Chapter Text
Two months after Danganronpa 53
Project Danganronpa’s official story is that Himiko Yumeno was fourteen when she signed her life away to the company, and it’s not like she’d known if they were lying. The memories of where when and why blocked from her brain like a cauterized wound. She’d been shown her signature though, each dotted ‘i’ like an executioner's blade hanging over her neck. The situation was simple: she was company property, trademark and everything.
She is fifteen at her first media appearance as a survivor of Danganronpa.
The interview was neatly arranged on a calendar hanging in her company sponsored apartment. It faced across from her too-stiff bed, beside a poster from an anime she’s never seen, and above a dresser full of clothes she hated. The first of many promotional events: photo shoots, meet-and-greets, live streams, each neatly printed in coordinating colored ink. Today was yellow.
“Lets start with what we all want to know—how does it feel to win Danganronpa?"
Himiko sank into the oversized couch as she fumbled for an answer. Her legs dangled awkwardly, barely brushing the polished wood floor. Her shoes squeaked when she swung them.
Across from her, Tsumugi Shirogane sat easily on a cushioned armchair. Leaned forward with interest, she had her arms folded around a clipboard and her legs crossed, pulling her long skirt up to reveal the tops of her kitten heels.
Himiko stares at them, then at the wall behind Tsumugi’s head and around the room. The half with bookshelves and mood lighting and calming paintings of grass landscapes like the lifeless corpse of a therapist office, then to the half outside the camera view with Danganronpa employees milling around holding audio and video equipment.
After a long pause, she muttered, “It feels good I guess”
“Speak to me, not the camera.”
“Sorry” She desperately wants to feel something other than fear as she turns her eyes to the woman who created her. “I’m good.”
Tsumugi smiled widely at her, showing her teeth. Her face twisted unnaturally, her skin stretching tightly over her cheekbones. Himiko’s feet stilled under the attention. Tsumugi’s eyes were brown and she wore square glasses. Her hair was still blue, this time pulled back into a tight bun. Except any trace of youth was stripped from her face; her cheeks lacked baby fat, her skin was starting to hang around her lips. This close, her stage makeup was clearly visible. Himiko was not face to face with the deranged teenager, but a professional who looked nearly fifty. A woman who really could be her mother. It made her skin crawl.
Tsumugi looked pitying, like Himiko was a bug on its back: pathetic and squirming. At least they agreed on some things.
The interview continues. “I'm sure we’ll hear some more as you recover some more. I know it can be a difficult adjustment for our victors.Tell us a bit about your experience so far”. Tsumugi’s act of professionalism finally cracking as she started tapping her pen against the clipboard. She was unsatisfied, like an addict looking for their next hit. Wether it was personal curiosity or hunger for more content Himiko didn’t know.
She looks down at her hands and regrets it. They don’t look like her hands; they are too small or large, depending on the moment. She feels stitched together and numb, like the anesthesia hasn't worn off yet. Even though she knows it’s the opposite, she feels like she’s been unplugged from reality. The last weeks of her life have been like a dream. Nothing feels real, but nothing has felt real for a long time.
“Derealization.” That’s what the doctor told her. “It’s quite normal.” She can't remember what normal is or whether she’s ever experienced it, but right now, it seems to be sitting across from the woman who directed her friends' deaths on live TV. Maybe she agreed to this interview because she wants this to be normal.
She furrows her brows. Is it even worth opening her mouth? The interview had just started, and her mana reserves were draining fast. Himiko rubbed her fingers over with the hem of her skirt and she answered, because she was a coward, and they both knew it.
She imagined herself as one of the girls she’d watched answer these same questions as a kid. “I think we’re all grateful for the experience.”
Tsumugi frowns, and Himiko can hear someone from the production crew typing behind her. “That’s all? You won!” Tsumugi’s eyes soften into a fake smile. “You should be proud of yourself, Himiko.”
“I don’t think I have anything to be proud of.”
“Why do you feel that way?”
Himiko’s shoulders come up to her ears as she grabs fists of her skirt. She doesn’t want to say what everyone already knows. She was a comic relief character who existed for the occasional punch line and lived on the contributions of those around her. She’d spent most of her time crying or asleep, too scared to kill anyone, and too lazy to help herself.
She suddenly found herself fighting off tears. “I’m not brave like Maki or Shuichi,” she whispered.
Tsumugi’s eyes flitted behind her and the typing resumed. “But you’re here, aren’t you?” she asked. “I think that makes you very brave. Maki and Shuichi refused to do interviews.”
She said nothing to defend the others. The would have defended me . Instead she said “Thank you”. The words scratched up her throat like sandpaper. She had nothing to thank Tsumugi for other than her pitiful existence.
Tsumugi lets the silence drag on while cleaning her glasses with her shirt. “Let’s do another question.”
Himiko hummed mindlessly.
Tsumugi clears her throat. “As you may know, winners have the option to return for the next season. Will we see you again next season for double or nothing?”
Maybe if her head wasn’t swimming and her eyes weren’t wet and her stupid shoes would stop squeaking she could perform like everyone wanted. She could draw her answer out. Build tension for the reveal.
All Himiko could do was nod her head miserably.
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