Chapter Text
Tsumugi Shirogane awoke to an alarm that had initially been her signal to stop working, but now it was jolting her awake at her desk. She had set the alarm on her phone to a piano arrangement of the Beautiful Lie theme hoping for something cheerful and fun to sway her into leaving work and going to bed. Instead, she had ended up working too long and the novelty piano melody seemed strangely aggressive. Pressing the lock button on her Monokuma skinned phone case, she shut the alarm off. The time on her phone read 11:30 at night. Her office was well lit, so it wasn’t until she looked out the small office window that she truly put together how late it was. The light in her office now felt eery and liminal and artificial, like she was a moth under the light of a lamp late on a summer night, trapped in her little square of day while the rest of the world slept. She let out a sigh, knowing that no matter how much she wanted to continue working, she still clocked out in 30 minutes for overtime. Not that it was a big deal. She could continue to work from her designer suite.
Tsumugi was a little disappointed to discover a thin line of drool leaking onto some of her concept sketches. She tried wiping it off, but her finger brought forth a wide trail of black ink trying to escape the page and jump onto the next. Tsumugi looked up and realized she could barely see her desk anymore. She had been working on sketches for costumes for a week and was only about a quarter of the way done. From corner to corner they covered the desk, except for a tiny square for her computer, which had long finished playing the audition videos she was using for reference. But they were so important, every single one of them. Every short skirt, every armband, every checkered scarf and every ring on every finger was extremely calculated through much trial and error. Every tick and detail in the clothing was specifically designed with bringing out the nuances and personality of every character in mind.
Christ . When had she conked out? Three hours ago? It was true that she was putting in overtime to finish concepts, but she had no idea that she was this close to burnout. Still, the drowsiness added a strange volt of invigoration, like playing a game past midnight and perking up when you finally get to some decent plot development and can’t wait to play more. Perhaps she could get a few more sketches done before 12.
Just as she began stacking up her sketches in preparation for leaving, she heard a knock on her office door.
“Come in.”
A tall man with short hair the color of bland, store-bought cinnamon and a slight stubble peeked his head through the door. “Packing up, Shirogane-senpai?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I need to go home and take a hot bath.”
“Still plugging away I see,” the PR director mused. “You’ve been at it nonstop for days now. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Yeah, it’s tiring, but… it’s so energizing too!” Tsumugi hugged a pile of sketches to her chest. “It’s gold! All of it! I’m having so many bursts of creative energy this season! This one’s going to be one of the best ones, I just know it. It’ll be the season that all the others will get compared to on internet forum boards! We might even be able to sell some DVD box sets again.”
The PR director sipped from his thermos of hot tea, clearly amused while steam rose from the cup. “Well you’re in a good mood. How was sorting through the drop-in applications? Anything getting those creative wheels turning?”
“Ah! Yes.” Tsumugi swiveled in her chair back to the computer. “They were all really fun to watch, but I think we’ve found our 16.”
“Is that so?”
“I mean, the nice thing is that we got such a high volume of applications that we may be able to issue callbacks when Danganronpa gets renewed. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” She beckoned him to come closer. “Come see.” She pressed the power button and the computer’s monitor whirred back to life. The computer was old, but it was a small price to pay for putting so much of the team’s budget into the show itself. Tsumugi immediately began to flick through various thumbnails of the audition tapes, showing only the young faces of the candidates. She turned to the video containing a petite, tan girl with snow white hair. The video had paused on a crude portrait of her face contorted by misery, tears lining her cheeks in shiny trails. “We’ve got this sad sack jesus freak. She was among the first to audition. She started out fine but then ended up like this, talking about how God is dead and how we’re all going to hell… things like that. I feel kind of bad for her. Maybe we could write her in as a happy medium.”
Tsumugi flicked the video of the taller, more muscular boy with the spiky do. “This one was pretty enthusiastic. Says he wants to be an astronaut, which actually hasn’t been done before. He seemed almost aggressively invested. That enthusiasm could be useful.” She continued clicking through different tabs at random.
