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Danganronpa Kirigiri Volume 1
Chapter 2: Duel Noir 1, part 1
He dreamed of being burned in a furious blaze.
When he woke up, the sweat from his brow had traveled down to dampen his cheeks. Or maybe those were tears? He wiped them off casually with his right hand.
He was in a hospital waiting room. Nurses came and went to quiet instrumental music, the scent of disinfectant sprinkling behind them. The electronic display would never show his number.
"It seems it's going to take about an hour," an old man said from the seat next to him.
But he just gave a standard response and let himself ignore it. If he engaged, the old man was never gonna shut up. He looked away, pretending to fiddle with his cellphone.
"Rehabilitation, is it? That has to be tough," the old man said anyway.
"Nah, today my legs hurt, so I'm getting some meds..." he mumbled while looking down at his phone screen, clearly indicating that he didn't want to partic.i.p.ate in the conversation.
"The cost of medication is nothing to sneeze at either, is it? And the government's a.s.sistance doesn't amount to much. You're not being compensated nearly enough for the injuries you've had to live with," the old man said in a kind voice.
He raised his head to look at the old man. The old man wore a felt hat tipped over his eyes, and an expensive-looking suit. There was an old, long scar that cut across the right side of his mouth, so that when he smiled, it seemed to warp and twist.
"Who are you?" he responded to the old man in a belligerent tone. "How do you know me? Are you with the media?"
"I'm a sympathetic stranger." The old man's scar twisted. "Someone with compa.s.sion and empathy for you."
"Oh, so this is about religion? Then go hit someone else up. I'm sick of that s.h.i.+t. You guys just feed off of the weak."
"No, we have no affiliation to any religion. Nor do we have ties to the media, of course."
"So then what?!" His voice was starting to become increasingly uncontrolled.
"These are the kind of people that we are." The old man held out a jet-black business card.
"Victims' Catharsis Committee...?"
"That's correct. Furthermore, we have no connection to the government, so I'd like for you to consider us as an independent non-profit organization."
"You really are with some kinda religious thing, aren't you? You say it's group therapy or a care seminar, and act all kind and caring to get close to people, and then you take outrageous amounts of money in lecture fees. Too bad, Gramps. You gotta go for the easier ones with that c.r.a.p," he spat, moving to get up from his chair and go somewhere else. And then—
"You don't want revenge?"
The old man's murmur reached his ears.
"What did you say?" He stopped without thinking, turning around.
"We have an interest in the depths of your darkness. I see; you do indeed have a deep, dense darkness living inside of you." The old man touched the brim of his hat, as if adjusting its position on his head, but his eyes remained covered. "It would be difficult to say you had been happy, but you once had an ordinary, lackl.u.s.ter life. You didn't bother anyone, worked a respectable job, and accordingly, you had people who loved you. And then, five years ago, crime stole everything from your life. Brusquely, unreasonably, completely... What have you ever done to deserve that? No, you are innocent. At the very least, you never arbitrarily ruined anyone's life, or anything of the sort."
The old man's voice caused his heart to waver. Strangely enough, it almost sounded like he was hearing his own voice.
"What we offer is nothing like therapy. Let us leave that, too, to the easier ones. We a.s.sist people with taking back their own lives. We are an organization that can return what was stolen from you in its entirety."
"Taking back... my own life?"
"You have the right... no, the obligation to do so. For the sake of those who were lost due to that abominable crime."
The old man's confident tone displayed persuasive power strong enough to brighten even his soul, that had long ago given up. Just like the old man suggested, he recognized himself as a "robbed protagonist". The spotlight wasn't shutting off. It certainly wasn't there to illuminate anyone else, either. It was there to illuminate his own future...
But he smiled bitterly, tossing those delusions to the side. "Ever since then, lots of people have pa.s.sed me by. Policemen, prosecutors, defense attorneys, doctors, insurance workers... In the end, none of them ever saved me. And now I've finally reached the point of getting sympathetic strangers. Honestly. If I have to pick someone to thank, it'd have to be the doctors. At least they made it so I can stand on my own in this world again. But that's all I got. I'm nothing but a corpse that's just barely clinging to life... Any hopes and dreams I had died on that day." He turned his back on the old man, and left his seat behind.
"I will be waiting in the park outside. If you have an interest in our Catharsis, please do come on over," the old man's voice came from behind him, as he disappeared into the shop.
