Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

7/12/2017

< subject: Contestants Update >

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

To the Management Division,

After reviewing all files and footage pertaining to this season’s two-hundred applicants, I have officially selected fourteen contestants (excluding Amami and myself) to participate in the 53rd season.

As usual, these contestants were chosen because of specific traits demonstrated in their auditions that will allow us to create the optimal viewing experience for our audience.

Below, I have compiled the tapes of each contestant's audition, coupled with various notes regarding character ideas:

[ DRV3 CONTESTANT AUDITION TAPES - ZIP ]

With our current prospects and these applicants' potential, I have the utmost confidence in this season’s success. Though this is my first time as Acting Mastermind, I promise I won’t let the team down. My killing semester will outshine every game thus far.

You’ll never forget Danganronpa’s 53rd Season. 

Regards,

Shirogane Tsumugi

The clear sky stretches on in a limitless expanse of blue. There is the faint odor of burnt flesh wafting through the air—Shirogane’s remains—and it’s almost funny how familiar the smell has gotten by this point.

Saihara is tired.

He's tired of death (the blotches of crimson splattered across every surface he sees: the walls, the MonoPad, his hands). He's tired of despair (a blonde wig, mocking eyes; “So, what will it be, Detective-san?"). He's tired of hope (a limp, mangled body—so small, so fragile compared to the piano it dangles from).

The outside world lies just beyond the academy’s threshold, and Saihara wonders what it’ll appear as—a crowd of cameras and flashing lights, authorities dressed in blazers emblazoned with Future Foundation, or a barren, unpopulated wasteland enveloped by a scarlet sky? Saihara has been told so many lies, he’s not sure which one he likes best.

“Saihara, Yumeno,” Saihara turns jerkily, meeting Harukawa’s level gaze. She offers him a thin, weary smile. “Let’s get out of here.”

There are still dried tear streaks on Yumeno's cheeks, but she nods in agreement. Her fists clench, and her mouth settles into a fine, determined line.

Saihara sighs softly, tiredly. “Alright.”

They begin walking, slowly and unsurely, towards the gap in the dome, soft, pale rays of early sunlight casting irregular shadows over the debris. Saihara squints at the sky. It looks so synthetic, he has to remind himself that this is real, that he is real (or, at least that’s what he’d like to believe). Real, real, real—

A sudden, searing wave of nausea makes him stumble in his step; Harukawa grasps his shoulder, stabilizing, steadying. Saihara opens his mouth to thank her, only for the sharp, throbbing ache to flare up again. He curses himself—not now, please, not now—but his head is already thrumming, his bones vibrating, his vision blurring.

Saihara clutches his head, trying desperately to will away the sudden, splitting pain drilling holes through his skull. Colors—images—sounds flash before his closed eyelids.

What’s happening?

Saihara’s legs tremble violently, and he collapses hard onto the pavement, a copper taste blooming around his tongue. He can hear a girl screaming in some distant land—a distorted noise that sounds vaguely like his name—but it's drowned out by the cacophony of piercing, mechanical noises.

His surroundings blur, and the world around him smears, fading out like a child’s badly-smudged drawing. His body spasms erratically, hot needles pricking his scalp, mind almost going blank from sensory overload. All Saihara can think is that this can’t be it, this can’t be how he dies—not in the goddamn epilogue—epilogue?—not after ending the killing game—not after everything—

(A warm smile. Soft fingers entwined with his own. The last notes of Claire de Lune reverberating through the empty music room. Though the piece has long ended, he can still hear lingering piano keys. )

I’m sorry. He thinks desperately, despairingly, like if he just thinks hard enough, his words can reach a dead girl. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise.

Saihara’s thoughts, mind, being turns fuzzy and indistinct, rapidly glitching out of reality. He has to think, has to find his way out of this amalgamation of pixels and static and metallic screeches, but…who even is he?

There is the distant sensation of falling—nauseous vertigo, a hopeless fear.

Then, ņ̵̱̺̗͓͍͉̇̈̿̾̚ͅǫ̵̝̟̯͇̜̮͋͛͂͋͊t̷͉̰̠̹̣͕͒̈̓̍̉͋͝ḣ̷͓͛͌̆͋̿̈́î̵̫̦͍͉̲̖̈́n̶̡̯̼̳̱͖̦̫̆̽̈̍͆͜͝g̴͓̀͒͝.

Saihara is submerged underwater. His limbs are heavy as lead, mind syrupy and clouded, any semblance of self slowly ebbing away. He can’t see anything but darkness, can’t hear anything but a faraway ringing.

For a terrifying moment, Saihara wonders if this is the afterlife, if he’ll spend the rest of eternity like this—no sense of space or time or self, simply existing in an empty void. Just as panic starts to tighten its inky grip around his chest, Saihara’s eyelids flicker open, and he begins to breathe.   

His body writhes instinctively as if it’s just discovered the concept of movement. His hands flail, and he jerks upward, only to collide with a hard surface.

He’s falling—arms twisted around in a futile attempt to find something solid to grab onto, body tensed to brace for the inevitable pain of impact—plunging downwards into darkness, into nothingness until…he’s not?

Saihara stops flailing, mind still reeling from the shock and adrenaline. His body sags to the ground, and Saihara lies completely still on his back, gaze fixed upwards. His arms are trembling, muscles spongy from disuse. His breathing is labored, coming out irregular, short gasps. A phantom headache thrums in his skull.

Saihara wonders why he’s still here.

Eventually, he begins to take in his surroundings, vision slowly acclimating to the darkness. He’s in a cushioned, rectangular pod, barely long enough to fit his entire body, and barely wide enough to squish his shoulders together. There are numerous wires taped to his flesh, wrapped around his limbs. They intersect and converge at a circular metal disc around his head, rustling with every small movement.

He’s also wearing a hospital gown. That is only mildly concerning.                                                                                                                                                                                                  

A robotic female voice rings out: “Saihara Shuichi. Contestant #154. Blink if you are conscious.” 

Disoriented, he blinks once, hard, and a mechanical click sounds as the capsule lid slowly inches open.

Saihara is temporarily blinded by the overflowing brightness surging into the pod, and he instantly squeezes his eyes shut. The light is harsh, oppressive, searing even through his closed eyelids; Saihara only musters up the courage to crack open his eyelids by narrow slits when the unmistakable clacking of footsteps crowds around his capsule.

Through his clearing vision, Saihara can see six strangers clad in medical masks and white hospital garb hovering over him, blocking the blinding light. He’s almost grateful until he realizes that they are purposefully obscuring his surroundings, bodies positioned in a way that conceal…something to his right.

Saihara cranes his head, and glances around the—hospital room? classroom? prison?—to see Harukawa and Yumeno in separate pods, unconscious, tangled in wires, and completely, terrifyingly still. He’s not sure if they’re even breathing. And maybe it’s seeing Harukawa’s and Yumeno’s limp, unmoving bodies that triggers it, but something is startlingly, dizzyingly clear.

They’re going to kill me.

The epiphany sinks in, his insides turns to ice, and Saihara is suddenly very, very cold. He should’ve seen the signs—they’ve kidnapped him, imprisoned him in some strange pod, incapacitated his friends, and now they’re going to kill him.

(His more rational side tells him that he should be calmer, more mature and logical with his deductions—he’s the Ultimate Detective, after all; it’s his duty to see right through to the truth—but fuck that because he never asked for this, never asked for his talent and the crippling responsibility that comes with it, never asked for the preloaded gun resting in his hands every class trial, never asked to be the one to put the muzzle between two pleading, teary eyes, and fire.)

Panic flares through him as one of them moves to pin his arms down by his sides, gloved fingers forming manacles around his (alarmingly thin) wrists.

“Let me go.” Saihara tries to sound threatening, but when his voice comes out, it’s a soft rasp, inaudible and foreign to even his own ears.

He starts struggling violently, trying to use whatever strength he has left in his stupidly feeble limbs to wrench himself out of their grip. The workers dissolve into a horde of concerned murmuring and nervous glances of almost-pity, which just adds fuel to Saihara’s fury because they’re strangers, liars, murderers, so how dare they pretend to care?

His fears are confirmed when they pull out a silvery syringe, and every cell in his body starts screaming at him to run, because he should know by now that people are just out there to hurt, to kill, and this will be how he dies.

The worker carrying the syringe takes a step closer, and when the needle is jabbed into his forearm, something inside him shatters (he doesn’t want to die). He leaps towards the figure who injected the poison, frantically clawing at their flesh, their throat, their eyes—

The world fades in, fades out, and twists.

Saihara freezes. The masked stranger is gone, and standing there is Monokuma then Enoshima then Shirogane, gavel in hand. Shirogane’s lips split into a wide, sadistic grin.

It’s…Punishment Time!

Saihara jerks back like he’s been burnt, trembling like a leaf. “You’re not here. You’re dead.” He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

Yep! She winks at him playfully. You know who else is?

Shirogane’s figure ripples out, and she’s replaced by an amorphous blob of tangled, broken limbs, a sentient pile of corpses slowly shuffling closer. Saihara can pick out some striking features among the tangle—Hoshi’s bare bones, Shinguji’s boiled remains, Tojo’s slashed-up dress. Akamatsu’s hair clips.

The sickeningly sweet stench of blood is overwhelming. 

Saihara thinks he’s going to vomit.

Thirteen irises, thirteen damning stares, leer down at him. This is what you get for killing me, they say in perfect unison, voices blending into one morbid chant. This is what you deserve. This is your reckoning. Murderer, murderer, murderer.

“S-Stop it, that’s wrong,” he stammers out, eyes glassy, unfocused. “I-I didn’t mean to—I’m not—I’m sorry—”

Darkness. Sudden, merciful darkness. Saihara is plunged back into unconsciousness, and he prays that this time, he won’t wake up.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He wakes up.

He’s lying in a hospital bed, crispy sheets pulled up to his chin, the sharp sting of an IV in his arm. The soft, incessant beeping of the heart monitor bounces off the sterile walls, mocking him.

The nurse by his bed freezes when she notices that he’s awake, her eyes widen, and she scampers out of the room, leather heels making sharp clacking sounds against the vinyl floor. Saihara winces at the sound.