“What about him?” The director suddenly pointed to the screen. “The masked fellow.” The recording displayed the face of a very tall, very lean, and very dour looking boy. Tsumugi wasn’t surprised that the boy’s appearance had caught the director’s attention. He was, indeed, a very peculiar looking high school student. The black flu mask that he wore over his face made him virtually expressionless, and his long, dark hair hid much of his eyes from view as though a black curtain had been draped over his head.
“You have a good eye,” Tsumugi chuckled. “I was excited about this one.”
--
Most people that k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ knew were not particularly proud of their regular rituals. Rather, not much thought was put into them. Most of his friends would chalk rituals up to brushing their teeth or the hour that they ate dinner or what they did with time spent alone. They were rituals because they were routine. Perhaps they were not given much thought because no one could say that every single day, without fail, they were able to visit the small shrine in the temple district every Friday at 5:13 pm sharp to pray. And after that, hop on the ninth train out of Asakusa and make their way home to rest.
This time frame was not chosen at random. 5:13 pm on a Friday was the time of k̴̠̦͎̅d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ ‘s birth. His mother had always said that he was eager to get out, that labor with him had been quicker than any of her other children. She said it was because he was eager to learn all about the world in which he belonged to. It was also his mother who had raised him to be superstitious, to be one that spoke to rain dolls and skirted around the borders of tatami mats. k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ had never been particularly religious. But from an early age he had picked up an odd habit of praying, just for good fortune or good luck. Not to anyone in particular, but everyone he told about the habit regarded it as healthy. There were, after all, certain circles that prayed constantly, like Muslims and Christians, as part of their faith. Perhaps he was just wired to suit that lifestyle.
Taking the ninth train was exceptionally quiet, as it departed an hour after the business commuters usually hopped on the train, eager to get home and put their feet up. And it was not so late that very many wandering drunkards found their way onto the train, leaving plenty of space to put school bags and library books. In this way, the ninth train had become sort of a mobile library, long after the library beside the temple closed its doors to the public. The movement and vibrations of the inner workings of the train became soothing noise that were perfect for losing oneself in a collection of thought provoking, narrative poetry or an anthology of western legends rife with piskies and fickle gods. Almost as hypnotizing as the chatter of tourists or residents dropping in to the temples in Asakusa to pray or leave fortunes. Shorter reads meant quicker thrills, with just as much depth and meaning packed into it as a hardcover novel. That was one of the reasons why he liked prose and short stories so much. And he had several bound together at once.
This ritual of his had begun because he had gone to school in Asakusa. School ended at 3:15 pm for the first-years. From there he would drop by the library and finish any homework that he had, or if he had none, do some light reading. He would then go to a cafe further down the road to watch the broadcast for the day on the cafe’s television. He could not think of a person that he knew who didn’t keep up on Danganronpa, so everyone just referred to it as “the broadcast.” It didn’t need to be named if it was all that anyone watched. Anyone who hadn’t been living under a rock would know what you were talking about. From there he would head towards the shrine district.
Today, however, a small wrench would be thrown in his schedule, for he had more pressing matters at hand. Still, it wouldn’t prevent him from making his prayer during his hour of birth. He wouldn’t, however, be taking the ninth train home.
The pharmacy near the station only had slightly better ambience than a rest stop bathroom on the freeway. The only thing mildly uplifting was the pop music playing on the store’s speakers. It was turned down significantly, likely because the broadcast was reaching its peak. V2 had been off the air for weeks, but that didn’t stop the tv station from filling in the gaps with episode reruns and recaps. k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ wasn’t worried about missing too much of it. It would be posted online the second it was over anyway.
The woman behind the counter was watching the broadcast on a small, boxy television propped up on top of a cabinet, pensive and transfixed.
“Excuse me,” k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ prompted.
Nothing.
“Pardon me, miss?”
“Sssh!” The woman hissed through a mouthful of chewing gum. “It’s just gettin’ good! The hell are you doing out while the broadcast is going on?”
He bowed his head a bit. “My apologies. This was the only appropriate time I could come get my prescription.”
“Yeah, yeah, shutcher trap.” She held up a finger, still staring at the television. “Alright, it’s a commercial. What do you want, kid? If it’s extra strength shampoo for that big black mop of yours we ain’t got it.”
“I’m here to pick up my interferon.”