Danganronpa Kirigiri Volume 1
Chapter 2: Duel Noir 1, part 1
He dreamed of being burned in a furious blaze.
When he woke up, the sweat from his brow had traveled down to dampen his cheeks. Or maybe those were tears? He wiped them off casually with his right hand.
He was in a hospital waiting room. Nurses came and went to quiet instrumental music, the scent of disinfectant sprinkling behind them. The electronic display would never show his number.
"It seems it's going to take about an hour," an old man said from the seat next to him.
But he just gave a standard response and let himself ignore it. If he engaged, the old man was never gonna shut up. He looked away, pretending to fiddle with his cellphone.
"Rehabilitation, is it? That has to be tough," the old man said anyway.
"Nah, today my legs hurt, so I'm getting some meds..." he mumbled while looking down at his phone screen, clearly indicating that he didn't want to partic.i.p.ate in the conversation.
"The cost of medication is nothing to sneeze at either, is it? And the government's a.s.sistance doesn't amount to much. You're not being compensated nearly enough for the injuries you've had to live with," the old man said in a kind voice.
He raised his head to look at the old man. The old man wore a felt hat tipped over his eyes, and an expensive-looking suit. There was an old, long scar that cut across the right side of his mouth, so that when he smiled, it seemed to warp and twist.
"Who are you?" he responded to the old man in a belligerent tone. "How do you know me? Are you with the media?"
"I'm a sympathetic stranger." The old man's scar twisted. "Someone with compa.s.sion and empathy for you."
"Oh, so this is about religion? Then go hit someone else up. I'm sick of that s.h.i.+t. You guys just feed off of the weak."
"No, we have no affiliation to any religion. Nor do we have ties to the media, of course."
"So then what?!" His voice was starting to become increasingly uncontrolled.
"These are the kind of people that we are." The old man held out a jet-black business card.
"Victims' Catharsis Committee...?"
"That's correct. Furthermore, we have no connection to the government, so I'd like for you to consider us as an independent non-profit organization."
"You really are with some kinda religious thing, aren't you? You say it's group therapy or a care seminar, and act all kind and caring to get close to people, and then you take outrageous amounts of money in lecture fees. Too bad, Gramps. You gotta go for the easier ones with that c.r.a.p," he spat, moving to get up from his chair and go somewhere else. And then—
"You don't want revenge?"
The old man's murmur reached his ears.
"What did you say?" He stopped without thinking, turning around.
"We have an interest in the depths of your darkness. I see; you do indeed have a deep, dense darkness living inside of you." The old man touched the brim of his hat, as if adjusting its position on his head, but his eyes remained covered. "It would be difficult to say you had been happy, but you once had an ordinary, lackl.u.s.ter life. You didn't bother anyone, worked a respectable job, and accordingly, you had people who loved you. And then, five years ago, crime stole everything from your life. Brusquely, unreasonably, completely... What have you ever done to deserve that? No, you are innocent. At the very least, you never arbitrarily ruined anyone's life, or anything of the sort."
The old man's voice caused his heart to waver. Strangely enough, it almost sounded like he was hearing his own voice.
"What we offer is nothing like therapy. Let us leave that, too, to the easier ones. We a.s.sist people with taking back their own lives. We are an organization that can return what was stolen from you in its entirety."
"Taking back... my own life?"
"You have the right... no, the obligation to do so. For the sake of those who were lost due to that abominable crime."
The old man's confident tone displayed persuasive power strong enough to brighten even his soul, that had long ago given up. Just like the old man suggested, he recognized himself as a "robbed protagonist". The spotlight wasn't shutting off. It certainly wasn't there to illuminate anyone else, either. It was there to illuminate his own future...
But he smiled bitterly, tossing those delusions to the side. "Ever since then, lots of people have pa.s.sed me by. Policemen, prosecutors, defense attorneys, doctors, insurance workers... In the end, none of them ever saved me. And now I've finally reached the point of getting sympathetic strangers. Honestly. If I have to pick someone to thank, it'd have to be the doctors. At least they made it so I can stand on my own in this world again. But that's all I got. I'm nothing but a corpse that's just barely clinging to life... Any hopes and dreams I had died on that day." He turned his back on the old man, and left his seat behind.
"I will be waiting in the park outside. If you have an interest in our Catharsis, please do come on over," the old man's voice came from behind him, as he disappeared into the shop.