He rolls over blearily, shifting his aching limbs, gradually becoming aware of his own body before slowly sitting up and propping himself against a pillow, grimacing slightly in discomfort.

It feels like there’s wet sand sloshing around in his head as the memories come flooding back in. Waking up in a strange metallic capsule, the strangers in hospital masks, Harukawa and Yumeno’s limp bodies, the monster, the syringe—

Saihara pauses, then frowns, puzzled. If they’ve poisoned him, how is he awake at all? And under medical care, of all things. So, the needle, the clear liquid, the unconsciousness…

A sedative. Of course. Given his surroundings, their white uniforms, the medication, they probably weren’t serial killers, just hospital attendants doing their job while Saihara had a breakdown and attempted murder.

Saihara lets out a groan—unnecessarily loud and excessive—and briefly considers suffocating himself with his pillow.

At the very least, this confirms he’s in the outside world. Now, all that’s left is to fill in the memory gap between blacking out at the academy and waking at the hospital. Currently, his leading theory is that Team Danganronpa used a fast-acting anesthetic to knock him, Harukawa, and Yumeno out so that they can transfer them to a nearby institution more efficiently. Still, that doesn’t explain the strange pod, the metallic disc around his head, the tangle of wires protruding from—

“—san, Saihara-san?”

Oh. There’s someone talking to him.

He lifts his head gingerly, taking in the middle-aged man hovering by the door. He flashes Saihara a saccharine smile. “Hello, Saihara-san. Congratulations for making it through the fifty-third season of Danganronpa! May I take a seat?”

Congratulations, he says, like surviving is something to be thankful for. Bitter resentment curdles in his stomach, but Saihara nods anyway, and the man settles into one of the plastic chairs by his bedside.

“I’m Kondo Takada, a representative of Team Danganronpa. I’m here on behalf of the Tech Division to express our remorse.” Takada presses a business card into Saihara’s hands before ducking his head in what’s clearly supposed to be a bashful motion.

Saihara eyes him warily. Every word, expression, action seems practiced, rehearsed. Scripted, even.

“You woke from the simulation a bit earlier than planned. There was a minor hiccup in the VR technology—something about a glitch in the CP function? We believe it was triggered by the vivid interactions you had with the real world during the season finale.” He beams at Saihara again, as if he’s supposed to understand a thing Takada’s saying.

Simulation? VR? Glitch?

“It must’ve been quite a shock for you to wake prematurely inside the pod. Our sincerest apologies.” Takada continues, not sounding sincere at all. “It’s barely been a decade since the GSP was invented, so there’s bound to be some technical missteps here and there.”

Then, his eyes widen almost comically, and he hastily amends: “Nothing too serious, of course—our products have been proven by experts to be one-hundred-percent safe! We wouldn’t anything happening to our stars, after all.” Takada chuckles lowly, like he’s telling some kind of inside joke Saihara’s not a part of.

“I see.” Saihara lies, because he doesn’t see at all. His voice is scratchy from disuse. “W-What exactly do you mean by ‘simulation’? What did I ‘wake up’ from?” There’s a very specific theory creeping into his mind, and Saihara isn’t quite sure how to feel about it.

Takada’s too-wide smile turns frosty. “Ah…I thought someone would’ve told you already, Saihara-san. That’s the protocol, after all.” Takada laughs—or tries to laugh, because it comes out painfully forced, quaky. “I’m not the best person to break the news.” His tone is feather-light and soothing, the one people use to pacify feral animals.

Saihara has no time for that. “I’m sure I can handle it.”

“It’s only natural you’d want to know what’s going on, Saihara-san, but—“

“Takada-san. Please.”

Takada’s features twist, and he looks deeply conflicted—though even that seems staged—before blurting out:

“The killing game. Every murder, every death. It all took place inside a virtual reality.”

Something inside Saihara crumples. “What?” He breathes.

Takada looks apologetic. “It was…all a lie, in the end.”

Saihara has the sudden, inane urge to laugh. Static is filling his ears. Crawling darkness closes in on the edges of his vision. He’s only faintly aware that he’s trembling, hard. “Well, thanks for telling the truth.” Saihara distantly hears himself say over the roaring white noise, lips moving on their own. He tastes the sharp tang of rust as his teeth practically tears through the inner flesh of his cheek.

“I’m very sorry you had to find out this way,” Takada adjusts his tie, suddenly finding a blank wall disproportionately fascinating. “If there’s anything else I can help you with… ”

“Yes, uh,” Saihara hates how tremulous his voice is, how unsure he sounds, because all he’s been doing the past—months? weeks? days?—is pretending to be sure, pretending to be clever and resourceful and strong, pretending he’s not absolutely terrified like everyone else. “Can you tell me what day it is?”

“Of course.” Takada says, and there’s so much pity in his gaze, it makes Saihara nauseous. “It’s the fourth of August, 2017. The fifty-third season officially started on July 20th, the killing game lasted two weeks, and you were unconscious for about a day.”

Two weeks. Saihara stares numbly at the white tiles. Had the killing game really been that short? It feels as if several eternities have passed since he first stumbled out of that locker, anxiously lifting his head to meet kind plum-colored eyes, a halo of golden hair. Two weeks. Fourteen days.

Saihara exhales shakily. “What about my friends? All those who died? Are they…?” He trails off, preparing for the worst.

For the first time, Takada’s smile seems genuine. “Perfectly alive and well. They only ‘died’”—cue air quotes—“in the simulation, so their physical bodies in the real world are unharmed. Kind of like the Neo World Program in Goodbye Despair—except, well, they’re not braindead either.”

I have no idea what you’re talking about, is Saihara would say, if a tsunami of intense, raw relief isn’t surging through him, drowning out every other thought and emotion, filling him to the brim and knocking the air straight from his chest.

Akamatsu, Momota, everyone…

They’re alive. They’re okay.

A small, strangled noise escapes from his throat, barely audible. Saihara furiously fights back tears.

(What was it all for, then? A traitorous little voice slips into the deepest crevices of his mind. It’s trying to lure him off the slippery slope of dark thoughts and existential dread where he will stumble, then fall and fall and fall. He refuses to go there.)

“That’s good to hear.” Saihara manages to choke out.

Takada turns away from Saihara, reaches into an electric outlet by the nightstand, and removes a tiny grey lens. A hidden camera. Saihara’s mouth dries.

“Well, there you have it!” Takada plasters on a bright, plastic grin. “The Ultimate Detective’s long-awaited reaction to our shocking twist. Let’s give a big round of applause for Saihara Shuichi!”

“You’re recording this.” Saihara says with dawning horror. His hands are shaking.

Takada ignores him, instead rotating the lens so that it’s in full view of his face. “A very big thank-you to everyone who tuned in to watch this stream! Team Danganronpa values your support in these trying times. A shout-out to our sponsors: WcDonalds, Pepto Bismol, Big Bang Burger, Panta—“

“You’re broadcasting this.” Saihara hisses, volume increasing.

Takada tilts his head back, giving Saihara a patronizing smile. “Well, Saihara-san, your fans are extremely concerned for your well-being. Besides, your pre-game self signed the waiver giving us your full consent to being filmed and—“

Saihara can’t be here. Can’t listen to whatever Takada’s saying and have thousands of eyes on him and breathe for a second longer. “Get out.” His words come out dangerously quiet.

“Now, Saihara-san—“

“GET. OUT.” He’s screaming, voice scrapped and hoarse and hitched, hands clenched into two tight fists. A burning sensation wells up in his throat, his lower lip trembles dangerously.

“Please,” Saihara whispers. “Just leave me alone.”

Takada’s look of shock quickly morphs into one of satisfaction, like Saihara’s just given him exactly what he’d wanted. “If you insist, Saihara-san.” Takada steps out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a firm click.

The second the door is closed, Saihara starts frantically scanning the room for recording devices, eyes darting from wall to wall—taking in the peeling paint, the full-length mirror, the smoke detector—every crevice, every crook and cranny a potential hiding spot.

He inches to the edge of the bed, tries to push himself to his feet, but they buckle beneath him, and he collapses in a heap on the floor. Saihara curses under his breath. He tries to stand up, tries to move his limbs, only to find out his legs suddenly weigh fifty tons and they won’t stop shaking.

He can’t do this. Fuck, he can’t do this. But he has to, has to get up and do his job and find the cameras because he knows they’re watching him, they’re—

—they’re watching to make sure he doesn’t break any of the rules, to make sure he plays along with this twisted game, because God knows what—who—they’ll take from him next if he doesn’t abide—

Saihara gulps in air like he’s drowning, clutches his chest, face slick with tears—why—why is he crying?

—the florescent lights of the courtroom are blinding. They’re all arguing, throwing around meaningless accusations and assumptions, an entire cacophony of voices. He can’t make them quiet down, can’t make them shut up and listen, though every word is literally a matter of life or death. He can’t be the only person who understands that, right—

It’s loud. Too loud.

—nothing is real. Nothing he hoped for, bled for, killed for matters in the slightest. What was it all for, then? The answer doesn't come. Saihara Shuichi never existed, he continues to not. It was all just a lie in the end. A sick, sick joke. He hopes the universe got a good laugh. He’s—he’s—

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He’s fine. He’s safe. He’s alive.

“We survived…and that is the truth.”

In. Out.

It’s okay.

It has to be.

In. Out.

Saihara screws his eyes shut, and tries to focus on what he knows for sure is real:

The frigid coolness of the hospital floor against his legs, the crumple of blankets strewn around his feet, the scratchy texture of the sterile walls, the faint scent of iodoform. The fact that he’s still breathing.

He finally sighs tremulously as the episode stutters to a stop.

Saihara’s fine. Of course he is. Separating lie from truth, that’s his talent, after all: identifying the victim, identifying the course of events, identifying who’s going to be brutally executed—

In. Out.

He’s alright. He can do this. Saihara can do this.

(He can’t.)

Chapter Text

Before

The computer screen casts a harsh white glow over the cramped bedroom, illuminating the heap of dirty dishes piled by a corner, the wrinkled clothes strewn haphazardly across the floor, the anime posters covering the walls.

Next to the computer, hoards of partially-stacked papers lie scattered across the desk, like someone made a halfhearted attempt at organizing them, but gave up midway.