The woman turned to her computer. “Health record number?” k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ handed her his insurance card. “Good, good.” She input the number at a glance. She left the counter without a word.
Absentmindendly, k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ stared at the television screen, staring into the doe eyes of the girl trying to sell him liquid eyeliner. He remained unaffected. One could call him brand loyal to eyeliner.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Then again. And again, in rapid succession. She must have been home from work. She must have been wondering where he was. His eyes wandered to the magazine rack below the counter.
The woman emerged from the back with a small paper bag. “Here you go. That’ll be ¥750.” She cocked her head at the boy whose head was clearly someplace else. “Kid? I don’t got all day.”
His head snapped back up. “Oh, yes… forgive me.” He produced his wallet from his book bag. “Actually… could I purchase a magazine as well?”
The lady groaned. “Long as you’re good for it, you don’t need my permission.”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ purchased the magazine and turned to leave. “Hey, good luck on exams,” the woman called. “I hear it’s that time of year.”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ smiled back politely, only to realize the smile probably couldn’t be detected under his flu mask.
“I don’t go to school anymore. But I appreciate the sentiment.”
--
The shrine was bustling with people, residents and tourists alike, as usual. The broadcast had ended, so nobody was glued to their phones or laptops. With his magazine and prescription tucked under one arm and his bookbag slung over the other, k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ promptly took off his gloves and washed his hands, dropped his offering in its box, and clapped his hands together.
What shall I pray for today?
He could ask for good health. Nonspecific, but a good cover-all. It seemed appropriate for the afternoon he had had.
Very well, a brief prayer today.
He wished for stable health in the coming week, on the weekday and hour of his birth.
It brought him no sense of closure, no bliss. There was no point in praying for good health anymore.
He thought about leaving a fortune. He decided against it, but wavered for a bit. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, reached into the front holder, and pulled out a slip of notebook paper.
He could leave this as a fortune. For someone else to find. It was a romantic idea, like something out of a novel. A message left by a strange man at a shrine to be discovered by someone else. He had always wanted to pass it on to someone else. He wouldn’t be needing it much longer anyway.
No. This wasn’t the right time. He decided against it.
A keeper at the shrine waved to him as he left, an older man with glasses and a cataract in one eye. “Same time as always, eh?”
“I like to hope so, sir,” k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ replied.
He wasn’t smiling under his mask. That decrepit old man likely had more time on his clock than he. Waving back gave him no joy.
“I like to hope so.”
--
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ usually hated Akihabara. He hated all of the pushy shopgirls with their high voices and plastic smiles, he hated being shoved left and right through narrow passages past balding, middle aged hikikomori, and he hated seeing everything plastered with tasteless illustrations of obnoxious animation culture. But Akihabara had Danganronpa Headquarters, and he was willing to sacrifice his sanity in Akihabara to be able to get his foot in the door.
He kept rereading the slip of paper he had carried in his wallet. It was a series of haikus that his sister had written.
Paper thin fingers
Touch the iron cage with foam
Reduce to ashes
Weighted palms of ore
Touch the cellophane femur
The bone mends itself
At the time she had called it the worst thing she had ever written. It had been a rough draft for something else, with correction marks and notes in the margins written in a different colored pen. Not all of what k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ loved about it was the poem itself, but much of it was the visibility of the creative process on the paper. When creative works are presented, they are shown in their purest form, the finished piece with not a stray ink mark. k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ almost found more beauty in this sketchy rough draft than in finished pieces, which was why he had saved it from the recycling hamper.
Whenever he was feeling sad or depressed, he would pull it out and read it. It gave him some comfort knowing that he was alive during a time where human beings were capable of expressing their thoughts and creativity in such a beautiful way.
“Knh!”
He jumped a bit. The man sitting next to him had begun coughing.
“Knh! Knh!”
