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Main tags: #murder fabrication @murderfabrication #murder fabrication bonus content #newwell city #honkuni #misc #poetry and #prose poetry #mysterious #français and #english

I’m Jan, and I’m an aspiring writer. I’m French and like writing in French the most, but I also enjoy practicing writing in English. A lot of what I write is taken out of its context on purpose, with the intent of giving just enough information for it to make sense. What I write is also entirely based on my original stories, and I’m looking forward to the day I can publish their actual contents.

This blog contains spoilers for “Danganronpa Murder Fabrication”. There will not be warnings but the tags listed above will be used.

I can and will infodump in private.

Walking home from the hospital, I took note of the poppies that bordered the sidewalk. I'd seen them this morning, but I hadn't yet had the opportunity to take them in.

Every year, when winter gives way to spring, indifferent to a calendar date, I wait for the poppies to inform me. Of course, it made sense - the weather had gotten warmer the past few days.

I admired the wild flowers, typical of the local flora, which contributed pops of colour to the unkempt grass along the road; and very quickly found myself thinking of a future away from them.

Away from the poppies which signal to me every year the beginning of spring. I thought of my unavoidable move, later this year, and had to fight not to break down in tears the entire walk home.

As I reached closer and closer, I placed my hand on my chest to feel my heart beat extremely fast - likely oppressed by my stomach that found its way up to my throat, with a little bit of radioactive omelette as well.

You stuck it to the man. They told me your story You had a shitty dad Then again, so did I. You thought she was less than. You basked in your glory Conviction ironclad That you had every right. You murdered a woman. Cocked your a priori At no point feeling bad For tightening her rope. You butchered her lifespan. Had zero empathy In fact a little mad That her home lost value.

Depuis combien de temps ne suis-je qu'une coquille vide ?

Une image de moi-même qui avance mécaniquement. Cette image d'un robot qui continue à accomplir sa tâche après l'apocalypse.

Je ne sais pas ce qu'il s'est passé. Je mets un pied devant l'autre les yeux et la bouche fermée. Un masque sourit à ma place et je m'entends dire des mots qui ne m'appartiennent pas.

Quand j'essaie de l'enlever, les gens détournent leurs regards. Le courant de leur traitement glacial brûle mes muscles, mes gencives, mes yeux exposés - à vif sans ce visage qui est le mien, que je le veuille ou non.

J'apparais à côté d'autres passants comme un humain normal. Quand on croise quelqu'un, on se dit qu'il va quelque-part.

Ces adolescentes, c’est moi. L’adolescente que tu as rabaissée toute sa vie, c’est moi.

Je suis toutes les femmes. Je suis toutes les filles. Je suis chaque adolescente et chaque petite fille.

Je suis chaque femme que tu croiseras. Où que tu ailles, je serai là. Où que tu regardes, tu me verras.

Je suis toutes les femmes à propos de qui tu parles. Je serai toutes les femmes à qui tu parleras.

Je serai toujours toutes les femmes contre qui tu voteras.

Je suis la femme à qui tu fais du mal. Pour chaque femme à qui tu feras face, vas-y, fais-le.

Regarde-moi dans les yeux.

Tirer sur les bras d’une femme collée aux murs par la moisissure pour entendre « CRAC » et « CLAC » quand elle se décolle. La rincer, savonner, retirer ces traces noires qui la couvrent – pour pouvoir la ranger.

La déplacer, toute propre – mais le moisi la dévore d’ores et déjà de l’intérieur. Les minutes, les heures passent, et sa peau blanchit, verdit, noircit. La regarder, se dire « plus tard » – pour ne jamais en finir.

Je leur ai tourné le dos pour la regarder De face, la vérité. Deux marques sur mes omoplates laissent passer mes ailes Créées à coups de fouet. Poursuivie à jamais par cet excès de zèle Pour toujours accusée Ma fuite prouve sans doute que je suis une criminelle Celle qui s’est écriée « Qui m’aime me suive »

Her legs are still red, though at this point, it could just be a sunburn.

Deep down the forest, at the heart of the island, there is a river. When the burning didn’t die down, they both got to searching for something like it.

Her first instinct was to run for the sea, but he stopped her. He grabbed her by the arm, then he apologised. The salt might burn.

That was a good call. She should’ve known.

Every morning, she starts her day by soaking herself in the river. He doesn’t watch. She was scared at first, but he told her he would never touch her, that he knows how it is. He has been raped as well.

To be honest, if he’s not going to hurt her, she doesn’t really care what he does or doesn’t look at – and something is possessing her to trust him. There’s no doubt that he could kill her if he wanted to, but no indication that he will. And even if he did, wouldn’t she land here again?