The room is completely silent except for the faint buzzing of air-conditioning, the clacking of fingers against a keyboard, and the occasional click of a cursor.

A soft knock sounds by the door. “Shuichi? Shuichi, honey? Dinner’s ready!” No response. “W-Well, I’ll just leave it here…”

When the footsteps have faded out of earshot, he opens the door by a crack, just wide enough to tug the tray of food inside. A yellow sticky note is pasted on top:

Remember to take your pills, sweetie!

He sneers, crumples up the paper, and tosses it out. Isn’t she getting tired of the act?

He puts the food aside for later, and returns to the screen, taking in the danganronpa_official.join homepage.

This is what he’s been working towards for the past three years—binge-watching all thirty-two seasons, pulling all-nighters to follow the remaining twenty, scorching gruesome images of the deaths into his mind, memorizing every insignificant piece of trivia, spending his college savings on limited-edition merch, counting down the years, then months, then days until he’s qualified to apply.

Wow, he realizes with mild surprise. I’ve wasted my entire life.

Eh. It was going nowhere anyways.

He’s written and memorized the audition script already, making sure to include every common trend spotted among past participants. The script paints him as the ideal interviewee, a perfectly pliant patchwork doll of tired tropes and Danganronpa cliches the writers can mould to their liking, mould into Ultimate Detective, Saihara Shuichi.

He can hardly wait.

In the end, he’s given everything to Danganronpa, not because his life depends on the killings and the drama and the splatters of pink, but because it’s all that’s remaining of his life.

Because when the protagonist comes through at the end of a class trial—as they always do—and the culprit is dragged off to some unspeakable punishment, screaming their throat raw, he thinks this might just be what religion feels like.

He looks over the form one more time before pressing submit. A final warning appears onscreen: By submitting this form, you are agreeing to accept the risks involved if selected as a contestant (included but not limited to emotional trauma, physical impairment, memory loss, permanent neurological damage, and death). If you are uncomfortable with any of the above, please withdraw your request immediately. View full details in Terms and Conditions.

A small puff of laughter escapes his lips.

He’s already given his life to Danganronpa. He doesn’t want it back.

The noose has already been tied. He never learned to undo dead knots.

The gun’s already pointed to his head. All he has to do now is fire.

He’s never been more certain of anything in his life as he pulls the trigger, and hits I understand (though he really, really doesn’t.) A notification pops up with a soft ping.

“#154 Saihara Shuichi’s Danganronpa Request Form” sent successfully.

After

day 1

A hospital attendant finds Saihara sprawled across the floor, slumped against the foot of his bed. His head is lolled back, and he stares blankly up at the ceiling, eyes dull. He’s been there for an hour—lying on the ground helplessly (pathetically) because his entire lower body is frozen and his legs are numb and he can’t get up.

The attendant doesn’t say anything, just lifts him up wordlessly and gingerly sets him back onto the bed. He mutters a small thanks. After he’s securely propped up against two pillows, the attendant, in her methodical, non-confrontational way, explains everything Shirogane and Takada left out in favor of putting on a show.

Saihara learns about the GSP, the Gopher Simulation Program, an ultra-realistic virtual reality simulator with a pod system. He learns about the memory replacement technology, an innovative device that converts physical memories into digital “cognitive files” which can be extracted, stored, and implanted. Both invented in 2005 for therapeutic purposes, both bought out by Team Danganronpa in 2015.

Saihara learns that he's in Saisei Hospital, an institution made specifically for Danganronpa in the outskirts of Tokyo. He learns that his limbs are experiencing severe bouts of muscle fatigue due to their prolonged period of dormancy. He learns that he’s contractually obligated to undergo a three-month mental and physical rehabilitation period.

“A lot of people don’t think about where the participants go once the show is over,” the attendant’s smile is a little sad, a little tired, a little wistful. “Well, this is it. This is where you go.”

Three months of rehabilitation, a lifetime of coping with debilitating trauma, all for two short weeks of reality television—it’d be funny if it weren’t so depressing.

He learns that the hospital staff are all members of Team Danganronpa’s Recovery Division, a section dedicated to “helping participants adjust to civilian life after their troubled experiences”.

Saihara thinks he hates them. Hates how patronizing they act, hates how they look at him with so much pity, hates how they’re hypocrites pretending to care when they’re part of the group that created the killing game in the first place.

Except, no one’s really dead, are they? It was all a simulation—everyone’s alive, everyone’s okay.

It was all in good fun.

No harm done.

None at all.

He’s gnawing his cheek bloody again, so he forces his attention back onto the attendant.

“We want the best for you,” she’s saying, and Saihara almost laughs out loud.

day 5

The staff doesn’t let him see any of the other survivors. A potential trigger may set back his recovery, they say, and Saihara’s emotional well-being is apparently a top priority now. There’s a first time for everything, he supposes.

Initially, he tries to fight back—Harukawa and Yumeno are his responsibility, his friends, all he has left—but the attendants remain dead set on their protocol, and Saihara begrudgingly obliges after a number of failed protests.

His days gradually settle into a comfortable routine—get out of bed, eat breakfast, attend physical therapy, eat lunch, rot in his room, eat dinner, talk to his psychiatrist, go to sleep, wake up screaming at the crack of dawn.

Saihara discovers, with some surprise, that he’s gotten so used to Monokuma’s morning announcements, it feels almost wrong to wake to complete silence, no new motives or murderous teddy bears, no constant fear for his life.

It’s frightening how easily people can adapt.

day ?

They assure him he’s safe. They assure him no one’s watching anymore. They assure him this is real.

He doesn’t know if he dares believe them.

day 7

His psychiatrist, who Saihara never bothered learning the name of, talks to him about meaningless, trivial things—the weather, contemporary art, his feelings. The whole time, Saihara doesn’t say any more than six words.

After a few days, his psychiatrist grows visibly frustrated. “I’m here to help you,” he says slowly, condescendingly. “But I can’t do that unless you’re willing to cooperate. No one has control over your actions but yourself. You have to be willing to open up and take that first step.”

“My friends.” Saihara mumbles.

“I’m sorry?”

He raises his voice. “I’ll talk more if you let me see my friends.” Ten words. He’s really overexerting himself today.

They make eye contact, and Saihara tilts his head in a wordless challenge. His psychiatrist stares back, unyielding.

A beat passes. Then two.

“We’ll let you see them after another week if your condition stabilizes.” He finally concedes, and the silent power struggle comes to a close.

Saihara smiles. He starts counting days.

day 14

They meet up in Harukawa’s room. She’s tried to fight—to kill—the attendants far too many times for their liking, so they’ve bound her good arm to the wall with leather restraints, rendering it completely immobile. Her pigtails are loose.

Yumeno’s already there, propped up on a pair of crutches too large for her, the top of her head strangely bare without the witch hat. Harukawa's eyes dart between them, like she’s not sure if they’re real, and lifts up her free hand in an awkward greeting.

The nurse who pushed Saihara’s wheelchair into the room leaves, closing the door behind her for privacy.

They take each other in.

Harukawa and Yumeno look terrible, all disheveled hair and wrinkled hospital gowns and dark circles. Saihara doubts he’s any better. It’s the first time he’s seen them since the end of the killing game, under that limitless artificial sky, and a lump of emotion wells up in his throat.

(It occurs to Saihara that they’re the only two people in the universe who will ever understand what he went through. It’s a little sad, a little lonely, but mostly comforting.

They all have the same glint in their eyes, he registers dully. The quiet, haunted look of someone who stumbled out of a fire, lungs racked with smoke, still breathing, but not quite alive.

Surviving and living. There’s a difference, he thinks. He would know.)

Harukawa, surprisingly, is the first to break the silence. “Do any of you want lemon drops?”

Saihara blinks. “What?”

“Lemon drops.” Harukawa repeats, deadpan. She rummages through her gown’s side pocket. “A nurse gave me lemon drops this morning. But I don’t like them, so…” She takes out two brightly-wrapped candies, then scowls, as if daring them to make a comment.

Saihara feels his lips curl into a soft, hesitant smile. “I’ll take one.”

“Me too!” Yumeno chimes in hastily, determined not to be left out. “Lemon drops are great for restoring MP.”

Harukawa grunts, and hands them one each.

“Thanks, Harukawa!” Yumeno accepts her candy cheerily. “Who knew Maki-chan was so nice?”

“Maki-chan”’s eyes narrow. “Do you want to die?”

“N-No, sorry.”

A comfortable silence settles over the room as they help themselves to the candies. 

Harukawa squints at Saihara, tilting her head slightly. “Huh. Your dye’s gone, Saihara.”

Saihara reaches up to touch his hair, confused. Dye? “I don’t dye my hair.” He doesn’t remember dying his hair at least, though his memory isn’t exactly the most reliable source.

“Take a look.” Harukawa gestures to the full length mirror by the door. Saihara moves over, and sure enough, his hair is almost completely black, only the ends retaining some traces of dark, faded blue. It looks…strange.

(yet somehow familiar.)

A note of hysteria sets in. “But I don’t dye my hair, I’ve never dyed my hair. It’s been this color since I was born. I swear it.” He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince, why he’s trying so hard to convince them—it’s just hair—but a chasm has already formed beneath his feet.

It dawns on him that people aren’t really born with navy-blue hair, are they? That’s not natural. Why hasn’t he questioned this before? Why hasn’t anyone pointed it out? Why did it seem so normal? I don’t know, he thinks, and his heart plummets. 

Harukawa glances at him uneasily, looking a little guilty. (Now that he thinks about it, Harukawa’s irises are more cinnamon than the striking crimson he always thought they were.) “There’s really no difference, Saihara. The colors were similar anyways.”

“Yeah,” he responds too quickly, too hollowly. “It’s fine. It makes sense that we look a lot more ordinary than we did in the simulation.”

Harukawa and Yumeno both flinch at the mention of simulation, and Saihara realizes too late that he’s broken one of their unspoken rules.

“I hope my hair isn’t dyed,” Yumeno says, after a brief pause, twirling a strand of dark auburn around her index finger. Her bob is a little longer than Saihara remembers it being in-game, lightly skimming over her shoulders. “I like how it looks.” 