More than that, he was coughing into his hand. He would continue to spread those mouthy germs of his onto every handle, rail, and hand that he shook. And what’s more there were several germs culminating in the air around him, flu masks only so resistant to them seeping into the system…
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ pulled his mask further over his face and quickly changed seats. The man shot him a glare. k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ took a seat next to a boy, about his age whose face was hidden by a baseball cap and a fringe haircut, and opened his bookbag looking for some light reading, runnning his gloved hands over the pages. He sifted over a book on African short fiction, a poetry collection by Sylvia Plath, and the magazine he had bought at the pharmacy. It was a television entertainment magazine with a lengthy feature article with highlights and speculation on each of the class trials on the most recent broadcast. He had been interested in a particular one, where the girl who was called the Ultimate Botanist had been punished for murdering the Ultimate Lawyer in the garden of their school enclosure by rigging a cinder block with a rope and fashioning a cambodian booby trap, bludgeoning the victim in the head. Her execution had entailed several strings of thorned roses drawing closer toward her with a poison apple placed in her hands. She was given a choice between dying at the hands of sharp objects or poison. To make a long story shorter, he felt some pity for the poor soul who had to mop up all of the blood afterward. He hadn’t even glimpsed the first paragraph before he realized he had an audience.
The boy in the baseball cap was looking at him excitedly, fidgeting as if he was trying to think of something to say, beginning, but never finishing.
It was disconcerting. “May I help you?” k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ asked the boy.
“Ah! I, yes, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but notice what you were reading, have you… have you seen the broadcast for today? I mean, you have, right? Sorry, sorry, that’s a stupid question…” The boy trailed off after babbling.
“I haven’t, actually. I was busy with prior engagements. But it’s only a recap anyway.” Upon further inspection, it seemed that the boy had a backpack skinned in black and white, with a couple of charms hanging off of them, all shaped like the first of the Ultimate Detectives, Kyouko Kirigiri. k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ was surprised that his bag hadn’t collapsed under the weight of the keychains. “I usually watch a recording of the livestream at home.”
“I see! I see!” The boy extended his hand. “My name is Ş̵̍͆̋͏8̧̡͗͒f͒̔9̧̨͋̇ͯ̓̂i͑̓k̂̑̂͋̓̅͌̆̈҉͡s͊͛l̵̊͐͐k̎ͮ, I’m a first year in high school.”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ stayed his hand. “ k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ . I can’t shake your hand, it could be dirty.”
Ş̵̍͆̋͏8̧̡͗͒f͒̔9̧̨͋̇ͯ̓̂i͑̓k̂̑̂͋̓̅͌̆̈҉͡s͊͛l̵̊͐͐k̎ͮ shyed his hand away, confused. “O-oh… I’m sorry. Are you… are you germaphobic?”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ shrugged. “Call it what you’d like.”
“A-anyway, you like the broadcast, right? Are you a big fan?”
“I suppose so.”
“I’m on my way to Akihabara right now. You heard about the event, right? The open audition event? Oh man, I wanted to get there early, but I was busy with club at school… Our school has a Danganronpa fan club. But I’m just the secretary. I don’t think I could handle the stress of managing such a big club… but it’s still one of the biggest clubs at our school!” Ş̵̍͆̋͏8̧̡͗͒f͒̔9̧̨͋̇ͯ̓̂i͑̓k̂̑̂͋̓̅͌̆̈҉͡s͊͛l̵̊͐͐k̎ͮ just kept going. “Every month we hold mock class trials, actually. I’ve been the blackened 3 times so far, but I’ve only outsmarted the group once. I’ve planned a bunch of executions, though.” He paused, the fact that he was forgetting to breathe dawning on him. “Sorry, sorry. I’m rambling. So who’s your favorite of the original cast? You know, the two that actually took place during the tragedy! Mine’s Kyoko Kirigiri… I know, I know, she’s a popular character. But the Detectives have always been my favorite, and Kyoko was the original and everything… so when I audition, I’m going to ask to be an Ultimate Detective.”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ perked up. “So you are going to Akihabara to audition for the broadcast.”
“Yeah, I am…” Ş̵̍͆̋͏8̧̡͗͒f͒̔9̧̨͋̇ͯ̓̂i͑̓k̂̑̂͋̓̅͌̆̈҉͡s͊͛l̵̊͐͐k̎ͮ shriveled a bit. “I mean, I probably don’t stand a chance, they have so many people auditioning to be in it, my application is probably just going to end up in a drawer somewhere, but even if there’s the slightest chance I could be in it, I’ll do my best.”
