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It's never until the credits are rolling and you're staring through the screen that the reality of what you're witnessing begins to sink in. A vague and airy weight that tastes something like guilt pushes your shoulders into your couch pillows. You clap slowly.
Another season, another few dead kids, right? They wanted this. They asked for this, they signed up for this, they knew what they were doing and now they're gone and it's their fault. It's their fault, and you shouldn't feel anything but what the producers want you to, because that's how Danganronpa works.
Well, Season 53 had been a little different, you suppose. Even from your top floor luxury apartment, it's hard to block out the clamour outside.
You sigh. You've seen better days, no doubt.
Arms dangling like dead weight, you lazily push yourself from the safety of your sofa and stroll over to the window. Hundreds of people flood Tokyo's busy streets, yells and shouts and cries ringing in the heavy air, resonating in heavier hearts.
What a bunch of bullshit, you think. If Team Danganronpa cared, you mumble to yourself as you go fetch a soda can before resting on the windowsill once more, they'd have done something by now.
You should know. You worked for them, once. You've seen what they can do, what they will do, just for a little entertainment. You've seen the expression a sixteen-year-old makes when they know they're about to die, and you know Team Danganronpa's the one who put it there. And you do nothing. You sit there and watch and turn up to interviews and panels and promos and big corporate events because how could you do anything else? How could you stand up in the face of a company who would plant despair in the heart of a child with no regret when really, you are the face of it all?
Who are you to change anything?
Your palm begins to sting, and it's with dull recognition that you find you've crushed the soda can in your grip. Crimson blood trickles from a cut in your hand, and for a moment, the colour seems striking. You'd almost forgotten blood could be this colour, you think.
Sweet froth bubbles over your hand as it flows from the can, and the blood is gone. The television hums, scene after scene playing back to the side, the eyes of those same thirteen dead kids staring into yours.
Hundreds turn to thousands in the streets, and the shouts get louder.
You wander over to the television. Hesitant, you pause the show. To the left of the credits, there's a shot of Tsumugi Shirogane, holding Monokuma and waving as you did so many years ago with none of the conviction or dedication or delusion you can see in her expression even now, even after she's been smashed to pulp along with everything she thought she stood for.
Acid rises up in your throat. This is your fault. This is your legacy. This is the way people will remember and forget you - the martyr of a franchise that kills to entertain.
You take a step back. The remote shuffles in your shaking hands, and the TV is off.
You look back at the window, then towards your apartment door.
...
Why aren't you out there? Why aren't you fighting?
...
You grab at your hair. It's long since gone back to its natural red, and it hasn't been long enough for the signature twintails for years, but you suppose it'll do. Who knows, if you were recognised, they might not want you there anyway.
You throw on an outfit from a promo shoot years ago and collect yourself, taking in a long, deep breath.
Junko Enoshima is dead, but you can still be part of the crowd.
You open the door.