“It probably isn’t, Yumeno-san,” Saihara’s voice finally stops shaking. “Reddish-brown is a natural hair color. And if it were dyed, it’d fade after a couple weeks, like mine. You don’t even have any roots showing.”

It’s nice, Saihara realizes, slipping back into that old familiar habit of reassuring others, playing hero, trying to do for them what he can’t do for himself.

Yumeno’s eyes shine. “You’re right, Saihara. I always knew I was a natural beauty!”

Saihara nods politely, then turns to Harukawa. “I’ve been wondering for a while. Are those board games on that shelf?”

Harukawa hums in affirmation. “My psychiatrist told me to—" her face scrunches. "—find something productive to do with my repressed anger.” Harukawa scowls, and her hand spasms, curling around a phantom neck. “We can play Poker, if you two want," she suggests, almost shyly.

Yumeno shakes her head. “I don’t know how to play card games.”

“You’re a magician.” Harukawa says incredulously.

“A mage. And don’t stereotype.”

“What about Chess?”

“I like Shogi better.”

“Life Game?”

“Anything but Werewolf.”

“I think we should play Uno—“

Harukawa’s and Yumeno’s heads whip around at the same time.

“No.”

“No way.”

Saihara wilts.

They play Monopoly.

day 16

Their “real" families visit.

Saihara doesn't recall much of his own parents—a hefty allowance every month, a dismissive slide of hand, an occasional we’ll be back next year. He does fondly remember his uncle, though, his kindness, his aptitude in solving cases, his never-ending patience.

The fact that Saihara will never see him again. 

(Because they’re all just faceless figures in the Ultimate Detective’s backstory, nonsensical plot devices. Because his life began with the killing game.)

A short, dark-haired woman is ushered through the door by two nurses. Her eyes dart nervously around the sterile room, a large fabric bag in hand. The visitor’s badge on her shirt reads Watanabe Yua.

This is my mom, Saihara tries telling himself. It doesn’t make it any less strange. Or awkward.

Watanabe’s anxious expression morphs into surprise, then delight when her gaze lands on him.

“Shuchi!” She throws herself onto him, and Saihara wills himself not to shrink back. “Are you alright? Have you been eating properly? Just look at how much weight you’ve lost! I know hospital food’s awful, but you still have to eat, you know. You’re a growing boy—" Saihara feels overwhelmed "—that reminds me, I brought a bento for you! You know I’m a terrible cook, but this turned out pretty decent! I even made the onigiri extra crispy, just the way you like it.” She beams brightly, hopefully, and Saihara desperately wishes he knew the right thing to say.

“I’m sorry,” he tries. Her eyes dim, and Saihara silently curses himself, but presses onwards, ripping off the bandaid. “I don’t know who you are.”

Watanabe’s smile crumples. The grip on the bag loosens, and she forces out a plastic laugh. “Right, right. The memory replacements, sorry. I probably shouldn’t have acted so…familiar.” Watanabe backs away, and she looks so miserable, a wet lump of guilt takes form in Saihara’s chest.

“So, you’re his—my mom?”

Watanabe grins sheepishly. “Well, stepmom, to be technical. Your father also wanted to drop by today, but there was a schedule conflict with one of his business conferences. You know how it is.”

Saihara thinks of the parents in his implanted memories, their overseas trips and glamorous parties and schedule conflicts. You know how it is. For once, he does.

“I’m glad,” Watanabe confesses in hushed tones. She smiles again, and it’s friendly, warm, motherly. “I was terrified when you first appeared on Danganronpa—with its reputation and all. I don’t know what I would do if you got hurt.” She exhales shakily. “But you’re here, you’re okay. So even if your memories still aren’t all back, I’m glad you’re safe, Shuichi. That’s all I can ask for.”

Watanabe’s still talking, but Saihara’s not listening anymore. All he can think is that he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be playing house with someone else’s mother because the woman in front of him is a complete stranger, and the voices in his head are screeching at him: liar, fake, imposter.

“Anyway—" Saihara snaps out of his reverie. "—here’s your phone back. You’ve probably been missing it.” Watanabe reaches into her pocket, pulling out a phone with a Danganronpa case, a Danganronpa strap, and three Danganronpa keychains.

“Oh. Yeah. Uh, thanks.”

Saihara takes it, trying not to let his revulsion show.

Not for the first time, Saihara wonders about who he used to be before gloved hands reached into his head, rearranged his memories, and moulded his mind like soft clay, creating…whoever he is now. He wonders what he found so enjoyable about watching teenagers kill each other. He wonders what could possibly justify signing up for a death game.

Saihara thinks of the audition clip, the manic look in other-Saihara's eyes, the promises of blood and murder and executions. Who are you? He asks.

He’s not sure he wants to know.

“They were nice,” Harukawa stabs a hole through her egg tart with a plastic fork. Blueberry jam splatters over the table. “I don’t get it. Why were they nice?”

Saihara distantly recalls Harukawa telling stories about her orphanage during training sessions, saying that her parents were gone before she could even remember, eyes glazed over, apathetic.

Her voice grows increasingly erratic. “They said they were proud of me. Me. Fucking imagine. A nice and delusional family, I guess.”

“I don’t think it’s unusual at all that they’re proud of you,” Saihara says, choosing his next words carefully. “You have a lot of admirable qualities, Harukawa-san.”

Harukawa scoffs, disbelieving. “Like what? Being a killer?”

Saihara winces.

He wishes Momota were here. Momota who always knew what to say and what to do, who always knew how to make Harukawa smile (not that she’d ever admit that), who was always so unfailingly, dazzlingly bright, the blinding light at the end of the tunnel.

He opts for a topic change. “What about your family, Yumeno-san?” She’s been uncharacteristically quiet the whole time, poking glumly at her rice.

“They were alright. I guess.” Yumeno looks at her plate wistfully. “I miss my mom. My real mom.”

Saihara and Harukawa exchange uncomfortable looks, unspoken words and bitter truths hanging in the air.

He should probably look through his phone. He should, but he doesn’t want to.

The Monokuma art on the phone case smirks up at Saihara. He swears it’s mocking him; its stupid black-and-white face is trying to scare him off, and it’s working.

It’s a phone case, Shuichi. Man up.

Suppressing a groan, Saihara picks it up from his desk, tapping it open. Immediately, the home screen flickers to life, displaying a Danganronpa wallpaper. Of course. It's that purple-haired girl, the first Ultimate Detective, Ki—Kira-something?

The phone’s locked with a six-digit passcode. Half through deduction and half through muscle memory, Saihara enters 110353. It unlocks with a click.

Saihara taps on the browser icon, then frowns when he realizes the hospital’s blocked his phone’s WiFi. Silently cursing them, he opens Photos instead, and clicks on the most recently taken image—a selfie.

It’s him. He’s wearing a plain baseball hat, dressed in all black, grinning proudly, brilliantly, the way Saihara hasn’t for a long time. Other-Saihara is holding up a pamphlet with neon pink font: CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE BEEN CHOSEN FOR DANGANRONPA’S 53RD SEASON!!! There’s a look in his eye that reminds Saihara of whenever Angie would ramble on about Atua--the uncanny fervor of a fanatic.

Fighting off a wave of nausea, Saihara sets his phone back down.

day 17

He can already taste the blood in his mouth as he pulls himself up from the hospital floor. He had bitten the inside of his lip when he hit the ground face-first, and it’s what he focuses on as he steadies himself on the hospital-issued crutches.

Physical therapy is exhausting. He’s nearing three weeks of it, and there’s been hardly any progress with his legs, the daily sessions giving him nothing except more bruises scattered across his scraped knees. He stumbles again, and the doubts begins seep in. 

Is he doing something wrong? Harukawa and Yumeno can already stand up on their own, so there must be something different, something defective about him. Are his legs going to be useless the rest of his life?

Why can’t I do anything right? 

Small steps, he reminds himself, forcing the thoughts out of his head, hobbling forward on his crutches, leaning slightly on the railing. Small steps.

day 20

It comes up casually, during one of their midnight Poker games with lemon drops and hot chocolate, the ones where they try to teach Yumeno how to play under the muted moonlight because the night sky is real and they’re free now. It comes up casually after they avoided talking about it for twenty days, an offhand comment thrown into the deck with a royal flush.

“I’m happy everyone’s alive again.” Yumeno says, unwrapping a lemon drop.

"Yeah," a light smile tugs at Harukawa's lips. “I always knew that idiot Momota was too stubborn to stay dead.”

Yumeno's eyes glimmer with an emotion Saihara can't name. “I want to thank Tenko when we meet up with them. And apologize. I wasn’t the nicest to her in there, even though she did so much for me.”

“Well, I want to punch that bastard Ouma in the face.”

Saihara shifts uneasily. He wants to warn them to lower their expectations; it’s Team Danganronpa, they won't just allow them to have a heartwarming reunion and leave them be--there's got to be a catch in there somewhere.

"So let's all work hard to escape this place together! And once we get out of here and make it to the outside world...why don't we all stay friends?”

Saihara flinches, hard. Why is he remembering that now?

“Whoever the mastermind is, we'll expose them and help everyone else escape! And when this is all behind us, we're gonna stay good friends! That's a promise, okay!?”

Friends…

"You guys better live! Don't go dying on me now! End this ridiculous killing game, survive, and get the hell out of this place! And then...be friends after you escape, okay? I think you'll all be the best of friends."

Against Saihara’s better judgement, against every rational thought in his head, against everything the killing game’s ever taught him, he hopes.

He hopes—

He hopes—

He hopes they’ll all be okay.

Saihara takes a deep breath, and allows himself to hope. Allows himself to smile. Allows dangerous, optimistic words to leave his mouth.

“I can’t wait to see them again.”

Chapter Text

The Ultimate Adventurer wakes up in a hospital bed. Strangers clad in white surround him, and it takes every ounce of self-control he has to keep from screaming, to maintain that fragile line between well-adjusted, laid-back, and utterly insane (like the fifth trial victim). 

“Who are you people?” He finally scrapes out, willing his voice to remain steady, mellow. “Where am I? Where’s Shirogane—“

Deja vu. 

It hits him like a ton of bricks, like the hammer the second culprit used to bash in the Ultimate Sculptor’s skull, like a shot-put ball from behind. He…He’s been here before, been in this bed, screamed at these figures, said those exact words. 

