Chapter Text
Shuuichi had found out a lot of things when he walked through the end wall.
One, Danganronpa does not exist.
It is a simulation targeting gifted teenagers, putting them through a ‘killing game’. The simulation was created by a group calling themself DRGeRM, after an actual killing game had taken place in 2013, being broadcasted over children’s television channels.
Two, his real name is not Shuuichi Saihara, nor Kagehara. Neither of those two exist. Masuyo Kajiwara was an 18 year old intern with a big ego and an obsession with violent crime. He lived with his brother, spent most of his time lurking around alleyways, apparently searching for ‘something to solve’.
Three, he’s on a fucking island.
The way of leaving the simulation was to break the wall, and the destruction caused by Kiibo had done enough of that. He’d woken up in a pod, all too aware of the fact he could actually feel his body, feel his heart beating aggressively in his chest, feel himself sweating and feel his hair uncomfortably sticking to his neck.
Then he’d fallen asleep again, and when he woke up there was a man with light orange hair and too pale skin surveying him, all the while chewing on his nails. Shuuichi had tried his best to stay quiet while the man explained the simulation, Danganronpa, DRRGeRM, his name, and how it worked, but he’d half-screamed when Komaeda (an odd name, he swears he’s heard once before,) had informed him that everyone was alive and awake.
(Although he hadn’t mentioned Shirogane. Which was very odd.)
But so far, no one but a dark haired nurse had visited after they’d moved him to a personal room, and he wasn’t really keen to go see anyone.
Shuuichi groans, rolling onto his side and sinking into the bed, all too aware of how the fabric pulls and tangles around his legs, and his hospital-provided pajamas bunch up around his knees.
(God, how did he not notice how everything felt glazed over in the game? He never got too sweaty to lay comfortably, or felt his arms cramping, or anything besides the violence. Horrible. Horrible. That group, how could they just.. Just do this? Create technology complex enough to manufacture an entire life’s worth of knowledges and memories just to force children through simulated murder? All his senses, things that should be normal to have, they feel so alien, his eyes burn if he keeps them open too long, and his hair itches at the back of his neck, and the hangnails on his fingers are burning, and his skin feels so -)
Four knocks on his door quickly distract him, Shuuichi jolts up and stares at the door, his hand immediately going to grab for something on his nightstand, but the desk isn’t there, nor is the pen he’d used to wield late at night if he heard something too loud. He slowly slides off his bed, trying to keep his footsteps light as he walks over to the door, pressing his hand against the frame.
“Hello?”
His voice sounds too meek. Shit.
“Saihara?”
Who…
Amami?
Why would he be there? They didn’t talk much at all, and Shuuichi thought he was kind of odd. Amami probably still thinks of him as underwhelmingly quiet and too timid to even say his name without stammering.
Shuuichi sighs, inhales, and slowly opens the door.
Amami is smiling at him, leaning against the frame and holding a small lunchbox sized container, raising his other hand to wave at him.
“Hey, man.”
Shuuichi stares at him, flicking his eyes between the container and his hands.
Amami starts talking again when he doesn’t.
“I heard it ended today, and I wanted to bring you some food or talk, if you’re good with that.”
He blinks a couple times, awkwardly stepping back.
“Uh, y-yeah, sure.”
Amami nods, still smiling as he walks in, leisurely sitting down on the ground next to his bed.
“I got some mango and fried rice,” Amami frowns a bit, popping the lid off. “Not sure if the rice is still hot.”
Shuuichi closes the door, carefully walking over and sitting down across from him, grabbing the pillow he’d dropped earlier and clutching it to his chest. He watches carefully as Amami silently sets out chopsticks for him, then looks up and meets his eyes, leaning against his bed.
“So.”
“.. So? I don’t mean to sound blunt,” Very wrong choice of words, god, “But why are you here, Amami?”
Amami stills, then sighs. “When I woke up, I had no idea where I was. The way I went out really fucked up my memory, and I was alone for…. Quite some time. I figured it’d be nice for you to have some company, or at least food. Tsumiki-san said no one had asked to see you yet.”
.. That kinda stings.
“A-Amami? You know that it wasn’t A -”
Amami raises his hand, tapping it lightly against Shuuichi’s mouth. “Yeah, I knew from the start. I saw the shot put hit the ground, then Shirogane rolling the next one. Akamatsu-chan came to apologize to me about it, and it confused me a lot.”
Shuuichi nods solemnly, temporarily forgetting that Amami’s hand is still over his mouth, opening his mouth to speak again, instead interrupted by a piece of mango. Amami fully covers his mouth, obviously muffling a laugh as Shuuichi half-squeaks into his palm.
“Need to eat, Saihara. Bet you haven’t since they released you.”
Shuuichi keeps his eyes locked with Amami in a way that’s probably weird, probably really weird, since he’s still not moved his hand.
When Amami realizes that, yes, he did eat the mango, he smiles and removes his hand from his face, instead lifting up Shuuichi’s hand and inspecting it.