He says he has no choice but to do the best he can. That after what he has done, he views it as his duty to protect her. Honestly, she likes him better when he shuts his mouth.

It’s been weirdly peaceful. Their different circumstances have enforced an unspoken rule to keep to themselves. Collaborate. That’s all. She’s been depressed, but she’d never felt depression like this before.

She had to win the trial no matter what, but she didn’t. So what’s next? Would Hell have been more cathartic than Purgatory?

The air changes.

It’s faint, but there is a noise.

Something tells her to look towards the volcano, and there she finds a terrifying sight. A black and red meteor, a giant beast, falling from the sky – as she has, but he is aiming for its gaping mouth with confidence. The water around her feels hot. He’s falling, just as the both of them have, but something

scares her.

She hears Noah walk in her direction. She looks at him, his nose pointed towards the sky, the cheek next to it molten lava. He would never look at her.

“- I’ll protect you.”

He told her it hurts to talk. Frankly, his voice hurts to listen to.

“- What’s going to happen?”

She asks, but she knows he doesn’t have the answer. He puts on an air. He wants to compensate. He’s just as lost as she is, but she believes him when he says he’s ready to be on his guard for the sake of people like her.

The Ultimate Bodyguard has killed someone. So has the Ultimate Soldier, and so has she. Somehow. Something has gone wrong with all of them.

“- I’ll protect you.”

He’s like a broken record. Then again, she’s broken too.

“- Fine.”

She stands up, lukewarm water flowing down her swollen skin. It’s uncomfortable. She doesn’t have the words to express it, but she’s scared. Scared of losing everything again. Scared of losing this.

She wishes she could play the guitar. This is how it frames itself in her head – she just wants to play the guitar.  

She tries to walk out of the stream, but the water splashes back in her face. The ground moves a little bit. Something has hit the island.

My heart beats fast. I just want them to like me. Let's stand out of the way - make sure I don't bother them. That's what I tell myself.

But one of them taps me on the shoulder. I turn to look at them, and there's some sort of expression on their face, but I can't read it. It could be anything. "Who told you you could stand here?" they spit.

Ah, so they're upset. I didn't know, but it's rude to stand in this exact place. "Sorry," I attempt, "next time I'll know". "You should have already known", they insist. I don't understand why they're being so confrontational. I begin to feel scared that what I just did was a bigger deal than it seemed. They pointed at something, and I suppose it should have informed me why I was in the wrong place, but I still don't understand what about me being right here could do that was so bad.

My stomach hurts. My face is hot. I walk aimlessly, trying to guess what spot could truly be out of the way. I don't want to upset any of them, on the contrary. I wish I could do something good. I wish I could participate positively, make them happy, make them realise I'm someone who wishes nothing but to be helpful. The matter is, I don't understand their practices. Their wants. What their reactions mean.

Short term, long term. Are they making fun of me or are they happy with me? Or - are they upset with me or are they lost in thought? I don't know the tells. Sometimes I get it ridiculously wrong.

In front of me, one of them starts to make gestures towards me. Are they actually gesturing to me, or someone else nearby? They move their tentacles up and down, left and right, again and again. What could these gestures mean? I feel a bead of sweat falling down my temple. They want something, they clearly want something. What is it? Is there any context I should be aware of? Their frustration builds up. This much I can tell. I try to walk closer - maybe then they can just explain it to me.

Feeling shy, I look at their face. I'm sure they think their emotions are obvious, but to me, there are too many options and I don't have a clue. I try to think about what it would mean if I made that face, but suddenly I realise - I don't know what I'd look like if I could see myself in a mirror.

Danganronpa Fabricated Despair: Chapter 15

Danganronpa Fabricated Despair is an alternate universe based on Danganronpa Murder Fabrication, written by its creator (myself).

Chapter 15 is now available HERE

Please note that the Wiki has migrated since the publishing of Chapter 14. Previous update posts are likely to contain outdated URLs.

Elle pose un pied sur le trottoir. Poussée par la foule autour et derrière elle, elle continue sur sa lancée sans se poser de questions ; elle avance plus lentement que la terre ne tourne.

Elle sort d’un concert où elle était sur scène. Elle était la chanteuse qui séchait une larme à la fin de sa dernière chanson, elle était la batteuse essoufflée, la guitariste au grand sourire et la bassiste sans qui la chanson s’effondrerait. Un one-woman show-irréaliste, mais rien ne la fait plus sourire.

Quand il ne s’agit déjà plus que d’un souvenir, elle extirpe ses écouteurs de sa poche et les visse dans ses oreilles. Elle sélectionne sur son écran cette longue playlist de toutes ses chansons préférées du moment et appuie sur « aléatoire » plusieurs fois avant de se sentir aléatoirement satisfaite.

