Danganronpa Secret File Makoto Naegi's Worst Day Ever

Part 12

Hearing that, Jutarou twisted the corner of his lips up and yanked the bulky backpack from the driver’s hands.

Now! thought the old man. His eyes shot open, and he leapt from his seat with a swiftness unbelievable for his age.

“Wha—” uttered Jutarou as he lost his balance. The old man had latched onto his back.

“You fool, showing your back to me. I’m a fifth-dan in kendo!”

Somehow managing to keep his footing, Jutarou spat back at the old man, his previously calm and collected tone of voice gone without a trace. “Wh-What the hell does kendo have to do with anything?! You’re just holding onto my damn arms!”

Jutarou had a point, but there was no denying the old man’s fearlessness and quickness to act was the result of many years of martial arts.

The bearded man grabbed Jutarou’s right hand—the one with the army knife—with both of his hands, squeezing tight and not letting the thief get free.

“Graaaaaaaah! Let go, goddammit!” he wailed, twisting and struggling with all his might.

Sitting at the front of the bus, listening to the screaming, Makoto’s body trembled convulsively—not in fear, though, but the exact opposite.

I have to help him! I have to help the old man!

In that instant, an intense drive boiled up inside him. His eyes were no longer those of the timid, abnormally normal high-school boy everyone usually saw, but those of someone who was prepared to fight to the bitter end, no matter how tough things got or outmatched he might be.

Before his mind had the chance to shift into gear, his body was already in motion, driven entirely by instinct—the very core of what made him Makoto Naegi.

He placed his hands on something beside the driver’s seat, and he planted his feet firmly on the ground, rising from the seat.

Something didn’t feel right.

And a moment later, the whole world was rushing past him.

In his hurried attempt to stand, Makoto had placed his hands on the bus’s gear stick, and his foot on the gas, shifting the bus into drive and sending it barreling forward.

Makoto shouted in surprise—and so did the rest of the passengers. The inside of the bus echoed with a cacophony of screams and cries.

As the bus steamed forward, Jutarou struggled to catch his balance, but he only managed it for a second. He and the old man on his back were soon on the ground and separated from one another.

“Wh-What are you doing, son?!” the man shouted toward the front of the bus.

“I— I don’t— I don’t know!”

Anyone observing the scene would have placed the blame for the blunder squarely on Makoto’s shoulders, but to him, it seemed like nothing more than another stroke of bad luck. He’d never driven a car before—how was he supposed to know that the thing he just happened to rest his hands on was the gear stick and the area he just happened
to set his feet was where the gas pedal was? Besides, wasn’t the driver supposed to set the emergency brake anytime he got up out of his seat?