“Have you noticed anything being different with these, well, bodies?”
A beat of silence passes. He.. actually hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t looked in a mirror since he woke up. Now that he looks at Amami, a couple things are noticeably different. His eyes are a deep green color, almost black, and his hair is visibly bleached and dyed, not the natural looking pear color. It’s yellowed a bit and it looks sort of damaged.
Amami runs a thumb over his knuckles, stopping on his ring finger, pointing out a faded reddish scar.
“See? They’re everywhere, although not that obvious. Apparently I was ‘Kanaki Tsukioka.’ They said he was a child actor. And,” Amami releases his hand, hooking his fingers under the hem of shirt and lifting it. There’s scars in the shape of a square in the middle of his stomach, along with a piercing on his navel. “ - That he had gastroschisis. And surgery for it. Of course.”
Shuuichi looks at the scar for a moment more, before flicking his eyes away and picking up a piece of mango. “What is that?”
“Something you probably don’t want to hear while you’re eating.”
Shuuichi pauses, giving him an odd look before doing a once over of his hands. They are a bit… rough, but nothing particularly sticks out to him. He unbuttons his sleeve without thinking, rolling it to his elbow and turning his hand to look at his wrist.
What the hell?
“Somethin’ wrong, Saihara?”
He opens and closes his mouth, staring at the lines of scars coating his wrist, some a deep purple while the others look almost white. What the hell.
“Uh… I.. Uh, I don’t know?”
Amami scooches closer, taking Shuuichi’s arm in his hand and wincing, air hissing through his teeth. “Oh, jeez. Looks like self-harm.”
Shuuichi watches as Amami runs his fingers over the scars and realizes that he can’t really feel it, and it’s weird. Really weird. The scars look taut over his skin, and they nearly go back to his elbow. “These look pretty severe, good god.”
He blinks, pulling his hand away and rolling the sleeve back over his arm, going to check his other one. It’s.. less affected. There’s a thick purple vertical scar across the wrist, and about five small white circles surrounding it.
“I guess Kajiwara had more wrong with him than they said?”
Amami’s face falters, and it looks like he’s suppressing a snort, which is unholy inappropriate considering what he just found, but Shuuichi still feels his lips twitch up.
“Kajiwara was his name?” Amami asks, putting a hand to his chin.
“Uh, yeah, Masuyo Kajiwara.”
Amami taps his knuckles against his cheek, leaning back to sit normally.
“Saihara, you and Yumeno’s pregame selves might just be related…”
He bristles, raising his hands up.
“What!? How??”
“Well.. Yumeno woke up before you did, and Chabasi- Chabashira and Yonaga went to visit her, and when they came back they had a photo and lots of stuff to tell everybody. Including her former name. ‘Nobuko Kajiwara.’ She does sort of look like you..”
Shuuichi shakes his head aggressively, wishing he didn’t as his vision disappears for a moment. “Not at all! Amami, she literally has bright red hair.”
Amami gives him a confused tilt of his head, then grimaces. “Ah, did the nurses not tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“The simulation effectively altered our appearances. Your hair is black, Saihara.”
What?
Amami suddenly reaches out, taking his hand and pulling him up to stand.
“.. Let’s go find a mirror.”
Amami walks really fast, Shuuichi learns that as he stumbles behind him out of his room, holding his wrist with the tightest grip he can muster as Amami gracefully swings the door open, and the sterilized light of the hallway sends a twinge of pain through his eyes. He trips over his own feet a couple times, and goes completely still when they’re halfway through the men’s washroom hallway, hearing a voice that sounds too familiar, he cannot face Momota right now, oh god. Shuuichi tugs on Amami’s sleeve, urgently pulling him back around the corridor. Amami gives him a surprised look as he flattens himself against the wall, but thankfully stays silent, moving to put a hand over his.
Amami peeks out about 40 seconds later, then walks out, pointing to a shiny door. “Should be a mirror in here.”
He pushes the door open with his foot, and Shuuichi releases his hand, stepping around him to look in the mirror.
Holy shit.
That’s definitely not what he remembers.
His skin is less sickly pale, a healthier tan-ish colour, his eyes are dark brown, and his hair is a longer, almost silky black. It cuts off right before his shoulders.
Amami’s watching him stare at himself. Shuuichi turns, tucking his hair to one side of his neck. “I.. I really don’t like that.”
Amami smiles sympathetically, stepping over and.. Laying his arms over Shuuichi’s shoulders? He stares at him dumbfounded for a second, quickly realizing from the sensation of Amami’s fingers running through his hair and a gentle tug that his hair is being put up.
Amami steps back, seemingly admiring his work before gesturing to the mirror. “Here, looks a bit more like you in the game.”
It does. His hair has layers? He reaches up, twirling a bit by his ear around his finger. “Thanks, Amami.”
Amami grins back, crossing his arms and admiring his work for a moment more. "Course, Saihara."