Alors elle joue du violon, et puis quand vient le moment, elle chante. Elle se meut sur scène non seulement au rythme de la musique, mais aussi de l’histoire qu’elle se raconte – une histoire qui n’est pas la sienne. Quand la chanson se termine commence déjà un autre spectacle, une situation qui n’a plus rien à voir, mais comme d’habitude, elle est au centre de la scène.

Un bus freine à côté d’elle, soufflant bruyamment, la coupant dans son élan. Elle tourne la tête par réflexe et se trouve juste en face d’une affiche publicitaire pour un concerto de piano. Quand elle détourne le regard, c’est se voyant assise sur la banquette, les doigts sur le clavier du beau, grand piano à queue au centre de la photo.

Il lui faut être excellente. Elle glisse son doigt sur l'écran de son téléphone et, reprenant sa marche, se remémore sa dernière mise en scène.

Elle est bientôt rentrée chez elle. Seule, à l’abri des regards, elle pleure, mais elle ne sait pas pourquoi.

She wakes up and can immediately tell something is wrong.

She wakes up underwater, unable to open her eyes, unable to reach for anything she can touch. It seems she gained consciousness just in time to decide to hold her breath. The pressure is too much… An awful metaphor.

Confusion couldn’t even begin to describe what she feels. She’s drowning. She’s about to die underwater with no idea how she got here.

She tries to move her arms and legs in every direction.

(Please don’t kill me.)

(How can I escape this?)

(It’s too early.)

(It’s too late.)

When she feels the embrace of death…

She takes a deep breath…

Because someone has fished her out of the water and saved her life.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

She disconnected from reality for a few minutes, though she doesn’t remember making the choice to. Her face is in the shade, but the majority of her body is lying in the sun, the dryness of her clothes compared to her hair proof of its brutality.

“- You’re dripping water all over her!”

Emily Drake, Ultimate Fashionista. She was the first victim of the killing game.

“- Get your fucking priorities in order…”

Benjamin Pan, Ultimate Fortune Teller. On a technicality, they were deemed the second victim.

Evidence has it that Mina shouldn’t be hearing their voices, and that the long wet hair hanging against her shoulder shouldn’t belong to one of them. Ever the curious girl, the Ultimate Detective opens her eyes, and it’s as she thought; looking over her with worried faces are Emily and Benjamin… although there is one more person – being her friend Ciel.

She frowns.

“- Why?”

For being so wet all over, her throat feels awfully dry.

“- Mina! Mina’s awake!”

If the fashionista gasps excitedly, Ciel remains silent, save for the loud swallowing of his own spit. For some reason, she chuckles.

“- Waking up next to Emily and Ben… I get the leitmotif… But what are you doing here?”

Oscar chased her and killed her. It was terrifying and violent… but at least it’s over… and it was her own fault. She wasn’t careful. Her intellect didn’t live up to its reputation. Although it’s commonplace for Ultimates to be replaced following their death regardless, the act itself of her being killed must have meant she was fired on the spot.

For now, still, let’s say the “Ultimate Detective” watches her friend’s face be deformed with a pained grimace and his eyes well up with tears.

“- Mina… I’m so sorry…”

Maybe this is some sort of hallucination. Though she likes the grandiose of it, she doesn’t believe in a concept like “Hell”, “life after death”. She’s never heard of anything like it, but maybe the answer is that she’s hallucinating whatever her brain can come up in its last moments.

Emily and Benjamin are people she knows to have died victims, just like her, and now her brain imagines painful goodbyes to the one person to have truly been her friend.

He sniffles. He gets closer to her – the fortune teller helps by moving out of his way.

“- Mina, I was… too… I was too late…”

Should she play along…? This is a hallucination, right? Were Ciel to have been the first to find her body, or some such story, she wouldn’t be able to gain that knowledge after death.

Right now, though, she still feels like herself, and nothing will ever stop Mina Keys from investigating.

“- What… Like… You’re the one who found my body or something?”

She tries to sit up but she fails. She feels light headed and her voice is hoarse. It makes sense that her body would feel so strained – she was strangled, after all.

Ciel lets out a choked-up sounding gulp. Looking at him from the ground – actually, the sand – her keen eye notices large white marks surrounding his neck.

“- Why…?”

The question escapes her before she can think about it. She finds her hand reaching up for him.

(Why?)

Is this rather a nightmare? Traumatised by what happened to her, she projects it onto someone she wouldn’t want to see being hurt.

“- Mina… When I saw Oscar carry you…

- Oscar?!”