Shirogane—where is the Ultimate Survivor? He frantically scans his surroundings, panic clawing up his throat. She was just there, right next to him, staring blankly into space as the Ultimate Oneirologist was torn apart from limb to limb by Monokumas in onesies. She was just there, right next to him, because Danganronpa’s 52nd Season ended three minutes ago.

…Did it?

It did. 

“It’s alright, Amami-san,” a woman with a charcoal suit steps in. “We can explain.”

Deja vu. Because he’s heard that line before, and it’s a complete lie—nothing’s alright—not then, not now, not ever in any one of Amami Rantaro’s lives. When the woman launches into a convoluted explanation of virtual reality and pods and neurology, that foreboding feeling only intensifies.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

Deja vu. すでに見られる。Already seen.

The Ultimate Adventurer has lived through this before.

So, why can’t he remember?

September tumbles in with all the grace of a roomba on narcotics, and the previous month blurs into Saihara’s memory as an indistinct blotch of sterile rooms, medical coats, and prescription bottles.

He’s still adjusting. He’s still not used to the peace, the quiet, the lack of murders. He still thinks the nurses are slipping sleeping pills in his dinner, still quakes and gasps at the sight of sharp objects, still lies awake at four-a.m wondering if any of this is real, if he is real, but it’s a sting that’s numbing, an open wound that’s closing, a bloodstain that’s fading—or, at least he hopes so.  

(At the very least, he’s learning to hope again.)

It’s Day 32 when the announcement comes. They’re sat in some kind of office, a bespectacled doctor scanning them up-and-down from across the wooden desk, manicured nails tapping noisily on her clipboard. 

“We’re very happy with your progress the last month,” Tap. Tap. Tap. “So, we’ve decided that you’re healthy enough to continue the rest of the rehabilitation process with your fellow Ultimates. Starting tomorrow.” 

She looks at them expectantly, tentatively, like she’s not sure if they’ll burst out in celebration or have a nervous breakdown (which isn’t that out of the question).

They stare back at her in complete silence.

The doctor clears her throat awkwardly. “According to our protocol, we have to tell you about a, ah, certain complication concerning this adjustment,”—Saihara frowns, uneasiness tugging at his gut. He hasn't heard anything about that—“To put it bluntly, everyone who died has reverted to their original selves.”

“What do you mean?” Harukawa stands up abruptly, panic slicing into her words like throwing knives. Her eyes are wide, frenzied. “‘Original selves.’ What does that mean? What did you do to them?”

“Sit back down, Harukawa-san, I’ll explain.” The doctor arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Danganronpa has a policy that if you’re killed in-game, your implanted memories, your false Ultimate personality, and any recollection you have of this season’s events will be erased. The characters you’ve grown familiar with in the killing game don’t exist here. Everyone has returned to being the people they were pre-simulation.”

Oh. 

There’s a tingling, sweeping numbness that bleeds into Saihara’s limbs, into his bones, as the horror of the doctor’s words sinks in. 

Saihara doesn't know why he hoped for anything better. 

Yumeno’s lower lip trembles. “B-But you guys said. You said they’re alive. You said they’re okay. You said.”

“We told you that their physical bodies are unharmed. We never said anything about their memories or state of mind.”

“So, you lied,” Yumeno spits, words dripping with vitriol. “I hate liars.”

The doctor just sighs. 

“They don’t remember anything?” Saihara rasps, not trusting his voice to remain steady. “Not even a single trial?”

Her answer is short, cold, and brutally tears out his heart. “Nothing.”

Saihara’s expression crumples, and he must look devastated because the doctor’s gaze softens slightly. “After the rehabilitation ends, you three can decide if you want to get your pre-game memories back too.” She offers.

“That’s not the point.” An inane burst of laughter bubbles up in Saihara’s throat. “So, you’re saying that everyone is dead, after all.”

“Well,” the doctor says gently. “None of you were real in the first place.”

After the doctor dismisses them, Saihara excuses himself to his room, locks the door, and collapses on the bed, crutches clattering to the floor. 

Saihara isn’t shocked, isn’t let down, isn’t hurt by the revelation—he swears he’s not. He’s been anticipating some kind of drawback to the others being alive for a while now (it just makes sense—nothing in the killing game came easily, he doesn’t see why that would change now.) So, this isn’t a surprise to him. He won’t try to sleep his troubles away like Yumeno, or completely shut down like Harukawa. 

Saihara’s fine. He really is. He’s been anticipating the bitter blade of disappointment for a while now. He just didn’t expect it to sting this badly.

Scratch. Scratch. 

Saihara digs his nails into his arm, viciously yanking them across exposed skin. It’s become a habit of his—gnawing on his inner cheek, carving crimson crescents into his palms, clawing his arms bloody. Pain always helps him focus, drags him back from the darkest, most dangerous fissures of his mind, cementing him in the here-and-now.

Scratch. Scratch. 

Saihara has a lot of regrets about the killing game. He wishes he'd put an end to it sooner, much sooner, before anyone felt the need to kill. He wishes he’d been more of a leader, more persuasive, more like Akamatsu and Momota—glimmering beacons of charisma and optimism and hope that drew others, drew him, in like moths to a flame. (Though, they ended up burning themselves up too.)

Scratch. Scratch. 

Most of all, Saihara wishes he tried to understand everyone a little better, talked to them a little more. Then, maybe…maybe he could’ve prevented something, anything.

So, when the game was revealed to be a simulation, it’d seemed like a second chance, the do-over he dreamed of; I wish turned to I hope, and could’ve been turned to can be.

But he should know better by now.

Scratch. Scratch.

They’re gone. They’re gone she's gone, and nothing in the world can bring them back. The stars could plummet to the ground, the earth could stop spinning, the universe could turn itself inside out, and his classmates would still be dead. 

And Saihara would still be a lifetime too late. 

Scratch. Scratch.

Saihara isn’t shocked, isn’t let down, isn’t hurt by the revelation. He swears he’s not.

It's two. 

It’s two in the morning, the cold air stings sharp, and Saihara doesn't know what he’s doing on the hospital rooftop. Not dying—the area’s lined with glass railings too high to clamber over, and he wonders what must’ve happened in the past for the staff to install them here.

The darkened sky hangs overhead, and Saihara can’t help but think of Momota. He always does, whenever someone mentions something even remotely space-related—it’s stupid, like a single guy claimed the entire universe. 

Typical Momota, Saihara thinks.

He feels like crying. 

“What are you doing here?”

Saihara flinches, and whirls around to see Harukawa sitting on the floor, leaning against the fence.

“Harukawa-san? Why are you up so late? I-It’s two.”

Harukawa’s eyes narrow. “I asked first.” 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he confesses, murmuringly, like there’s anyone here to hear him apart from Harukawa and the whistling wind. “Too many thoughts.”

“Oh,” Harukawa looks away from him. “Well, I’m stargazing.”

Saihara follows her gaze upwards. The sky is completely black. “That’s nice.”

“I had a nightmare,” Harukawa says, suddenly defensive. “So, I wanted to come out and…look at space, I guess.” Her face falls. “I didn’t know there weren't any stars out.”

Saihara feels a slight twinge of guilt. “You can kinda see some? If you squint?”

Harukawa snorts, unconvinced. “Take a seat, Saihara.”

Saihara puts his crutches aside and sits down next to Harukawa. An uncomfortable silence settles over them, tense and crackly and smothering. Talking with Harukawa has been like walking on eggshells since they woke up, like navigating a social landmine of awkward greetings and stilted replies now that their common thread is gone. 

It's easier when Yumeno is there to ease it out. It’s always easier with three people.

“I get nightmares too, sometimes.” Saihara blurts out.

Some of the ice in Harukawa’s eyes thaws. “About what?”

“The game. Everyone who died. Everyone I killed.”

Harukawa turns sharply towards him. “You didn’t kill anyone.”

“I did,” Saihara insists, the guilt, the grief, the exhaustion seeping into his voice. “Akamatsu-san, Tojo-san, Shinguji-kun, Gonta-kun,”—Momota-kun—“they’d all be alive if it weren’t for me. They’d still exist.”

“And the rest of us would be dead. There was no other choice, Saihara.” Harukawa’s gaze is steady, assured. “You’re not a killer. I would know.”

Saihara digs his nails into his palms frustratedly. “There was a choice. There’s always a choice, some alternative—I just didn’t look hard enough. That was my choice.”

“But you didn’t do anything!”

His eyes burn. “That’s the problem.”

Harukawa deflates.

“My nightmare was about him,” she whispers after some time, and Saihara’s chest constricts because there is only ever one him between Harukawa and Saihara. “His corpse, the way it...tumbled out of that rocket, that stupid smile on his stupid face.” 

“I miss him.” Saihara croaks out.

“You shouldn’t.” Harukawa spits. Saihara blinks, taken aback. “He was an idiot. A lying, shit-for-brains idiot. He always talked about being the hero, beating the mastermind, saving everyone,” her breath hitches. “He couldn't even save himself. Idiot.”

“That’s…a little harsh.” 

“It’s true.”

Saihara tilts his head back, takes in the starless sky stretching on limitlessly, eternally. Compared to it, he feels terribly small.

“I still miss him," Saihara says. "I miss how he'd call us sidekicks and drag us to all those training sessions,” an edge of wistfulness crawls into his voice. “Like that time he made us do a hundred push-ups each, but then it turned out he faked all of his—ha, remember?”

“Don’t.”

“Or, when you taught him how to assemble a shotgun, and how he freaked out because he thought there were ghosts, a-and when he told us to believe in ourselves because he believed in us,” Saihara's voice cracks. “Do you remember?”

“It wasn’t a shotgun,” Harukawa murmurs absently before regaining her composure, slipping back into the well-worn armor of cynicism. “There’s no point to this, Saihara. You heard the doctor. Momota isn’t real anymore, he won’t do any of those things ever again. Reminiscing is just going to make the pain worse.”

I know, Saihara wants to cry out, I know. Instead, he says, “You care too much about pain.”

Harukawa looks at him tiredly. “And you care too little.”

“That’s not…untrue,” Saihara lets out a small puff of breath, grimaces, and slumps back against the wall. “I miss Momota-kun,” he repeats, the words thick and heavy and bitter on his tongue. “I miss being a sidekick.”