“You’re auditioning… to be in Danganronpa .”
“Y-yeah… that’s what I said.”
“Why?”
“Wh-what do you mean, why? Because I love Danganronpa.” Ş̵̍͆̋͏8̧̡͗͒f͒̔9̧̨͋̇ͯ̓̂i͑̓k̂̑̂͋̓̅͌̆̈҉͡s͊͛l̵̊͐͐k̎ͮ scoffed.
“And that’s the only reason?”
“Yes..?”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ gave it a moment, then leaned back from the now mildly frightened boy. “I see.”
“I-Is something wrong?” Ş̵̍͆̋͏8̧̡͗͒f͒̔9̧̨͋̇ͯ̓̂i͑̓k̂̑̂͋̓̅͌̆̈҉͡s͊͛l̵̊͐͐k̎ͮ asked. “Did I say something wrong again?”
“Of course not. My apologies.” k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ opened his magazine back up to read. “There’s no way to be closer to your idols than to live their reality, I’m guessing.” He wasn’t stupid. He could sense the tense energy between them. “But to dive headfirst into an ordeal where their life could be compromised in pursuit of feelings not fully understood that are fueled by irrational obsession… humans are complicated creatures after all.”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ was gripping the magazine so hard he thought he might tear it in half, like a heavyweight would a phonebook for a visual stunt. The only indication that Shuichi could hear the grinding of his teeth underneath his flu mask was Shuichi quickly changing seats.
--
“Number 148?”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ squeezed between a busty girl with bleached hair and a hulking, musclehead of a high school student. It was the only way he could worm his way up to the woman facilitating the audition before she began calling another number and still avoid running into the boy from the train. But he wasn’t too worried about it since he had seen the boy peel off in another direction when it became apparent that the two boys were headed on the same path.
“Hey! Watch where you’re stickin’ your dick, breadstick!” The girl said louder than k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ would have liked.
“I’m sorry, excuse me,” k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ said quickly.
“Yeah no shit! You better watch yourself, buddy, or you’re gonna be the first person I kill when I’m on the broadcast!”
So she had seen k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ ’s slip of paper. Lovely.
At last, he reached the woman at reception. The headquarters lobby was crowded, but most of the people there weren’t there to audition. They were spectators, paparazzi, hoping to catch a tiny glimpse of the children who would be selected for the broadcast. Already his corneas had suffered at the hands of heavy camera flash. In any case, the hall was so crowded that there was a line out the doors and a lobby so congested that to a non-Japanese speaker it could easily be mistaken for a fallout shelter for wayward teenagers and beer-bellied shut-ins. He steadied himself on the reception desk. “I’m number 148. I registered online.”
“Wonderful,” she said in an extremely hushed tone. She looked left, then right, then lifted the barrier beside her desk. “Please follow me.”
The effort was in vain. Spectators fell upon them both, phones and cameras brandished, and a shoving match ensued for a perfect shot at the new masked candidate. The receptionist frantically shut the front dusk, took k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ by the shoulders, and hurried him off the a door at the back of the room. They entered into a white, linoleum hallway which, when the door was completely closed, was devoid of any noise and immune to to the commotion outside of it. It was as if he had stepped into another world completely, liminal and calm.
The calm didn’t last all that long since the hall was reminiscent of a hospital or a health clinic. It caught him off guard.
“I’m terribly sorry about all that,” the receptionist sighed. “This season in particular we’ve had a surprising amount of publicity leading up to the broadcast. Probably that new interactive gimmick the creative team was so damn insistent on going through with. Or the gap between new content.”
“It’s alright,” k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ said. “I’m just not really used to so much attention.”
The receptionist chuckled. “Understandable. Take a seat down the hall over there and they’ll be right with you. They’re finishing up another audition right now.”
“I see. Thank you very much.”
“Of course. You seem a lot more polite than a lot of the candidates we’ve gotten today.” With that, she retreated back to the noisy, oversaturated lobby.
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ walked down to the end of the long, barren hall, took a seat at one of the chairs, and pulled out his Sylvia Plath collection. He decided he would read more of his magazine once he returned home for the day.