The Ultimate Fashionista (though she’ll likely be replaced soon herself) can’t help but intervene, and if Mina takes note of it – as she takes note of everything – her wide eyes can’t stare away from the youthful face above her.

“- …I tried to chase him… Well, right then, I didn’t know for sure that he was carrying you…

- You fool…!”

She finds herself having darted upright, grabbing at his t-shirt.

Even sitting, even with someone her age, she feels so stupidly small, as always.

“- Chasing after Oscar? Did you have a death wish?”

Tears escape from his eyes, and for some reason, Mina’s cheeks are wet.

“- I couldn’t abandon you…”

She lets out a gross sniffle.

This isn’t a hallucination… neither a nightmare… This is actually Hell.

“- What’s it worth now…?”

Her voice is shaky. She understands exactly what happened… she doesn’t need to know more.

Same guy, same modus operandi. Ciel was a witness, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. When Oscar Belmonte perpetrated his premeditated crime against the Ultimate Detective, an innocent bystander got caught in the crossfire…

…No, that’s not exactly right. She knows the truth… That her shifty attitude led her only real ally to put himself in harm’s way. Now look at the both of them.

Though she continues to sniffle loudly, her understanding of the situation allows her to become less tense. She lets go of the fabric she was holding and looks around her.

On her right, the Ultimate Fashionista bites her nails. Is this massacre going to continue? Without the Ultimate Detective to solve the case, is everyone else but the “bodyguard” going to join them here? On her left, the Ultimate Fortune-Teller stares at the sea, holding their knees against their torso.

Ciel won’t stop crying. He didn’t want to die. Everything she did, she did it for people like him, who can’t defend themselves. For people who are small, caught up in something bigger than them.

Her fringe has long dried but her braids still feel damp. She reaches for her ties and undoes them.

“- Anything you tell me to do, I’ll do.

- Hm?”

Benjamin answered her question before she could ask it. It shouldn’t have caught her off-guard like it did – she needs to get her shit in order. She knows the extent of his talent.

“- I won’t believe in it, but if I can make it up to you by doing anything that’ll put your mind at ease, I will.

- What are you talking about?”

Emily again. Ciel tries to cover his own sobs.

“- I need a new guard dog, and Benjamin owes me one, is what it’s about.”

By using their powerful talents, they’ll try everything to understand this place and get Ciel and Emily out of it.

“- So?” Mina gets to ask.

He looks at the detective, then the “clown”, then the fashionista. He stays silent for abnormally long.

(He seems depressed.)

“- That’s all… I guess Oscar gets caught.”

Benjamin’s attitude told her so. They weren’t expecting anyone else to land here…

She chuckles sadly. If the others survived Oscar, then they all outsmarted her, and what used to be her talent has become nothing more than a strange hobby.

La petite bête te tourne autour Et quand tu fermes les yeux tu sais Que si tu te laisses aller Tu te laisses attraper Le risque que tu encours N’est pas tant l’inconnu Que te réveiller nu Et avec un sentiment de déjà-vu Crier « va-t’en ! » Les bras battant Le son de la voix résonnant dans la nuit D’un cerveau en court-circuit  

It's easy to look at myself when I'm "just in a slump" and think that's the extent of my mental illness. It's difficult to relate to my past self, who went through indescribable intense crises that were, simply, terrifying, when I'm not feeling that way right now. It's difficult to understand the inescapable link between those crises and the "slump". I think it's impossible, even when the "slump" has been inescapable for years and is slowly killing me, not to tell myself "but it's actually really not bad, since it's not those intense crises".

I tell myself I'm normal. When there's any chance anyone could be looking at me, somehow, my facial tics stop themselves. But every second I'm alone, they take over. I forget about any and all trauma or disability and tear up from the exhaustion they cause.

The truth is I think my work was better than yours But more people like you The same way I do

The last thing I want to do is to hurt your feelings Blind to the reality That I’m already your enemy

I mourn by myself, burying my own work All the while you look high and low For sins to make me sow

Akiro places his head against my shoulder. His face feels warm. He moves it away to reach for Jan and do the same thing.

He apologises again, but interrupts himself when Jan squeezes him in his arms. It’s very sweet.

Then, Jan stands up and extends his hand to Akiro to help him up. When that’s done, he turns to present me his hand. For a second, I stare at him from below.

Towering over me, Jan is reaching for me. The electric light behind him creates a halo behind his head and puts me in his shadow.

From the floor, I raise my arm to let him grab me. His soft skin feels like a warm cushion to my cold fingers.

It feels like the world is upside down...

Our hands linked... but he’s the one dragging me up.

Jan wouldn’t let me go.

I’m just not strong enough.