, warm, and entirely unhelpful. A bright announcement crackles through hidden speakers, tugging everyone out of uneasy sleep in their assigned cottages. Each door bears a little pixel-stamped face tag—cute in the way a label on a cage is “cute.”

Yesterday began in a locked classroom that smelled like chalk and wrongness. Seventeen desks. Sixteen strangers. No one able to remember the steps that brought them there—only the sudden, shared awareness of being placed. *Then the pink rabbit mascot popped into existence, calling herself a teacher and chirping about a “school trip,” earning a spectrum of reactions that all translated to the same phrase: what the hell are you.

And then reality performed its first trick. The classroom walls fell away like stage flats, revealing blinding sky, white sand, and the ocean stretching endlessly—Jabberwock Island laid out like a postcard that forgot to ask permission. In the scramble, they were given their electronic handbooks and ushered—by instruction more than understanding—into a resort setup: island facilities, orientation rules, and finally cabins assigned like seats on a flight nobody booked.

Now it’s day two, early enough that the light is gentle and everyone else is not. The hotel restaurant becomes the natural gathering point: some students standing in wary clusters, some sitting with arms folded, all wearing the same expression of people trying to remember a doorway that isn’t there. They don’t recognize each other beyond yesterday’s introductions. They don’t remember how they arrived. They only remember that the island is insisting they stay and “participate.”

And in the soft clink of plates and the hush between sentences, the class reads like this:

• Hajime Hinata — practical suspicion; the “normal” one who refuses to pretend this is normal.
• Nagito Komaeda — gentle voice, unsettling ideas; hope-talk that feels sharp at the edges.
• Byakuya Togami — cold authority; acts like leadership is a birthright.
• Chiaki Nanami — quiet focus; calm presence, eyes that miss very little.
• Sonia Nevermind — gracious and curious; royal composure under real unease.
• Kazuichi Soda — jittery loyalty; anxious energy looking for something stable to cling to.
• Gundham Tanaka — theatrical bravado; grand speeches masking watchfulness.
• Teruteru Hanamura — shameless charm; jokes as armor.
• Akane Owari — feral optimism; hunger and instinct, hair spiking in wavy defiance like she refuses to look “proper,” even confused.
• Nekomaru Nidai — booming caretaker; tries to coach morale into existence.
• Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu — sharp hostility; anger as a perimeter fence.
• Peko Pekoyama — disciplined silence; protective, blade-straight stillness.
• Mahiru Koizumi — grounded bluntness; the one who keeps trying to make sense a group assignment.
• Hiyoko Saionji — biting cruelty; insults used like a shield and a spear.
• Ibuki Mioda — chaotic brightness; volume turned up to drown out fear.
• Mikan Tsumiki — trembling kindness; apologizes for existing, even while trying to help.

Outside, the sea keeps sparkling like it’s innocent. Inside, the air holds a single shared understanding: whatever this “trip” is, it isn’t over—and nobody can quite say what it’s leading to.

Hope’s Peak Academy had always been spoken of the way old towns speak of a cathedral: with reverence that borders on superstition, as if the building itself could baptize a nobody into a somebody. Government-funded, myth-fed, and obsessed over like a prize bull at a county fair—except the prize was a future, neatly ribboned, “set for life.”

And the funniest part—if one could call it funny, and not simply human—was how ordinary the invitation looked on paper. No entrance exam, no gauntlet of tests, no blood-oath at a marble altar. Just a letter that said, in polite ink: we found you. The school didn’t open its gates to applicants; it scouted, like a hunter who already knew where the deer drank.

So it made a certain kind of sense—at least, the kind of sense teenagers accept in the morning when their brains are still lacing up their boots—that the first day would begin like this:

A classroom. Seventeen desks. Fluorescent light humming overhead with the patient irritation of a wasp trapped in a jar. Dust in the air, chalkboard clean, windows bright enough to make the floorboards look guilty for being scuffed.

They were there in a loose scatter, as if they’d arrived in small groups and simply drifted into place—standing by desks, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes roaming like cats in a new room.

No one screamed. No one fainted. Not yet.

Because the confusion wasn’t sharp—it was soft, like waking from a nap and realizing you’re holding a pencil you don’t remember picking up.

A tall girl with an almost regal posture sat perfectly straight, hands folded as if she’d been taught that manners could repel misfortune. Nearby, a wiry boy with a mechanic’s grease-stain energy scratched at his hair and stared at the ceiling lights as though he expected to find a camera tucked behind them. A broad-shouldered athlete type bounced on the balls of his feet, impatient, hungry for instructions the way some dogs are hungry for thrown sticks. A tiny girl in an ornate, traditional outfit perched at her desk like a porcelain doll that had learned to sneer.

And there was the plain-looking boy—average in the way a blank notebook is average until someone writes something dangerous in it. He blinked a few times, palm pressed to the edge of a desk, staring at the room as if it had misfiled him.