Dying is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
A small blip from the alarm on his phone drew him back from the book. Was it that time already? He reached his hand further down his book bag and into the paper pharmacy bag, producing a bottle of pills. He slid his flu mask down his face, and he briefly caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the screen of his phone.
He was no longer used to the sight of his face without the mask. His mouth seemed wide and unruly. His face, however, became less harsh as a whole. He shuddered at thought of the next step, getting used to the sight of himself with tubes in his nose or a plastic cover that drew oxygen from a tank. How long would it be until there was no air that was safe to breathe? Until there was no hand that was clean enough to touch? Until there were no lips that could be sterilized enough to kiss?
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to stay put.
It’s the theatrical.
As two pills entered his mouth, the door to the hearing room opened. A boy almost as tall as himself with tan skin and spiked hair the color of grape candy strode out with his chest puffed full of confidence. He noticed k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ and grinned. It was a deceptively friendly grin.
With a wild swing of his left hand, the boy pushed the open bottle of pills out of k̴̷͉̅̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ ’s hands with a loud smack. The bottle hit the ground, capsules spilling every which way with both the force and sound of a child dropping a container of pachinko balls at an arcade. It happened too fast for k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ to react.
He immediately rushed to collect his lost medicine from the floor, but stopped when he realized it was now completely inedible. It had touched the floor. Down on one knee, wide-eyed in awe at his assailant, the boy grinned, snapped his fingers, and pointed at k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ .
“Knock ‘em dead. See you in the ring.”
And with that he was escorted out of the hall by a security guard.
This was one more trip to the pharmacy that he really didn’t want to make. Especially at the expense of a cocky sociopath’s attempt at an intimidation tactic.
“Number 148?” said a girl’s voice, just before the door to the audition room swung shut.
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ pulled his mask back over his face. “That’s me.”
A girl with a long skirt and even longer blue hair stood above him with a concerned look on her face. “Oh dear. What happened here?”
“I dropped a bottle of painkillers on the floor.”
“I’m terribly sorry. That’s too bad,” the girl said. “We can have the staff clean it up. We really need to get auditions moving along. Is that alright?”
“Yes.”
The girl clapped her hands together. “Awesome! Well, my name is Tsumugi Shirogane, I’m one of the mainline production managers for Danganronpa! I’m so excited that you’ve taken interest to being on the show. Right this way.”
Shirogane led k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ through the door. “You’re a production manager?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“I mean, I was only thinking… rather, I wouldn’t have guessed based on your age.”
The room was much more spacious than k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ had assumed it was, with a sturdy wooden floor beneath his feet and a high ceiling above his head. It reminded him of a school gymnasium, but lacking in both windows and personality.
Shirogane laughed. “I get that a lot. The staff likes me because I can relate to our younger audience, I suppose. But people don’t usually assume I have much of a rank because of my appearance. I guess you could call me a real life Ultimate, huh? They needed a youth representative, I delivered. That’s really all there is to it.”
”She pulled a stringy tape measurer out of her pocket and, much to k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ ’s confusion, began circling around him and holding it up to different parts of his body. “Any plans for the rest of the day? Doing anything fun around Akihabara?”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ moved awkwardly to accomodate the measuring tape. “Not really. I don’t much care for Akihabara. I don’t really… much care for being surrounded by anime.”
Shirogane gasped. “What? A high school student that doesn’t like anime? What about manga? Do you read any comics?”
“Junji Ito and Shintaro Kago, mostly.”
Shirogane shivered. “Well, to each their own, I suppose.” She left k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ ‘s aide and took a seat at a table at one end of the room. “Alright, now if you could just stand in the center of the room, we need a good shot of your whole body. Right-- move to the left a little bit-- yes, right there. Perfect.”
It was then that he noticed there was another person in the room besides Shirogane and himself. There was a gangly looking boy in a high school uniform sitting in a chair a good few feet from Shirogane’s table. He was slumped over like a dead tree, and he stared at k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ with tired eyes.
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ nearly doubled over in shock. It took him a moment to recognize the boy, but once he did he couldn’t believe that he wasn’t able to place him right away.
The boy was none other than Rantaro Amami the Ultimate Adventurer. One of the three sole survivors in the finale of Danganronpa V2 , the previous season of the broadcast. k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ was surprised to see such a well-known and popular character in the flesh, but that wasn’t even the height of his confusion.