A kaleidoscope of emotions flickers across Harukawa’s face. She finally settles on honesty. “I miss him, too,” Harukawa admits, like it’s a surprise to anyone. “I was stupidly happy. When I thought he was alive again—but now,” she laughs bitterly, “he’s clearly not as stubborn as I thought.”

“I don’t think you can overcome death with just stubbornness."

“Momota could do it,” Harukawa says with conviction. “If it’s him.”

Saihara can’t bring himself to disagree. 

“I—” Harukawa freezes, stuttering like the words are stardust glued to her throat. She forces them out. “I’m sorry for what I said just now. I shouldn't tell you how to grieve.” Harukawa exhales shakily. “I don’t know how to deal with everything, to be honest.”

Saihara shifts wearily. “Yeah, me neither.”

“I loved him, you know?”

“I know.” That makes two of us. 

Silence falls over them again. Harukawa closes her eyes, then slowly, slowly, leans her head against his shoulder. Saihara almost flinches back, startled, before relaxing and hesitantly wrapping an arm around her.

They stay like that for a while.

“We’re here.” The counselor stops by a bland-looking door labeled 635, then turns to them with a sympathetic expression. “If any of you need some time to prepare first…”

Saihara fiddles with the bandages on his left wrist. “I’m good.”

“Yup.” Yumeno agrees, eyes swollen. 

Harukawa just shakes her head.

The counselor sighs, but they don't sound surprised. “Alright. Here goes.” They pull the door open, and Saihara pretends the action doesn’t make his heart skip a beat. Or a thousand.

Saihara takes a deep breath, and hobbles in tentatively. 

Here goes. 

…

There.

They’re there. 

They’re there. 

Amami’s lounging on one of the sofas, making idle conversation with Shinguji; Momota’s near the back, slumped against a wooden stool; Angie, Tenko, Iruma are clustered in the front of the room, near a monitor. Hoshi and Tojo, Gonta and Ouma, Akamatsu…

(If this is a dream—another fictional story, another lie—Saihara hopes he never wakes up.)

Something like guilt and grief and joy swamps him. They’re not the same. Saihara tells himself furiously, they’re not his Akamatsu and Momota and Ouma, but there’s something about seeing his classmates alive and animated and breathing, he can’t keep his throat from clogging up, can’t keep his stupid eyes from stupidly prickling. 

(Shirogane and Kiibo are nowhere to be seen.)

The counselor motions them to all sit in a circle of chairs, and Saihara distantly feels his limbs move on their own. It's even worse up close, where he can see enough small differences to convince himself they're not hallucinations. 

The counselor smiles saccharinely, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil. “Most of you don’t know each other, so let’s start with self-introductions. Would you like to begin, Chabashira-san?”

Yumeno freezes entirely next to him.

“Me?” The Ultimate Aikido Ma—no, Tenko, just Tenko—squeaks. “Uh, sure, okay. I’m Chabashira Tenko, I’m sixteen. Owari’s my favorite character, from SDR2. Nice to meet you!”

The counselor nods approvingly. “Thanks for going first, Chabashira-san. Amami-san! You’re up next.”

“Ah, alright,” Amami unfolds his arms and leans back, donning the same air of nonchalance he had in the game. “I’m Amami Rantaro. Ultimate Adventurer…or not, I guess.”

Saihara’s brows knit together. “You remember your talent?”

“It’s one of the only things I remember,” Amami smiles hollowly. “I have no memory of anything past the sixth trial—the fifty-second sixth trial in May. I don’t know who any of you people are, actually.” He chuckles lightly, and it sounds just a little hysterical. 

“Oh,” Saihara frowns, shifting uneasily in his seat. “I’m sorry. That must be…unsettling.”

Amami hums lowly in acknowledgement, and the counselor hurriedly gestures to the next person—the former Ultimate Inventor.

“I’m Iruma Miu. Please take care of me,” she says shortly, and Saihara can’t help notice that this Iruma is much more subdued than her in-game counterpart.

Tenko’s expression lights up. “Wait—Iruma Miu? Like, the teen model?”

A flash of irritation flits across Iruma’s face, but it’s gone in an instant. She cracks a bashful, practiced smile. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m such a big fan!” Tenko gushes. “You looked gorgeous in the last July shoot! Not like, attractive gorgeous—wait, shit, that came out wrong—I mean you’re attractive, but not to me, specifically. 'Cause I'm not like, you know.” She laughs uncomfortably. “Y-You’re super pretty. That’s all I meant.”

Iruma looks confused. “Thank you…?”

They make their way around the circle, and there’s a strange sense of deja vu that crawls over Saihara as his dead friends take turns introducing themselves. It’s like waking up in the Ultimate Academy all over again. Two weeks of getting to know each other and blood and tears erased with a click of a button.

The introductions themselves are nothing special - just stock “Hi, I’m…” phrases sixteen times over, followed by soft murmurs of acknowledgement from everyone else. Nothing like their first meetings in the Ultimate Academy, nothing like the volume, theatrics, and brilliance Saihara grew attached to. Something tight and uncomfortable coils in his gut when he realizes interacting with these people will never feel like a ridiculous fever dream, not like it did with the Ultimates. 

Saihara finds himself staring at Akamatsu the whole time, taking in her bored expression, the bandages around her throat. Something shoots daggers up his chest, and Saihara thinks, if he shuts off his mind, he can pretend that the Akamatsu sitting across him is the Ultimate Pianist, that they still exist in the same universe. 

(He doesn’t even dare look at Momota.)

Once introductions are over, they’re given some time to socialize. Saihara thinks about approaching Akamatsu. He doesn’t. 

“Saihara,” he turns to see Amami, pale green gaze fixing on him with unnerving intensity. “You’re a survivor. You remember everything from the fifty-third killing game.”

“Y-Yeah?” 

"So, you have to know Shirogane Tsumugi, right?” Amami takes a step forward, and for the first time, Saihara sees the wild panic blazing in his eyes. “She’s the girl who survived with me.”

“I know her,” Saihara avoids his gaze. “The Ultimate Cosplayer. She was in the killing game with us.”

She also bludgeoned Amami with a shot-pull ball, but Saihara doesn’t think he should mention that now.  

“Ultimate Cosplayer, huh?” The corner of Amami’s mouth quirks up. “Yeah, that checks out.” He takes another step forward, smile wiped clean off his face, voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “What happened to her? Why isn’t she here? Is she hurt?”

“I don’t know," Saihara’s eyes dart around the room nervously, stumbling into a wall. "C-Can step back a bit?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Amami moves away, dipping his head apologetically. “I guess I’m more anxious than I’d like to admit. Shirogane was--" a strange look flutters over his face. This time his laugh is less desperate, more pained. "--like a little sister to me.”

“Oh,” Saihara shifts awkwardly. “Well, I’m sure she’s alright. I don’t think Team Danganronpa would let anything serious happen to her. They care about their public image too much.”

Besides, she's their lapdog. 

“I hope so,” Amami’s face twists into a weary, uncomfortably familiar expression. “Shirogane’s all I have left.”

Saihara’s by the supply closet, retrieving more bandages when he overhears the conversation between Tenko and Yumeno. 

“You talk differently.” Yumeno says, pouting. 

“What do you mean?” Tenko giggles nervously. “I talk normally.”

Yumeno frowns. “No, you say ‘I talk’ instead of ‘Tenko talks’.”

It takes a moment for her words to register. 

“I spoke in third-person?!” Tenko frantically fans her face. “Oh god, that’s so embarrassing! They made me one of those characters?” 

Yumeno’s hands clench into fists. “Tenko isn’t a character!”

Tenko scoffs. “Sure, and magic is real.”

Saihara internally sighs as Yumeno’s lips split into a bright grin. “See, now you get it!” Then, she shrinks, chewing her lip nervously. “Just to be sure, Tenko’s feelings are still the same, right?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, I know Tenko’s a little different now,” Yumeno looks down at her shoes. “But you still want to protect me, right? I’m still your favorite, right?” Her voice warbles. “Tenko still loves me, right?” 

“L-Lo—w-wha—I don’t even know you!”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Saihara quickly leaves. 

“Hey! Wait up! Hey you—Harumaki!”

Harukawa whips around, heart stuttering to a stop. “What did you just call me?”

“Aha, I knew that’d get you!” Momota—ex-luminary, beaming, living Momota grins. “Harumaki, get it? ‘Cause your last name’s Harukawa and your first name’s Maki. Heh.”

Harukawa stares at him blankly. She’s most definitely not fighting back the urge to cry. 

“Anyway, I noticed you were looking at me funny back there," his features contort into a dark scowl. "Got anything you wanna say?”

Harukawa almost laughs in his face. Of course, she has things to say to Momota--

Why did you lie? Why didn't you tell me about the plan? Why didn’t you tell me about anything?

I loved you. I love you. I’d kill for you—the real you—to call me a goddamn spring roll again.

So, come back. Please .

I miss you so much it hurts.

--but she's taking every word to the grave. 

 The ex-assassin deadpans, “That beard makes you look like an idiot,” and spins on her heel. 

There are no stars that night, either. 

Chapter Text

“You’re amazing, Yumeno-san!”

“Tenko will protect you forever!”

“It seems you are still too shy to show your emotions, Yumeno-san. What a waste…you have the richest heart of all.”

“Yumeno-san, let Tenko say this one thing: expressing your feelings is perfectly natural, you shouldn’t feel ashamed at all…train your heart by crying, laughing, and venting your anger—you’ll feel much better!”

“Okay, everyone! See you guys after the seance!”

…

“L-Lo—w-wha—I don’t even know you!”

“I don’t even know you!”

I—don’t—even—

Yumeno has been crying a lot recently.

Her five-year-streak of violently avoiding anything that could make something bubble up in her throat stuttered to an abrupt stop after the third trial, when every terrifying emotion came flooding out with the tears, and Yumeno allowed herself to feel more than ever before because that’s what Tenko—now dead and gone and stuffed in the Academy’s freezer—would want.