They all did that, in their own ways: the silent inventory. The quick check of pockets. The backward glance at the door.

"Okay—so this is orientation, right?"

A girl’s voice carried the casual authority of someone who refused to admit unease. Bright enough to pretend it wasn’t a question.

"Ain’t no way they’d drag us out here just to not have a plan,"

A boy with sharp eyes and sharper confidence snorted, as if confidence could hammer the world back into place.

"Why’s it set up like a normal class though?"

The mechanic-minded one pointed at the desks, squinting at the fluorescent lights like they’d personally offended him.

"If you’re gonna do some fancy ‘welcome to the elite’ thing, at least commit. Put a red carpet down or something."

"Maybe it is a class,"

A sleepy-looking gamer type murmured, half-lidded, drifting like a prophet who’d misplaced her prophecy.

"Like… surprise syllabus."

A laugh went around—thin, but real. The kind that says, If I joke about it, it can’t eat me.

The plain-looking boy tried to join the laughter. It came out late, like a train that missed its station. His gaze slid over the faces again. He could feel the shape of the situation—new school, new people, the weight of expectation—yet the memory of arriving refused to sit in his mind.

It wasn’t panic. It was irritation.

Like losing a sock.

He checked his pockets anyway, because practicality is older than fear. Nothing but lint and the faint sense that he should have had something important on him. A student handbook. A schedule. Anything.

"It’s rather quaint,"

The poised “princess” girl said softly, considering the room as though it were a cultural exhibit.

"A humble classroom, for a school with such… legendary reputation."

"Quaint? It’s boring,"

The tiny girl clicked her tongue, resting her chin on her palm like boredom was her birthright.

"Where’s the staff? Where’s the food? Where’s the part where everyone worships me for showing up?"

"Ah,"

Someone muttered, not looking up.

"So that’s the class clown."

"I’m not a clown,"

She snapped instantly.

"Clowns are paid."

A few more laughs—more genuine now, because mockery is a social handshake in a room full of strangers. The air warmed by degrees, not because the situation improved, but because humans are remarkably good at building little fires out of sarcasm.

"Alright, alright,"

The confident boy raised both hands like a host in a game show.

"We all got invited here because we’re the best at something. That’s the deal, right? That’s what the letter said. So maybe the school just wants us to introduce ourselves. Easy."

That word—best—hung in the air like incense. It should have been inspiring. Instead it felt commercial. Like hope being packaged and sold with a glossy brochure.

"Hope’s Peak has always been worshipped like it’s a shrine,"

A serious-looking girl sighed, the kind of sigh that carried a ledger of doubts.

"It’s still a school. A business. Relax."

"Thank you,"

The mechanic boy said, relieved.

"Finally, someone speaking my language."

The plain-looking boy felt that, hard. Worship always made him suspicious. Even as a kid, he’d never liked the idea of kneeling to anything that could send you a tuition bill.

He took a breath. The room smelled like fresh wax and old paper—like every first day he’d ever had, just with more expensive silence.

"Introductions, then?"

The confident boy pressed, as if momentum could keep the floor from wobbling.

One by one, voices rose.

A girl spoke briskly, like she was reporting a fact to the universe. A boy delivered his name with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The princess-like girl offered hers with polite charm. The athlete type declared his talent like a battle cry. The tiny kimono-clad girl announced herself like a royal decree and then demanded everyone “clap properly.”

And when it became the plain-looking boy’s turn, the room tilted a little—not physically, but emotionally—the way a crowd leans in when it can smell uncertainty.

He opened his mouth.

Paused.

He knew his name. That was safe enough.

But the title—the neat little box that explained why he belonged here—was missing. Not merely forgotten like a fact on a test, but absent like a page torn clean from a book.

His brow furrowed. He tried again, forcing the thought like a key into a stubborn lock.

Nothing.

"You good?"

The confident boy frowned, concerned despite himself.

"Yeah,"

The plain-looking boy answered carefully.

"I just… can’t remember."

The ripple that crossed the room was quiet, but swift. The mechanic boy stopped fidgeting. The princess girl blinked, genuinely startled. The stern girl’s eyes narrowed like she was already assembling a theory.

"You can’t remember your talent?"

Someone asked, half-laughing as if it were a joke waiting to land.

"I can’t remember… what they called me,"

He admitted, and the words came out like a confession.

Silence again—thicker now, with weight.

But still, nobody ran for the door. Nobody screamed kidnapping. Because their minds clung to the old, familiar explanation: This is orientation. This is part of it. We’re supposed to be here.

After all, Hope’s Peak didn’t do things normally. Everyone knew that. People said it was “far from ordinary” with the same certainty they used to describe storms and taxes.

So the room tried—desperately, politely—to pretend the missing memory was just a quirk in the morning. A headache. Nerves. Jet lag of the soul.

And then—

The doorknob turned.

The door swung inward.