Rantaro Amami was dead. Rather, he was supposed to be dead. It had shaken the entire viewing demographic when Amami had sacrificed himself for the benefit of continuing the killing game. He knew people who had angrily written in to the studio demanding that Amami be reinstated as a character.
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ had watched his execution live. He was placed in front of a map while Monokuma endlessly stuck red pins into his body until he bled out. It had been called World Wide Crucifixion.
So what was the truth?
Shirogane must have noticed k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ ’s interest in Amami. She just smiled. “Ah, so you’ve noticed Amami-kun, have you? I’m sure you have questions, but unfortunately I’m not authorized to spill any of our plans for the newest season,” said Shirogane. “This is all part of what we’re calling his ‘Survivor’s Perk.’ He’s helping me with casting is all, aren’t you, Amami-kun?”
Amami didn’t even acknowledge Shirogane. He continued staring at k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ . Even from where he was standing he could see the weathering and exhaustion in his eyes. As if he had been to hell and back.
Which wasn’t actually that far of a cry from where he had returned from.
“Which reminds me,” Shirogane said. “I’d just like to let you know that if you do blab about anything that happens while in this room, we do have permission to, ah…. take care of you. We take spoilers very seriously here at Team Danganronpa. It should have been stated on the release we had you sign when you first registered, anyway…” Shirogane, realizing that she was getting off track, scooped up a pile of papers. “In any case, why don’t we get started? All set and ready to go?”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ took one last look at Amami, then forced his eyes to peel away. He could still feel Amami’s on him, which was disconcerting to say the least. “I am.”
“Alright, we’re rolling in three… two… one…” k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ heard the roll of a camera whirr to life. Though he had no idea where exactly in the room it was. “Tell me your name.”
“ k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ .”
“And how old are you, k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ -kun?”
“15 years old.”
“So you’re a first year in high school, then?”
“Yes. I was.”
Shirogane tilted her head. “You were ?”
“I stopped going to school about a month ago because of a medical reasons.”
“What kind of medical reasons?”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ knit his fingers together, the fabric of the gloves making a soft noise. “An early-stage immunodeficiency disorder. It’s a genetic disease. It was an ailment to my mother as well.”
“ Was an ailment?”
“She died six years ago. I was only diagnosed early this year.”
“Hmm.” Shirogane scratched a note onto the paper she had on the desk. “We might have to have you sign some extra release forms, then. A chronic illness could complicate things. Now tell me why you want to be in Danganronpa , k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ -kun.”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ was silent for a moment, busy putting his thoughts into words. “This… this may sound a bit silly, but… have you ever seen the American film The Boy in the Plastic Bubble , Shirogane-san?”
“I don’t believe I have.”
It was a stupid movie. k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ had watched it when he was a child.
“I don’t suppose it really matters,” he said. “The point is that, well…” he paused. “This condition of mine is very difficult to cure. And with each passing day, it will worsen. It will keep attacking my body until eventually even the tiniest blip of bacteria entering my system could easily mean death, like a grain of sand in a microchip. In other words, even if I were to find a way to survive in a world of matter that my body cannot handle, it would be in total and utter isolation. So treatment may be buying me more time, but most of them will not be happy years.”
“I see.” Shirogane nodded.
“I’ve been thinking about it, you understand.” k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ straightened himself back up. “I’ve been thinking about things that I want to do with the time that I have left with the freedom to roam. I could think of nothing, except, well… I’ve been a fan of Danganronpa since I was in junior high school. And I wanted to do something that I could be remembered for.”
“What do you mean, exactly, when you say you want to be remembered?” Shirogane asked. “Do you want to be a hero? Is that it?”
“No. I want to be a villain.”
He wasn’t sure, but out of the corner of his eye, ever so slightly, he thought he saw Amami perk up.
“A villain?” Shirogane repeated.
“Yes,” said k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ . “To me, there is something so much more compelling about the dastardly than the righteous. I want to have the malice of Koschei the Deathless. The passion of the man who narrates Annabel Lee . Or the melancholy of Otsuyu, the maiden from the Tale of the Peony Lantern. Something about villainy is just so much more… romantic than being a hero. A hero opens the mind to what is possible in the imagination, but an antagonist is a poet that says just as much while grounded in reality. I want to be that kind of force, if even just for a moment, before I leave this world.”