She remembers the razor-edged blade of grief carving a permanent home in her chest when it sunk in that Tenko will never cry out Yumeno-san again, the bitter pang of regret when the realization came too little too late—I love you, too. She remembers the warmth of Gokuhara’s arms as he carried her to her room, the soft, encouraging words of her classmates as they comforted her; she remembers thinking maybe, just maybe, this is okay.

More than half of them are dead now. 

Contrary to popular belief, Yumeno isn’t stupid. The double-meanings and half-truths of her friends’ more implicit words fly over her head sometimes, but she understood the painful finality of it all when the doctor told them their classmates reverted to their original selves. 

Still, if there’s one thing Yumeno’s good for, it’s stubbornly clinging onto people, beliefs, and delusions even when every thread of common sense screams otherwise. Though Yumeno knew talking to the Neo-Aikido Master again was impossible, the simulation reveal had been the first silver lining she's gotten in a long, long time, and she wasn’t ready to let go just yet. 

Yumeno wanted to believe if she just hoped hard enough, Tenko could still be there. The Ultimate Mage wanted to believe a miracle could happen. 

And the girl she met in the hospital looked and sounded and acted so much like Tenko, Yumeno couldn’t help confronting her in the hallway, couldn’t keep those stupid words from spilling out of her stupid mouth—

“I don’t even know you!”

Oh god, why did Yumeno do that? She just had to go and say the weirdest, worst things—like she always does—and now everything’s ruined. 

Yumeno has been crying a lot recently, so maybe that’s why the tears come so easily now, why she collapses in a trembling heap in the empty hallway, salt on her tongue, heavy sobs racking her frame. Anyone can walk in at any moment, and it’s embarrassing—Yumeno should at least have the dignity to cry alone in her room—but her limbs feel unmovable, and she thinks it’d be easier to curl up, choke on tears, and stop being alive. 

Tenko’s gone forever, isn’t she?

The doctor is right, that girl is right; in this world, Tenko is a fictional character, collections of tropes, code, artificial memories, even though her skin had been soft and touchable and human when their fingers interlaced, even though her hand had felt so warm. 

Tenko’s gone forever, and Yumeno can’t even say thank you. 

(Much less do you maybekindajustalittlebit want to try being more than friends?)

She sobs harder. 

“Yumeno-san, is it?”

Yumeno recoils violently, using the sleeve of her gown to rub over her tearstained face. Her head snaps up, her vision clears, and a chunk of something putrid and rotten lodges itself in the back of her throat when recognizes the person standing over her. 

“It’s pretentious of me to make assumptions, and I apologize if I’m overstepping any boundaries, but are you…in need of any assistance?” Shinguji Korekiyo steps forward, faux concern plastered over his bare features, and all Yumeno can see is blood-red lipstick, the blade in his hands, Tenko and Angie dead on the floor. 

Please, not again—she can hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears—never again. 

Yumeno’s stomach lurches. She needs to get away, she needs to get him away. 

“Don’t touch me!” Her voice comes out high-pitched, desperate. “Don’t you—don’t you f-fucking dare, you murderer, you sis-con creep“

Yumeno might be shamelessly reusing Iruma’s old insults, but it seems effective as Shinguji takes a step back, clearly startled. “I’m sorry?”

(“Apologize, apologize, apologize, apologize—“)

A tiny, muffled part of Yumeno knows she’s being irrational, that it’s not really Shinguji she’s mad at, but the third trial is still a fresh, gaping wound, and the sight of him has just doused it in salt. She needs to get away. 

“If you come near me again,“ Yumeno pulls herself up to her feet, forcing her words to remain steady, placid, even with the panic mauling at her lungs. “I’ll kill you.” 

She means it.

They lock eyes—her gaze challenging, his frighteningly blank. The interaction feels almost surreal, but the white-hot hatred surging through Yumeno is tangible and scalding and filling. For a satisfying moment, she allows herself to indulge in pure, unadulterated spite. It’s his fault; his fault she lost her best friends (her first friends), his fault she lies awake at midnight thinking about what she could’ve, should’ve, done to save them, his fault Tenko doesn’t love her anymore.

If only he died first, she thinks bitterly. 

“You could’ve simply told me to go away,” the serial killer says stiffly, breaking the stilted silence. He strides away, and Yumeno refuses to let herself feel guilty. 

Yumeno sleeps fitfully that night, her dreams full of katanas, anthropologists, a Neo-Aikido Master who smiled brighter than a thousand suns and looked at her like she was magic. 

“You were the protagonist, right?”

Saihara freezes next to the buffet stand, body pulling taut at the last voice he wants to hear. Team Danganronpa suggested eating meals together as part of the rehabilitation process, and now breakfast is more uncomfortable than it has right being. “Excuse me?” 

“The ahoge gave it away.” Ouma Kokichi supplies helpfully.

Saihara already observed this version of Ouma in Room 635 the other day. There’s the same incessant fidgeting, same sharp, calculating intelligence; this one is just…quieter, tenser, more easily forgettable—not shy, but reserved, like an elite restaurant table only a select few are allowed access to, his defensive walls held up by contemplative silence instead of fake laughter and cruel immaturity. 

“Team Danganronpa never mentioned anything about a ‘protagonist’,” Saihara replies awkwardly. “And there’s nothing special about me besides my talent, so I probably wasn’t—“

“Now that we’ve established that,” Ouma cuts him off. “How did you get the show cancelled?”

Saihara draws back, startled, remembering the sixth trial, the final vote. They won. Saihara keeps forgetting that. “I can’t tell you about anything that happened in-game.” He says stiffly. 

“Can’t, or won’t?” Ouma’s voice is light, but Saihara can't help feeling faintly threatened. “Well, what about my character? What was I like? That doesn’t count as something that ‘happened in-game’, right?” Saihara swears there's a tinge of mockery in his mild tone.

He’s half-tempted to respond a two-faced sack of shit, but that hardly does the supreme leader justice. Ouma was a walking contradiction; he hated lies, yet was the living embodiment of one, he wore the title of a villain like a badge of honor, yet gave his life trying to end the killing game. Ouma was a nuisance, an enemy, and an ally. Ouma was incomprehensible. 

Sometimes, Saihara thinks he hates Ouma. Other times, he wishes he’d gotten to know him better. 

(A single world scrawled next to his photo on the cork board. Trustworthy?)

“I couldn’t understand you,” Saihara says, shoving down flashes of another life. “But I would’ve liked to.”

Ouma stares at him blankly. “What kind of vague—“

“Saihara!” Harukawa calls to him from across the room, waving him over. She doesn’t look pleased. 

He’s torn between feeling relieved and disappointed and terrified of Harukawa as he turns to Ouma apologetically. “Sorry, I should probably get going.”

Ouma’s eyes flicker over him, and Saihara gets the distinct impression he’s being evaluated somehow. “See you around, Ultimate Detective-san.”

“Why were you talking to that lying fuck?” Harukawa asks caustically when he sits down. 

Saihara winces. “Don’t call him that. This Ouma shouldn’t be held accountable for what he did in-game. They’re different people.”

“Not really,” Yumeno comments idly. Her eyes are rimmed with red. “My therapist said that it’s impossible to create an entirely new personality. The fake memories just exaggerate traits that are already there. That’s what the auditions were for.” 

“Exactly,” Harukawa casts a scalding look over the entire cafeteria, their ex-classmates. “No one can change that much.”

It’s not until hours later that it occurs to Saihara he never told Ouma anything about being the Ultimate Detective, not even during yesterday’s introductions.

.

There is a monstrous, gaping mouth at the center of Akamatsu’s chest. It grows, gnaws at her insides, writhes experimentally, and never stops screaming, never stops devouring. She participated in Danganronpa to sew its lips shut, but when Akamatsu came to, the void was still there, and she still had a pulse. 

Signing up for Danganronpa is signing away your existence, consenting to death one way or another. You’ll either wake up a different, better person or not wake up at all. No one really survives Danganronpa—everyone with half a brain knows that. And yet.

“How am I here?” Akamatsu had pressed the hospital staff for answers. “I’m not an official survivor, and I have all my pre-game memories…” 

The fifty-third season had been different, they explained. Because of ethical concerns brought to public attention after the excessively gory fifty-second finale, Team Danganronpa used a highly advanced VR simulator to replicate the killing game experience for the new season. Since season fifty-three is the only killing game that took place within a simulation, none of the deaths were permanent (good news for everyone except those who auditioned as a suicide attempt), she is very lucky.

Akamatsu didn’t feel lucky then, just disappointed she didn’t win the killing game, but the bitterness—like everything else—withered away after an hour or so, blurred into the rest of the monochrome, leaving nothing but a sour aftertaste in its place. Now she's just bored. 

“I don’t think I'm traumatized. My throat’s just a little hoarse. Can I go home?” She remembers asking an attendant on the second day of her institutionalization. 

(That was a lie. Akamatsu’s throat was—is—more than a little hoarse. It throbs and pulsates and burns, scorching with agony whenever she talks louder than a whisper, but that’s nothing a few hundred hours of sleep can’t fix.)

The attendant had sputtered, going off on a tangent about repressed trauma and reintegration and how some wounds are invisible to the eye, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need tending to. 

In short, she’s stuck here.

Around the ninth day, a nurse praised her for her outstanding performance in the fifty-third season, and Akamatsu called her a stupid cunt just to see what’ll happen. She thinks she was supposed to feel something when the nurse burst into tears.

(“What are you sniveling for?” She tilts her head in faux confusion. “Stop overreacting—I’m just telling the truth. Don’t you have any dignity as an adult?”)

She thinks she was supposed to feel something.

Akamatsu has been in the hospital for almost a month when she meets the other ex-participants. The majority of them are nothing special, just gloomy and quiet and awkward—fearless in the face of death, but terrified of talking to strangers. Typical Danganronpa fans. 

The three survivors are a different matter. Akamatsu has heard the horror stories about ex-Danganronpa contestants, old Ultimates trapped in an entirely foreign world. Though PR teams try their best to enforce confidentiality, almost every detail of the former participants’ later lives are publicized by paparazzi, plastered over tabloids and headlines. While some go on to pave lavish, successful lifestyles with their newfound fame and fortune, more descend into vicious cycles of addiction and self-destruction, unable to outrun memory, winding up either in a straitjacket or a coffin.