Shirogane held her pen to her lips. “Uh-huh...” She glanced at Amami for a moment. “Well, I think I’ve heard pretty much all I need to hear. I can e-mail you some more release paperwork for you to fill out. Is there anything else you’d like to say before ending the session?”
“Yes, just one. My Ultimate Talent… If I’m selected, I don’t have a particular preference… but I’d like something that involves stories.” k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ felt selfish for asking.
“Stories? Really?”
“Well, I... just spend a lot of time reading… not everyone has talent, but everyone has a passion, don’t they? I’d like to be able to tell stories to people. There have been times that I’ve pictured myself as a writer or something like that… if I were of any proficiency in writing. My sister is the true talent in our family.”
“You have a sister?”
“Yes, well, my half-sister. She’s seven years older than me. She’s the one who supports us. She’s the only one in our household besides myself. I’ve never even met my father. Mom always said she never wanted me to.”
Shirogane smiled. “We’ll be sure to keep that on file. Well, it’s been a pleasure, you’ve certainly been one of our more polite guests today.” She sprang up to greet him again. “Best of luck in the selection process. I’ll make sure that security sees you out.”
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ stepped back into the white linoleum hallway. There was a strange looking, petite, powder haired girl sitting withdrawn in one of the waiting room chairs. Tears were falling onto her pleated skirt. She was clutching a silver cross necklace in her hands.
“Number 149?” Shirogane called.
The girl looked up at k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ . There was so much pain in her fair face. Her bottom lip quivered as she blubbered out tiny sobs.
"Number 149?" Shirogane repeated. "Come on, we need to get auditions moving along. Are you coming in, sweetie?"
The girl sniffled into her sweater. "J-j-j-just... g-give me a s-second..." k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ doubted that her composure would change. She was in shambles.
The religious types were always so emotional. k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ may have been born to suit the lifestyle, but he felt far removed from the mindset.
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ knew it was silly, but he felt a little responsible. He felt sorry for the girl.
He vaguely remembered a conversation he had had with one of his friends just before he was pulled out of school. It was a useless conversation with useless friends at a useless school. He missed it.
“Did you hear that they’re opening auditions back up for the next season of the broadcast? They’re calling it V2.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to be in that. These days everyone wants to be like Solomon Grundy, on the fast track to death.”
“Well, you can’t judge ‘em too harshly. I mean, nobody would want to be in the broadcast whose life is going great.”
He froze, realizing something.
This was it.
He didn't know how he knew, but it was as if his back pocket was burning, feeding him some kind of feeling.
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open to the pocket in the very middle. He withdrew the small sliver of notebook paper. He held it out to the girl.
“Here.”
The girl seemed puzzled at the gesture. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ made a point to hold it as far away from himself as possible. The girl took the paper pensively. Shirogane looked as if she wanted to interject, time was money after all, but she just stared.
“What is this?” The girl asked.
k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “I have it because sometimes I’m not as strong as I want to be. Because I don’t think that there are kind people in the world. Because I don’t have hope.”
He shouldn’t. His gloves could only protect so much. Traces of snot and tears were still present on the girls hands. But suddenly, none of that seemed to matter. He took the girl’s fingers in his hands and closed them around the slip of paper. “Keep it.”
The girl stared back at him with a mixture of sadness and awe. She bit her lip and drew the slip closer to her chest.
And k̴̠̦͎̅ ̷͉̀̑̿̓̃d̶̢̫̬̆̽̅̒9̴̻̳̰͓̲̓͗́̅̄ȓ̴̳̥̘s̵͍̗̋̊͝6̸͙͔̐̔̄̓̋/̶̪͔͎̮̽'̴̭̯͗̓̎'̸̢̧̟͉̜̃?̶̧͂̈́̍`̵͈̊̒`̴̨̖̮́́̅͜͜)̴̟̿͠f̶̨͝ walked away, anxious to leave with the security guards. He wasn’t in the mood for being bombarded with more cameras.