That's likely where the survivors from this round will end up, too. They unsettle Akamatsu, more than she’s willing to admit (Ultimates, fictional characters, in the real world; it’s basically dimensional travel), especially that one dark-haired boy who kept staring at her with unnerving intensity during introductions. Fucking creep, Akamatsu thinks with thinly-disguised unease. What, did they plot a murder together or something?

Well, no use thinking about it now. 

“We’re going to watch the final season,” a nurse announces to the cafeteria when breakfast is over. “So that everyone can get caught up on what happened these past weeks. If you would follow me to the screening room…”

The final season. Danganronpa’s actually over. Akamatsu isn’t grieving, but it is a loss. 

The screening room turns out to be an empty hospital room with fifteen chairs arranged in neat rows around a projector positioned towards a blank wall. Akamatsu chooses a seat near the back between Iruma Miu and a tall, spiky-haired boy. 

The boy—Momota, she vaguely remembers his name being—snarls. “Who the fuck said you could sit here?”

“Can I sit here?” She asks slowly, with far more patience than he deserves. 

Momota shrugs, still scowling. “Whatever.”

Akamatsu side-eyes him while settling into the chair. “Dumbass,” she mutters blithely. 

“The hell did you call me?” Momota leaps up from his chair, lips tugging downwards. 

“Are you deaf and braindead?” She stares at him, unimpressed. “You wasted everyone's time trying to come off as intimidating, can you be that insecure—”

“Don’t think I won’t fuck you up just ‘cause you’re a girl—“

“Both of you, shut up,” Harukawa, the umber-eyed survivor, cuts them off icily. “The show’s starting.”

Akamatsu reluctantly turns her attention to the front wall as a screen rolls down. From the corner of her eye, she sees Momota doing the same. 

The projector flickers to life, cheerful music starts playing as Danganronpa’s logo flashes across the screen in a splatter of Pepto-Bismol. Akamatsu distantly registers her fingers tapping on her lap alongside the beat; she’s been doing that a lot lately. It’s not a habit she remembers picking up before Danganronpa. 

The episode begins with Akamatsu’s character tumbling out of a locker, dressed in pastel shades, music notes clipped across her tresses, a bounce in her step, and a bright gleam in her eye. The protagonist, the real one realizes with marvel and disgust and inferiority. 

Akamatsu watches herself run from the Exisals, trade introductions with the other Ultimates (“Holy shit, I’m awesome,” Iruma whispers next to her), try to build up the Ultimate Detective’s confidence with constant affirmations (Huh. So that was their relationship), gradually cementing her role as the group’s gallant leader, guiding them through that dismal tunnel over and over, keeping them all from falling into despair.

The girl onscreen is kind, charismatic, persistent. Akamatsu feels sick to her stomach. 

The episode ends at the first body discovery—the camera pans out to reveal Amami Rantaro sprawled across the library floor in a pool of his own blood, dramatic static blares from the speakers. The screen fades to black, and end credits roll. 

Akamatsu looks around at everyone else. They’re practically vibrating. 

“What the hell, that was so cool!” The former Ultimate Maid, Tojo, says, breaking the staggering silence. 

“Can you believe it?” Angie trills, hands clasped together. “It’s us! Like, actually us.”

“Akamatsu-san, you were amazing!” Tenko beams at her. “Danganronpa hasn’t had a female protagonist since Despair Girls.”

“Pretty ironic for the Ultimate Survivor to die first,” Akamatsu muses, mostly to herself. 

“Standard Danganronpa,” Shinguji responds brittlely. “They trick the audience into thinking a character is important, then kill them off at the first trial. Danganronpa did that last season too, with the Ultimate Executioner.”

“Dammit, Amami,” Momota sighs defeatedly. “I had a bet going with some classmates that you’d survive until the third trial. You’ve cost me three-hundred yen.”

Amami chuckles lightheartedly. To his credit, he seems incredibly relaxed for someone who just saw their own corpse. “I’ll make sure to pay you back with interest.”

“Brutal way to go,” Iruma says sympathetically. She’s been in a lighter, more talkative mood ever since her character was introduced. “Blunt-force trauma is messed up.”

Angie jabs a thumb towards the Ultimate Detective. “Five-hundred yen says pretty boy over there did it.”

“No, Akamatsu killed him,” Ouma says quietly, yet firmly. This is the first time Akamatsu has heard him speak outside introductions. “Detective-san is obviously still alive, and Akamatsu had the perfect opportunity to roll the shot-put ball down an air chute when he left to check on the buzzer. The camera was positioned strangely in that scene, too. It’s a classic case of the fake-out protagonist.” 

Angie puffs out her cheeks. “Fine, I take back what I said—my vote totally goes to Kaede. A pianist-themed execution just sounds waaay too cool. Do you think she’ll get crushed by her instrument? That'd be awesome.”

The Ultimate Detective flinches so hard Akamatsu notices from three rows back. “Don’t speak about her death like that,” there’s a wild look in Saihara’s eye and an edgy panic to his voice. “Akamatsu-san never killed anyone, she’s done nothing wrong. She’s the best person I’ve ever met.”

Akamatsu can’t help but scoff, recoiling in disgust. “Please, Saihara. You knew me for like, two weeks max.”

“You’re not her.” He spits venomously, reflexively. “You’re nothing like her.” 

Instantly, Saihara pales, clamping his jaw shut 

“How much are you willing to bet against Akamatsu surviving this chapter and becoming the fifth culprit?” Momota grins challengingly at Ouma. 

Ouma’s response is instantaneous. “One thousand yen. Easy.” 

Angie nods vigorously. “I’m going with Kokichi, he seems a lot smarter.”

“Hey!”

“I don’t understand,” Yumeno’s expression is more devastated than enraged as she turns to face her ex-classmates. “How can you act like this is just a game show? You were—they were real people, real deaths.”

“I guess you wouldn’t get it,” Angie’s sunny exterior vanishes in an instant. If looks could kill, the Ultimate Mage would be six feet under. “Danganronpa is a game show. No one’s actually getting hurt, especially in this season. Stop acting so self-righteous.”

“Yeah, what about hot pink blood is real to you?” Momota jeers. 

“It was red,” Harukawa speaks up.

“Huh?”

“The blood. They must’ve edited it later for censorship,” she stares vacantly at the projector screen as the credits scroll past sixteen names. “But it was red for us, in the simulation. It was always red.” 

Saihara is waiting in front of her room when she gets back from the screening room. He jumps a little when she appears, and stumbles backward, knocking into a wall. “G-Good afternoon, Akamatsu-san,” he meets her gaze bashfully. It’s almost cute. “I wanted to apologize.”

Akamatsu examines him judgmentally. “You can kiss me.”

“What?”

“That’s what you really want, right?” She continues nonchalantly. “No need for this fake apology bullshit. Just get it over with and stop blocking the entryway.”

“I don’t—”

“You don’t want to kiss me?”

“No—yes—maybe, but that’s not what I came here for,” Saihara flushes. “W-What I mean to say is, I’m sorry for snapping at you back there,” he composes himself. “My emotions got that the better of me, I didn’t mean to push my unresolved issues onto you. We barely know each other, and I stepped out of line. I’m sorry.”

Something dark and thorny inside her twists. Despite his words, Saihara clearly wants her to react a certain way, wants her to take his hand and tell him that she forgives him, that everything’s going to be alright. Why settle for Akamatsu (the boring, miserable one) when you’ve fallen for her rose-tinted reflection? Akamatsu looks at Saihara, shifting nervously, waiting for a response, and what she hates above all is when others look at her like they still expect something. 

“That’s meaningless coming from someone with a preprogrammed personality, ” Akamatsu keeps her tone indifferent, her words cruel. “Maybe try again when you have free will.”

Akamatsu can pinpoint the moment his face drops. She anticipates the tears and yells and visceral emotion, but Saihara just stares. “Do you really believe that?” He sounds genuinely curious. 

“I’m telling you to fuck off.” She moves towards the door. 

“I know.” He doesn’t budge.

There are a few moments of tense, strangled silence.

“Well, free will is entirely subjective,” she gives in. “There’s no set definition for it, so I can’t be an objective judge of yours. With theories like determinism, incompatibilism, and Steiner’s thesis of ‘moral imagination', it’s an ever-evolving debate—even Nietzsche spoke of the illusion of choice,” she pauses, gathering her thoughts. “I don’t know if you have free will,” Akamatsu tells the truth. “But I don’t think it matters.” I don't think most things matter. 

“I thought you'd be the type to like philosophy,” Saihara says. 

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Just an observation.” A trace of a smile flutters over his features, and oh—it’s quite pretty, it’s quite a waste. 

“You didn’t need to apologize, you know. You weren’t wrong,” Akamatsu says detachedly. “I’m nothing like the Ultimate Pianist.”

Saihara draws back. “I shouldn’t expect you to be.”

“I saw the way you looked at me in that episode,” her fingers tap against the side of her thigh, pressing down invisible piano keys. “Were you in love?”

Saihara inhales sharply, and Akamatsu watches intently as his breathing stutters and his nails dig hard into his palms.

“No,” he finally admits, sighing shortly. “I barely knew you. But I loved the way you made me feel, I think. Like I was worth something.” 

He seems honest. Akamatsu isn't sure how to respond. 

She must’ve let the silence stretch on for too long, because Saihara laughs awkwardly, self-deprecatingly, and steps away from the door. “I-I’ll stop blocking the entryway, I guess.” 

“Later,” Akamatsu hears herself speak, and enters her room, shutting the door way too quickly behind her. 

They’re different, she decides. The Ultimates of the fifty-third season, the survivors—they’re different from everyone in the real world, different from Danganronpa’s audience with their boredom and their rot and their greedy, carmine hands, constantly groping and grasping for more drama, more blood, more ways to cope and to forget. 

Is it possible to envy another version of yourself? 

The Ultimate Pianist reminds her she’s worse. Akamatsu looks at her, and sees the soft, golden glow, the warmth and passion and willingness to live, her voice and her form brimming with potential she can never reach. Akamatsu looks at her, and sees that the pianist is a crystalline sculpture glistening under fluorescent moonlight while she is jagged edges and broken glass. 

(Akamatsu doesn’t believe in people. So, she doesn’t see why they would believe in her.)